Sudden Exposure Read Online Free

like that in a living room this size: it’s like dropping a pound of curry in your stew!” She shook her head. “Ellen spotted it at the flea market. She stripped off five coats of paint and spent a week sawing away walls and sanding posts. So what could I do? I could hardly call out the Goodwill. Besides, they probably don’t have a big market for used confessionals.” She grinned and caught my eye, inviting me to laugh with her, her recent outburst forgotten.
    I’d seen her do this push-pull with fans. It was amazingly effective. The pull of her intimacy was so great that when she pushed them away, they weren’t insulted, but just tried harder.
    She glanced at the empty priest’s seat. But instead of grabbing a cushion and settling there, she raked strewn newspaper sections off the sofa till there was space and sat, motioning me to the other couch.
    I propped myself on one of the padded sofa arms so my gun and flashlight and baton could hang freely. “So,” I said, “do you have any idea who shot at your car?”
    “Not an idea. I know. The asshole opened up the great con job of the century two blocks away from The Girls’ Team. You know The Girls’ Team.” It was a statement, not a question.
    “It’s a block below Telegraph, built on the parking lot next to the Berkeley City Club, right?”
    “ Over the parking lot. I saved all but two parking spots when I built there, so I wouldn’t harm the neighborhood. I planted trees around the building, full-grown and damned expensive trees. The deck has window boxes with flowers growing all year. I went out of my way to create the best health club in town. My StairMasters are the safest, my Exercycles have seats tilted to preserve the riders’ lumbar curves. I’ve got cold dunking pools to use after workouts, a sauna, a snack bar with healthy food and Peet’s Coffee. I’ve put my entire self into the Team.”
    I couldn’t help but be impressed. Bryn Wiley had that effect. She could be a pain in the ass, but there was no doubting her commitment. “So,” I said, “what is this con job of the century a block away?”
    “The name ‘Heat Exchange’ mean anything to you?” She spat out the words. Any resemblance to the shaken victim I’d met outside was gone.
    “Tell me.”
    “The biggest fraud on the Avenue.”
    That was saying a fair amount.
    “Sam Johnson—you do know him?” Her hands curled into fists—tight, symmetrical weapons on arms poised to strike.
    “Of course.”
    “He’s opened a so-called health club!”
    “What?” Sam Johnson was the least likely individual to operate a health club. I couldn’t imagine him even having stepped inside one. Johnson was an old-time radical. If he saw a StairMaster, he’d probably take those endless steps to nowhere as a metaphor on capitalism. “Sam Johnson?”
    “Yeah. Even when I realized the place was right on the Avenue, two blocks from the Team, and a whole lot more convenient for people coming from Cal, I still laughed. Who would waste their money on a fitness center run by a man who … who—”
    “Thinks a Nautilus machine is something for mollusks?” I said.
    “Yeah”—she grinned at me—“exactly. But when I heard about that ripoff, fraudulent, self-delusionary sham—At first I couldn’t believe it was real. Then I realized just how much trouble I was in. The guy really knows Berkeley.”
    “How so?”
    “Oh, you haven’t heard about The Heat Exchange’s gimmick? Well, here it is: Deep in their hearts, old lefties think working out is hedonistic, yuppie, politically incorrect. But they don’t want their butts to sag, right? To the rescue comes Sam Johnson, saying: ‘Pin up your ponytail, wear your “ U.S. Out of Wherever ” T-shirt proudly, and pedal your ass off on The Heat Exchange’s stationary bike, because—ta-da!—the friction you create can be converted into heat and that heat will cut the utility bills of the deserving poor who live on the floors below. Then you