Free Pulse by Edna Buchanan Page A

looked like a sophisticated Brickell Avenue executive home from the fray.
    “I’m just happy to see you. How goes it?”
    “Well, Dave Linderman never should have been appointed to the board for the new arts center.” She hung her jacket in the hall closet. “Suddenly, he’s an expert on everything and all the man wants to do is argue. Not a whit of common sense. He gets in the way of whatever we try to do.”
    “Any way to get rid of him?”
    “Nothing short of a coup d'état. He’s the mayor’s appointee. The man’s insufferable.” She fumed. “The rest of us are thinking about raising funds for a paid assassin.”
    He hugged her and kissed her cheek. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”
    “You’ve been watching old movies again, and pilfering their dialogue, haven’t you?”
    “No, but maybe we have time before dinner to go upstairs and make our own movies.” He growled and nuzzled her neck. He closed his eyes, overtaken by the erotic image of a strong and passionate dark-haired woman, a creation, he knew now, of his own imagination.
    “X-rated?” Kathleen nibbled his ear, then slipped out of reach. “I’ve got a surprise,” she said. “We need to talk.”
    “Uh-oh.” Kathleen had held back, obviously uneasy sincethey’d resumed their sex life. Having to reassure her that gasps, moans or heavy breathing during intimate moments were signs of passion, not imminent death, was not a turnon. Was it all an excuse? Had she ever really enjoyed sex with him? Or did she really fear he would die in her arms?
    “Listen,” she said cheerfully, perched on the arm of his chair. “We’ve got to keep this under wraps for a few weeks, but it appears that I am going to be named president of the Committee for Art in Public Places.”
    She chuckled, clearly delighted.
    “Madame President.” He stroked the silk of her blouse, his sensitive fingertips seeking her nipple. “Sounds good to me. But you’re already on the boards for the South Florida Historical Museum and the new arts center. Won’t it all be too demanding?”
    “Of course not, silly. You know how organized I am. I may have to hire a secretary, but now that you’re well and going back to the office and the girls are so busy with school, it’s something I would love to do. Do you realize that with the right people aboard, our committee could change the look of this entire community?”
    He waxed enthusiastic and supportive, while wondering why she had not mentioned it sooner. As he lay dying, his life slipping away, he had vowed to create lifelong memories for his loved ones should he survive. This development could put a crimp in the Norman Rockwell family image he had envisioned. No point boxing shadows, he thought, she has not been appointed yet.
    His dreams that night were excitement-charged, as though he had boarded a high-speed train roaring headlong toward a secret destination. He slipped out of bed in the dark and dressed before dawn in an open-necked pullover andtwill slacks. He dug his old monogrammed leather briefcase out of the closet and removed the small bars of sweet-scented soap Kathleen kept inside to keep the leather fresh and Miami’s mildew away. He shoved several legal pads, sharp pencils, index cards and a calculator inside and took the laptop, a small notebook computer, from his desk.
    “What on earth?” Kathleen stood in the doorway, sleepy, still in her nightdress.
    “It’s off to work I go,” he said cheerfully.
    She yawned. “Want coffee?”
    “I’ll pick some up on the way.”
    She looked doubtful. “What business are you conducting this early?”
    “Have to do some calculating and organizing on investments and tax matters. Early morning is best, no interruptions.”
    “Can’t you do that here?”
    Damn, I should tell her now, he thought, but there was so much to tell, and he was impatient, a man in a hurry.
    “The paperwork is there.” He did not say where.
    She eyed him skeptically. “You always