Killer Move Read Free

up, flipped it over. Just one word on the other side: MODIFIED .
    “Hell is this?”
    “What?”
    “Thing on my desk.”
    “No idea,” Karren said without turning around. “Came in the mail. Probably some viral marketing crap.”
    “Viral marketing?”
    “You know. Coming in under the radar. Keeping it on the down low. Advertising that’s cool and hip and engaging and just so New Edge it makes you want to spit.”
    I looked back down at the card in my hand. It was matte black on both sides, had just that one word in white letters and bold type across the front, and my name and the company’s address on a laser-printed sticker on the back. The sticker had been put on perfectly straight.
    “I’m not engaged,” I said, and dropped the card in the trash.

CHAPTER TWO
    I got through a slew of e-mail, made a few calls—Shore business only, anything else I do on my cell when away from prying ears—and left the office a little after eleven. The clouds were bunching overhead, purple thunderheads that promised an almighty downpour. The only downside was that the air had become even heavier in preparation, the earth offering up every drop of moisture from its hot lungs, anxious to have it purged in the upcoming hammer of rain. It felt like if you were to reach out and make a wringing motion, actual water would drip down out of the atmosphere to steam off the ground.
    I hesitated, aware that this was precisely the kind of moment when I would formerly have lit a cigarette. I didn’t do that anymore, however, and this morning that felt like less of an imposition. It was taking hold, finally, Mr. Nicotine Addiction packing his bags. I paused to pay homage to the fact. The author of one of my favorite personal development blogs is big on taking the time to mark good moments rather than fretting about the bad—reprogramming reality through altering focus to the positive. Drive yourself and you drive the world. Plus, I was running a little early anyhow.
    From where I was standing you get a good sense of what The Breakers is about. A condo complex built in the heady days when throwing up blocks on the Florida coast was basically a license to print money, the resort had everything a family needed to beguile a couple of weeks in the Sunshine State. A hundred and twenty apartments, in blocks of six; said two-story blocks arranged in a pair of concentric circles around a central area holding eight tennis courts. (The Breakers prides itself on its facilities, and hosts the annual Longboat Key Tournament.) Palms, fern beds, and path decking lightened the effect and gave the blocks a little personal space. Each had a cheerful name, was painted a different shade of pastel, and, to the discerning eye, was beginning to look a little tatty.
    On the ocean side of the inner circle stands a four-story administrative building holding the resort offices and reception, meeting/conference spaces, a gym, and—arrayed over the entire top two stories—the gargantuan living space of the resort’s owners. The corresponding point on the outer circle is home to, in addition to the adjunct of Shore Realty’s office, a little grocery market, a place to buy beachwear, Marie’s Restaurant (small and poised, a pianist most evenings, nonresidents welcome, but shorts or flip-flops are not), and Tony’s Bistro (the more casual dining option, child friendly, with a tiki bar and tables on a patio overlooking the pool area).
    Beyond that, the beach—on which there are several four-bedroom bungalows, the pinnacle of the resort’s rental cost ladder. Other buildings dotted around the complex hold a game room and an area where parents can dump their more tractable children under semiexpert supervision for two-hour sessions, the better to sun-worship in peace. There’s a repair division, too, domain of Big Walter the maintenance man, but I’ve seldom needed to tangle with that side of things (or with him). He’s a decent guy and a wiz at fixing things, but