Cold Shot to the Heart Read Free

sleeve.
    â€œYou’ve got bigger problems, though,” he said.
    She looked at him. The other trooper hadn’t moved.
    â€œWhat’s that?” she said.
    â€œIt’ll snow most of the night, ten to twelve inches, likely. We’ll be closing some of these roads. Long a drive as you have, I’d strongly suggest you get off at the next exit—that’s Salisbury—check into a motel. Roads should be clear by morning.”
    â€œThanks, I’ll do that,” she said. She put the contract back in the glove box, shut it, breathing again now. “I was starting to get a little nervous out here anyway.”
    â€œHalf mile ahead on your right. It’s a steep exit ramp, so be careful. Have a good night now.” He touched his cap.
    â€œI will,” she said.
    She watched them walk back to the cruiser, get in. Lights still flashing, they U-turned, headed back the way they’d come. She watched their lights in the rearview until they were out of sight.
    When she could trust herself to drive, she powered the window up, then pulled back onto the highway and into the storm.

TWO
    The motel was a Days Inn just off the highway, the lot almost full. Snow blew past the pole lights. She checked in as Roberta Summersfield, used the credit card she had in that name.
    The room was on the second floor. She carried her bags up and two minutes later was in the shower, her clothes strewn on the bathroom floor. The water grew hot quickly, and she ducked under the shower head to let the stream play against the knotted muscles of her neck. The heat began to loosen her shoulders, the tightness in her scalp.
    When she was done, she toweled off, then dressed in turtleneck sweater and jeans. She put the bag with the money up on a shelf in the closet.
    Twenty minutes later, she was sitting at the hotel bar, a glass of red wine and the remains of a hamburger in front of her. It was the first she’d eaten since that morning.
    At a table to her left were three businessmen in their forties—suit jackets, loosened ties, out of shape. They looked over every few minutes, and she knew they were talking about her. She also knew none of them would have the courage to approach her. It would save her the trouble of shutting them down if they did.
    There was a wide-screen TV above the bar, a laugh-tracked sitcom she didn’t know. The barmaid took her plate, pointed to her empty wineglass. Crissa said, “Please,” and the barmaid took a new glass from the overhead rack, poured from the bottle.
    At ten, the news came on. The lead story was the storm, but five minutes later they got to the robbery. A young female reporter stood outside the darkened storefront, bathed in the bright light of the TV camera, snow flitting past, yellow police tape behind her.
    Why bother sending someone out there now? Crissa thought. It’s all over with.
    When the reporter said the robbers had escaped with two hundred thousand in cash, Crissa said, “Bullshit.”
    The barmaid turned to her. “Excuse me, honey?”
    Crissa shook her head. The barmaid looked back at the TV. They’d moved on to sports.
    Everyone’s scamming, Crissa thought. One way or another. Like Wayne used to say: Nothing’s on the level when the world is round.
    She was feeling the wine, the aftermath of the day’s adrenaline rush, the tension of the week. The way it goes sometimes, she’d told Smitty, and that was true, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Thirty-one five wasn’t worth the preparation they’d put into it, the risks they’d taken. It would barely pay her rent for the year. She would put aside part of it anyway, for a trip somewhere warm. Tortola, maybe, or Green Turtle Cay in the Abacos. A Christmas present to herself.
    It had become a pattern. A few months of normalcy, relaxation. Then the money at hand would start to run low around the same time she began to get bored. She’d