Playing Dead Read Online Free Page A

a less lethal move. Two missed calls from a cell phone with an Austin prefix. So he probably wasn’t lying about that, either.
    “And?” I asked.
    “And I’m working a story about the success of horse therapy with kids who have aggressive or antisocial behavior. Lydia said you two were doing research together. I badgered her to give me your cell number.”
    True. Lydia Pratt was a former mentor and professor of mine at UT and a long-distance research partner.
    “How did you get in the front door downstairs?” I asked. “The computer security system locks it automatically after five.”
    He shrugged. “It was open.”
    “How did you know I’d be here?”
    “I’m a reporter,” he said, like that explained everything. “I interviewed Lydia in Austin on Friday. She mentioned you were in Fort Worth. I flew in to work on another story and you and I happened to be in the same place at the same time. The guy I interviewed today said your father had an office down here.”
    “Who is that? The guy you interviewed?”
    “I gotta protect my sources.”
    This guy was annoyingly glib, like he was speaking lines in a movie. “This isn’t a good time,” I said abruptly. “And my part of the research is focused more on treating kids who’ve experienced a devastating trauma. The suicide of a parent, the death of a sibling. Horse therapy is only part of my research. You need to leave.”
    “Think about it,” Smith insisted, not moving. “I’m sure you could add something interesting. A story could help you get more funding for your research. I won’t take much time. I’m at Etta’s Place until Monday night.”
    Etta’s Place. This had to be some kind of huge cosmic joke. Iforced myself not to glance up at her picture. Etta’s Place was the downtown inn that thrived on the slim possibility that after the Kid died, Etta masqueraded in Fort Worth as a boardinghouse matron named Eunice Gray. Or, if you were reading something other than the slick hotel website, Eunice ran a brothel. I’m sure she didn’t charge the website rate of $150 or more a room, no matter what salacious service was offered.
    Sadie would call this serendipity. A sign, probably from Etta herself. An artist, my sister believed in magnet healing, braless summers, alien abductions, and that Granny’s psychic bloodline ran through our veins.
    As for funding, mine was plenty deep and directly from my trust fund.
    Jack Smith uncrossed his long legs and stood up. I followed him, through Melva’s office, down the narrow hall and stairs to the lock on the front door.
    “I just want to check it,” I remarked sweetly. The lock appeared to be in perfect working order.
    “How about that?” His grin widened. “Must have been a little glitch with the computer.” I didn’t reply. Daddy had told me the security company vowed the special feature was as reliable and about as technically complex as an alarm clock.
    “What’s the other story you’re working on?” I asked. “The one that brought you to Fort Worth?”
    Smith’s lips curled back up into that irritating grin.
    “I know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried,” he said, and sauntered off, leaving that hanging in the hot air.
    Our building’s entrance opened onto a side street, away from the tourists and bars and the daily cattle drive. The city had been chintzy with the lighting here, so Smith turned into a walking shadow until he hit the end of the block. The streetlight illuminated his shirt like a neon glow stick before he disappearedaround the corner. I waited until I was sure he wasn’t coming back. Then I took the pistol out of my waistband, where I’d tucked it when he wasn’t looking.
    Jack Smith, reporter, would have been better off wearing American-made, boot-cut jeans for more than one reason.
    For instance, they would have done a better job of hiding his ankle holster.
    The jeans always told the story.
    Jack Smith, reporter or not, was a pretender with a capital
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    A half-hour