A Shot to Die For

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Book: Read A Shot to Die For for Free Online
Authors: Libby Fischer Hellmann
Tags: Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths
makes my mouth water and my stomach growl. This morning the rich, hearty aroma of vegetable soup hung in the air, as if a giant pot was simmering on the roof of the building. I parked and inhaled deeply.
    Mac, aka Mackenzie Kendall, III, owns a video production studio tucked away in an industrial section of Northbrook. We’ve known each other twenty years and worked together for twelve. A talented director, Mac has all of the downtown expertise but none of the downtown prices. He also has Hank Chenowsky, one of the best editors downtown or anywhere else. The shows he’s edited have won so many awards that the row of plaques on the walls might be intimidating, were I the sort of person to pay attention to those things.
    As I pushed through the door, a buzzer sounded. A conversation stopped, and I heard a rustling sound. Seconds later, Mac appeared, coffee mug in hand, a section of newspaper under his arm, and reading glasses on his nose.
    “Ellie. Your ears must be burning.” In his torn jeans, T-shirt, and Harachi sandals, he looked like an aging hippie, a fact that gives him great pleasure but exasperates his affluent WASP family.
    “We were just talking about you.” He turned to the shiny new coffee urn and filled his mug. “Grab some and come on back.”
    I got myself coffee and followed him into his office, a small comfortable room with two narrow floor-to-ceiling windows, both of which had been replaced last year, thanks to me.
    Hank, a twenty-something youngster with long pale hair, even paler skin, and the hands and soul of an artist, lounged in a chair reading another section of the
Trib
. He looked up as I came in. “Well, if it isn’t the indestructible Ellie.”
    “Excuse me?”
    He snapped the newspaper, then folded it in half. “Dodging bullets, leaping tall buildings with a single bound. They ought to name a doll after you.”
    “Wonder Woman.” Mac sat down at his desk. “No. Buffy.”
    Hank pointed the newspaper at me. “That’s it! Ellie the Bad Guy Slayer.”
    “No.” Mac shook his head and sketched a movie marquee in the air. “Ellie the Warrior Princess!”
    Hank shook his head. “No. It’s Double-O-Seven in skirts. Foreman,” he rumbled in a mock British accent. “Ellie Foreman.”
    These were the men I trusted to work magic with my shows? “When did you say you graduated from high school?”
    “Ooo. A direct hit!” Mac chortled.
    I fluffed out my hair, making sure it fell in front of my face. “If anyone, it’s Grace Slick. But you’re both too culturally challenged to appreciate her.”
    That prompted more guffaws, which subsided only when the buzzer sounded from the front.
    “I’ll get it.” Hank laughed his way out of the room.
    I sat in the empty chair. Mac swallowed a last chuckle and took a breath. “Sorry. Sometimes you can’t stop. You know.”
    “It’s okay. I needed it.”
    “Me too.” Mac squared his shoulders. “You holding up? You’ve been through a lot the past couple days.”
    “It wasn’t that bad—compared to some of the things we’ve weathered.” I motioned to the newspaper Hank left. “They’re saying the two attacks are related. That it’s the same guy.”
    Indeed, the media were already highlighting the similarities in the case: young women exiting an oasis on I-94, the shooter in a green pickup with a camper shell. There’d been a stream of articles in both papers, and a talk show was promo-ing a special later today featuring eyewitnesses from both scenes. I’d had a couple of calls on my machine. I hadn’t returned them.
    Mac shrugged and looked at my feet, then the door, then the windows—everywhere, it seemed, except me. I waited until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “You don’t agree?”
    “You know me too well.” He ran a hand through his beard, which he’d grown to hide the scar running down his left cheek. Unfortunately, the beard grew in everywhere except around the scar.
    “What’s up?”
    He raised himself up on his

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