Act of Betrayal Read Online Free

the sea foamed silver on a misty gray beach. As I jogged, my footsteps dull thuds on the boardwalk, the solemn predawn hush erupted in a sunrise that burst over the horizon like a brass band playing a John Philip Sousa march.
    My spirits soared with the rush. So did my steps. More than ever now, I understand what a great gift each day is. I ran down the stairs to the sandy beach, stopped to catch my breath, took off my shoes, and combed the turquoise surf for shells tossed ashore by the dredging for a beach renourishment project. Sand oozed between my toes, sun-warmed water and the sea’s insistent pull tugged at my ankles. Ships dotted the horizon beneath the sharply drawn edges of stacked clouds that could be signaling the tropical wave of thunderstorms and squalls predicted by forecasters. They had been monitoring the system’s path as it drifted across the Cape Verde Islands off West Africa and traversed the Atlantic and the Caribbean, headed for the Gulf of Mexico.
    The threat that such a wave will spawn tropical storms grows more ominous as summer wears on, but most of the seventy-five to one hundred twenty-five a year do not amount to anything and experts saw no danger signs in this one.
    Treasure hunting amid the bubbling rollers and spin-drift, I tossed back shells still occupied and filled the pockets of my shorts with those that were vacant: sea-smoothed lightning whelks, shiny lettered olives, and fanlike scallops. I hated to leave, but now I was running late. Back at my apartment, I emptied my pockets, rinsed the shells, and left them on the drainboard to dry while I showered. I slipped on a cool cotton dress, swallowed some orange juice, marched Bitsy around the block, and made some quick calls to the cop shops.
    A Miami midnight-shift detective about to go off duty disclosed an intriguing tidbit: a discovery a week earlier, west of the city, on a rutted din road in the Everglades. A car. Blown to bits. The county had handled it. Nobody hurt. No big deal at the time. Now it was. The shattered car was a stolen Mustang identical to Alex Aguirre’s. The bomber or bombers had practiced.
    Several years earlier, a union official had escaped a bombing, maimed but alive, because the device had been placed on the wrong side of his car’s firewall. This careful killer wanted to be absolutely accurate.
    Hopefully, the charred metal shell in the Glades would yield some clue. Police seemed to have no other promising leads.
    After the phone checks, I drove directly to the office to work the bomb follow for the early edition. The medical examiner said Alex had suffered fatal injuries but did not die instantly. He had inhaled soot and smoke from the fire in his last moments. At thirty-four, he had seemed to enjoy good health. I learned something he never knew. The main artery supplying blood to the left side of his heart was almost completely blocked by plaque deposits. Alex was a prime candidate for a major coronary, or would have been had he lived long enough.
    A reader interrupted, calling to complain about the crack addict who stole her checks, stripped clean her bank account, and pawned her television. She demanded to know why he had been released on bond.
    I commiserated. “Is he your only child?”
    â€œOh, no.” My question seemed to please her. “He’s only one of five. Let me tell you about them.”
    I regretted opening the door as she launched into her miseries. Her eldest, she said, was “a Jesus freak,” devoted to an obscure wandering cult. Another suffered emotional problems because she was gay; number three was a skinhead unable to sustain a relationship or a job. The fourth, a compulsive spender, was divorcing, and the fifth, of course, was now free on bond.
    â€œMaybe they’re going through stages,” I offered lamely, wishing my mother could hear this. She might appreciate her only child.
    â€œThe baby is thirty-three.” Her voice was