"Cray, David - Little Girl Blue" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cray David)

"She?"

"A little girl, maybe eight or nine."

"How'd she die?"

"Don't know yet."

"I'm not getting this."

"She's naked, Uncle Bob, and there's no sign of her clothing."

"Ah."

TWO

FATHER JEAN Lucienne turned to the congregation and spread his hands.
"Ite, missa est," he said. Go, the mass has ended.

Peter Foley, from his place in the choir loft, responded, "Deo
gratias," then rose to put on a gray car coat, a tweed cap, and a pair
of lined leather gloves. Having long ago accepted the fact that his
fellow parishioners were drawn as much to Holy Savior's clubby
atmosphere as to the Latin rite it espoused, Foley usually forced
himself to join the buzz of conversation that followed Sunday mass. But
on this particular Sunday he had an appointment that left him no time
for more than a nod and a smile as he snatched his briefcase, then made
his way down the stairs and out onto East Eighty-first Street.

A moment later, after quickly shaking Father Lucienne's hand, Foley was
heading west toward Central Park, covering the ground with long casual
strides. At 41, he stood an inch-and-a-half above six feet and kept in
shape by throwing himself whenever possible into the seemingly endless
stream of pedestrians making their their way along the sidewalks of
Manhattan. These hikes meant at least as much to Foley as the masses
he attended several times each week, and there were moments when he
felt himself pulled forward by the flow as if weightless, a twig on the
surface of a river. Then he might walk for hours, from neighborhood to
neighborhood, weaving around slower pedestrians until the solid ache in
his legs drew him once again to the specifics of flesh and gravity.
Until fatigue made sleep again possible. On this occasion, however,
with a destination in mind and barely enough time to get there, Foley
was too preoccupied with his coming appointment to appreciate the
joggers, the cyclists, and the in-line skaters who'd braved the cold to
display their skills on Central Park's inner drive. He was unaware,
too, of the bright winter sun, though he often came to the park in
winter to escape the shadowed sidewalks. He thought only of Wallace
Carpenter, and the investment he, Foley, had already made in the man.
Now it was crunch time.