DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten (the Charlie Fox crime thriller series) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Zoe Sharp, Joel Goldman
me out on my own.”
We chatted on the drive in. Mrs Dyer, I discovered, had stayed in Miami to be on hand for the imminent arrival of their first grandchild. By the time Dyer had finished telling me all about it, we were swinging into the hotel entrance. Sean pulled up under the portico and we debussed without drama. Dyer’s luggage was handed off to a hovering bellboy—a college kid we’d screened well enough to know he was about to flunk history and had a dog named Blue.
The hotel, located in the historic French Quarter, was swanky by anyone’s standards. Dyer’s suite had a private balcony overlooking the Mississippi. We’d already cleared it and checked him in prior to his arrival. As we crossed the lobby I gave him his key. All he had to do was walk straight to the elevators and ride on up.
If only things were so simple.
“Hey, Blake, you son of a gun!” called a booming voice. “Damn, I’m glad to see you here.”
We turned as a single unit. A tall, almost gaunt man in a handmade cream suit was striding towards us, a linebacker bodyguard keeping pace at his shoulder. The tall man’s smile engaged his whole face and his hand was outstretched in greeting, but I still stepped in front of Dyer before either of them could intercept us.
“Relax, Charlie, he’s not going to bite,” Dyer murmured, moving out past me. And louder, clasping the man’s hand, “Tom. Good to see you.”
But I’d placed the newcomer even before Dyer spoke his name. Tom O’Day, electronics billionaire. Probably gazillionaire, if the fawning of the financial press was anything to go by. In a volatile economy, it seemed he could do no wrong. You certainly saw his company’s stylised dragon logo just about everywhere.
Maybe his wealth and power was the attraction to the model-thin blonde who followed him across the lobby. She was almost as tall as O’Day, most of it leg, although there was a generous dollop of chest thrown in for good measure. On a figure so slender it looked out of proportion, like her airbag had gone off.
The bodyguard’s name was Hobson, I recalled. He was an ex-Marine who’d been with O’Day for a decade. No doubt this familiarity explained why O’Day ignored his presence, but introduced the blonde to Dyer simply as “Autumn”.
I caught Sean’s eye out of habit, expecting to see a cynical glint. Instead, I saw just a glimmer of calculated interest.
I looked away, aware of a certain hollow feeling just below my ribs. Where once Sean and I had been in tune, now I found myself surprised and occasionally disappointed by his actions. Whoever he’d become, I didn’t really know him any more.
I let my eyes roam the lobby. O’Day talked like a man who thought a lot of what he had to say. But as he was the driving force behind this fundraiser I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt—for now.
Dyer’s face had taken on the look of polite concentration that people get when they’re being lectured by an evangelist. From the way O’Day poured himself into his subject, his self-made fortune was not hard to understand. He gave everything to it. The force of his will was almost tangible.
I mentally turned down the volume, listening for keywords without giving the rest of it chance to swamp me. I did another visual sweep.
Outside the main doors another limo had pulled up—a stretch Cadillac Escalade with gold trim just about everywhere it was possible to have it.
A young guy with the loose square frame of an athlete climbed out. He was early twenties, with stylised facial hair around his mouth, oversize designer shades, and trendy clothing about two sizes too big. His gold jewellery rivalled the Escalade for gaudiness. A white kid who desperately wanted to be black.
If Blake Dyer had inherited most of his wealth and O’Day had built his up over decades, I judged this young man had come into a lot of money very fast and
We chatted on the drive in. Mrs Dyer, I discovered, had stayed in Miami to be on hand for the imminent arrival of their first grandchild. By the time Dyer had finished telling me all about it, we were swinging into the hotel entrance. Sean pulled up under the portico and we debussed without drama. Dyer’s luggage was handed off to a hovering bellboy—a college kid we’d screened well enough to know he was about to flunk history and had a dog named Blue.
The hotel, located in the historic French Quarter, was swanky by anyone’s standards. Dyer’s suite had a private balcony overlooking the Mississippi. We’d already cleared it and checked him in prior to his arrival. As we crossed the lobby I gave him his key. All he had to do was walk straight to the elevators and ride on up.
If only things were so simple.
“Hey, Blake, you son of a gun!” called a booming voice. “Damn, I’m glad to see you here.”
We turned as a single unit. A tall, almost gaunt man in a handmade cream suit was striding towards us, a linebacker bodyguard keeping pace at his shoulder. The tall man’s smile engaged his whole face and his hand was outstretched in greeting, but I still stepped in front of Dyer before either of them could intercept us.
“Relax, Charlie, he’s not going to bite,” Dyer murmured, moving out past me. And louder, clasping the man’s hand, “Tom. Good to see you.”
But I’d placed the newcomer even before Dyer spoke his name. Tom O’Day, electronics billionaire. Probably gazillionaire, if the fawning of the financial press was anything to go by. In a volatile economy, it seemed he could do no wrong. You certainly saw his company’s stylised dragon logo just about everywhere.
Maybe his wealth and power was the attraction to the model-thin blonde who followed him across the lobby. She was almost as tall as O’Day, most of it leg, although there was a generous dollop of chest thrown in for good measure. On a figure so slender it looked out of proportion, like her airbag had gone off.
The bodyguard’s name was Hobson, I recalled. He was an ex-Marine who’d been with O’Day for a decade. No doubt this familiarity explained why O’Day ignored his presence, but introduced the blonde to Dyer simply as “Autumn”.
I caught Sean’s eye out of habit, expecting to see a cynical glint. Instead, I saw just a glimmer of calculated interest.
I looked away, aware of a certain hollow feeling just below my ribs. Where once Sean and I had been in tune, now I found myself surprised and occasionally disappointed by his actions. Whoever he’d become, I didn’t really know him any more.
I let my eyes roam the lobby. O’Day talked like a man who thought a lot of what he had to say. But as he was the driving force behind this fundraiser I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt—for now.
Dyer’s face had taken on the look of polite concentration that people get when they’re being lectured by an evangelist. From the way O’Day poured himself into his subject, his self-made fortune was not hard to understand. He gave everything to it. The force of his will was almost tangible.
I mentally turned down the volume, listening for keywords without giving the rest of it chance to swamp me. I did another visual sweep.
Outside the main doors another limo had pulled up—a stretch Cadillac Escalade with gold trim just about everywhere it was possible to have it.
A young guy with the loose square frame of an athlete climbed out. He was early twenties, with stylised facial hair around his mouth, oversize designer shades, and trendy clothing about two sizes too big. His gold jewellery rivalled the Escalade for gaudiness. A white kid who desperately wanted to be black.
If Blake Dyer had inherited most of his wealth and O’Day had built his up over decades, I judged this young man had come into a lot of money very fast and
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