Fade the Heat Read Free Page B

charges to the desert, where they killed them for whatever money and valuables they carried.
    “ But the fact is ,” Winter continued, his outrage mounting with each word, “ Dr. Montoya of the East End Clinic doesn’t have the luxury of setting policy—or ignoring state law, for that matter. Not when he’s working for us, the taxpayers. ”
    Reagan had heard all this before, including the accusation that Jack had falsified a diagnosis so he could legally treat the child of undocumented workers. For asthma, of all things.
    Not that it had made him one bit more sympathetic to Reagan’s cause. Sympathetic, nothing—he’d been rude as hell. And to think she’d remembered the guyas a nice kid, the kind of boy who could inspire a younger girl to go squirmy in the stomach and imagine all sorts of stupid things. It just went to show that it didn’t take a radio-show platform or political ambition to make a jerk of someone; apparently, having a handsome face and an M.D. tacked onto your name could effect the same result.
    The loudmouth’s voice grew in volume, as if the mix of ego and indignation had pumped up the wattage on her speakers. “ And I think it’s high time this sort of bleeding-heart liberal got the message. Since he won’t respond to me, I’d like to put you, my Winter Warriors, into action. I’m not telling anyone what to do, of course, but if several concerned citizens were to, say, visit www-dot-America-for-Americans-dot-com on the Internet, they might find personal contact information for a certain physician who has been—shall we say —‘outed’ by the fine webmaster, Ernest Rankin, whom many of you know from his frequent guest appearances. To remind Dr. Montoya he is working for you, the taxpayer, and not just any José who can swim a river, why not send him a personal message that we’re onto him? Again, that web address is… ”
    What was that reckless idiot suggesting? Reagan sucked in a startled breath, then exploded in another fit of coughing so hard her eyes teared.
    By the time the sound subsided, her speakers bleated the cheesy theme music that let her know the Darren Winter show had just returned from its commercial break. Hammering the dashboard to turn off the radio, she shifted the car through its gears and headed toward her house, where Frank Lee, at least, would wag his tail to see her. Her warm, dry, brick kitchen would be waiting, and even in this weather, her windowsill herb garden would provide enough basiland oregano to throw together a kick-ass pasta dish.
    If she could force herself to swallow it. Though she’d had nothing but a chalky-tasting energy bar since breakfast, the thought of cooking—and worse yet, eating—left her nauseated.
    She tried to convince herself that things could be worse. Since her friend, rookie firefighter Beau LaRouche, was working, she could at least enjoy an evening free of his nonstop boasting about his paintball prowess or his ruminations about people at the high school both of them had attended years before. Besides, come Monday, she still had a couple hundred other doctors she could hit up for a signature. And unlike Jack Montoya, at least she wasn’t going home to an answering machine that would be shorting out under the strain of irate messages from half the country, thanks to Winter and America-for-Americans-dot-com.
    But when she ran inside from her detached garage and scooped up the ringing phone, the voice on the other end blew away whatever smugness she’d managed to scrape together.
    “Hurley, hoped I’d catch you home.” Captain Joe Rozinski’s voice hadn’t lost that stiff, official manner he’d adopted since she’d transferred to his station. If anything, he sounded more distant than ever.
    As Reagan fended off her white greyhound’s slobbery kisses, she wished, not for the first time, that she could have back the old captain, the one who had never forgotten her at Christmas or her birthdays, who had become a father