The Reform Artists: A Legal Suspense, Spy Thriller (The Reform Artists Series Book 1) Read Online Free Page A

through the peephole and saw Martin Silkwood standing on the doorstep.
    “Marty, what a nice surprise!” she said, opening the door. Celia flashed him a big smile as she shouted, over her shoulder, “Ted, it’s Marty! Did you hear me?” She adjusted the storm door’s sticky latch to get it open.
    “Come on in, stranger!” she said, grabbing Martin by the arm.
    A petite woman, with soft, delicate features, fashionably coiffed, shoulder-length brown hair and stunning, turquoise eyes, Celia looked considerably younger than her thirty-eight years. She stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on Martin’s cheek as Buddy, the Gardner’s Labrador retriever, bounded toward them with eight-year-old Timmy close behind.
    Buddy barked excitedly, wagging his tail as he tried, unsuccessfully, to break his momentum by back-peddling his paws against the foyer’s highly polished marble finish. No such luck. He slammed into Celia, who quickly grabbed him by the collar to keep him at bay.
    “I’m sorry to barge in on you guys,” Martin said over the fray.
    “Don’t be silly,” Celia said, glancing up at him as she struggled with the dog. Then, turning to Buddy, who was drooling and still trying his best to get past her to Martin, she scolded, “Knock it off, you big galoot!”
    Little Timmy stepped forward. “Hi, uncle Marty.”
    “Hey, kiddo.” Martin said, rubbing Timmy’s mop of dirty-blond hair.
    Celia gestured in the direction of the great room. “Ted’s sitting in there, like a zombie.”
    Martin raised an eyebrow and stared at her blankly.
    “Wizards basketball. Remember? Your buddy’s their biggest fan?”
    “Right!”
    “What’s with you tonight?”
    Martin shrugged. “Would you join us, Celia?”
    “Is everything OK?” she asked, following.
    “Not really.”
    Ted was seated on the couch at the far end of the great room, watching the game on a large, flat-screen TV that hung like a painting above the fireplace. The Wizards were closing in on the Nets with just two minutes left in the first quarter. The score: twenty-eight to twenty-two. He glanced briefly in their direction as Buddy wedged himself between him and the coffee table, licking his hand and angling for attention.
    “Hey, Marty,” Ted said. “Grab a seat!”
    “I’m going to join you too, honey,” Celia said, after Timmy had raced ahead and sat down on his dad’s left. “Marty’s got something on his mind.”
    “Can it wait till half-time?”
    “Sure,” Martin said.
    “Ted!” Celia chided. “Your best friend has come by to talk. Don’t you think that’s a little more important than—?”
    “It’s all right, Celia, really,” Martin interrupted. “Frankly, I could use the distraction.”
    Ted glanced up at his friend. “Guess who’s got a C-note riding on this—with an eight-point spread?”
    “Someone with more money than sense, I guess.”
    “Marty,” Celia broke in, "can I get you a beer in the meantime?”
    “Sure.”
    “Would you get me another one, too, Hon?” Ted asked, dangling his now empty bottle before her at arm’s length, without taking his eyes off the game.
    “Sure, Ahrrchie,” she said in her best Brooklyn accent. Then, to no one in particular, “How about some nachos?”
    “Yeah, Mom!” Timmy said. “And can I stay up till halftime, please?”
    “If I let you, mister, you better jump out of bed in the morning.”
    “I will. Promise!”
    By halftime, the score was fifty-one to fifty. Timmy kissed his parents “goodnight,” gave Martin a hug, and reluctantly stomped off to his room alone. Then, Ted put the TV on mute and turned to his friend. “So, what’s up?”
    “Well,” Martin said, “I’ve got bad news and really bad news.”
    “Let’s start with the bad news,” Ted said.
    Martin sat up. “I’m homeless.”
    “You’re what? ” they both said in unison.
    “Homeless. Out on the street.”
    Ted smiled. “So, the repo man finally caught up with you?”
    “Ha ha,” Martin said.