Exposed - A Thriller Novella (Chandler Series) by J.A. Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson Read Free Page A

about
bugs.
    “D’Angelo? Let me guess. Gambino family?”
    Morrissey gave a curt nod. “I needed to make
it easier to let you in than turn you away.”
    “And you think they’ll buy that I’m some
mistress he needs to get rid of?”
    “That depends on how well you sell it.”
    When I’d assumed a cover identity in the
past, I had prided myself on preparation. Knowing everything about
who I was supposed to be and who I was dealing with had saved my
ass more than once. This operation had been rushed from the
beginning, and now I was supposed to be the pawn of a mob figure I
knew nothing about. I had to wonder if, in getting me in the door,
Morrissey had just handed me a death sentence.
    “I can sell it.”
    I would have to. Not only was my life
dependent on it, but so was a girl’s future.
    The door swung open and Udelhoffer motioned
me inside. As soon as I stepped into the marble foyer, he held up a
hand, blocking Morrissey. “You’ll hear from me if she works
out.”
    Morrissey nodded and the door closed in his
face.
    I was on my own.
    The man stared down at me with the dim look
of hired muscle. “You wanna be a model, huh?”
    I channeled eager. “More than anything.”
    He shrugged a shoulder and heaved another
sigh. “Yeah. We’ll take care of you. Purse.”
    “Huh?”
    He grabbed it without asking, digging a paw
inside, fingering my phone and make-up. If he noticed I was
conveniently missing a wallet or any kind of ID, he didn’t give me
any indication it made him suspicious.
    “Come with me.”
    I followed Udelhoffer to the back of the
house, taking note of my surroundings as I went. The house was
furnished in a modern, generic style, the pieces and arrangements
big on price tags but low on originality or warmth. I smelled
gardenias from the back porch, a hint of some sort of animal musk,
and the distinctive oniony, deep-fried smell of McDonalds coming
from the kitchen and breakfast nook. A police scanner erupted in
fits and starts, blending with a faint Latin beat drifting from
somewhere in the house.
    “How many girls are you shooting today?” I
said without selling the obvious irony.
    Udelhoffer kept walking, not bothering to
answer. He led me out to a patio surrounding a kidney-shaped pool.
The air smelled of salt water and fish, and beyond the pool,
sunlight shimmered on Long Island Sound. Three other men stood near
the diving board. They weren’t armed that I could see, but I
wouldn’t be surprised if they had weapons nearby. The blonde in
Jacob’s picture perched on a chaise lounge, dressed in a miniskirt
and tee, a small carry-on suitcase on the paving stones in front of
her sandaled feet.
    No one even pretended to be snapping
photos.
    Udelhoffer stopped in front of a swarthy man
with a hawk-like hooked nose, and they shared a few hushed words.
Too quiet for me to hear, but I’m a fair lip reader. I saw Gambino , favor , and ice .
    Even though the big man towered above, it was
clear from their body language that Hawk Nose was in charge.
Dressed in a button-down open at the neck, he looked more like a
South American businessman than a thug, except for the shoulder
holster under his jacket.
    The third was average height and skinny, yet
judging from the sinewy muscles in his arms, as strong as steel
wire. He had ex-military written all over him and reminded me of a
man I’d killed in Columbia. Tight shirt, and I didn’t spot his
carry until I noticed the bulge on his right ankle.
    The fourth was portly, with sweat stains in
the armpits of his Hawaiian shirt. He wore khakis and loafers, no
socks, and I couldn’t spot a pistol on him. An investor, maybe? Or
a perspective buyer?
    Udelhoffer finished his briefing, and Hawk
Nose slowly walked over to me, a smile on his face that was pure
mockery. “So … you ever model before?”
    I pegged his accent as Venezuelan. “I’ve done
some—”
    “Then you know how this works.”
    I had no clue. But since I doubted he did
either, I gave him