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

aspects of her profession. Now she understood that it was not possible
to acknowledge even the smallest part of the misery that pervades a
cop's workday. You either harden or find another line of work. That
was why cops, though overwhelmingly Christian, have such contempt for
bleeding hearts. If cops, including herself, were to allow the
slightest tear in the armor that protects their own hearts, they would
lose every drop of blood in an instant.

Inevitably, because she hadn't quit, Julia had toughened. Her husband,
Sam Brennan, had been first to pick it up. "You look at me," he'd
complained, "as if you were trying to make up your mind about
something. You look like you're waiting for me to make a mistake."

Poor Sam. He'd married his high-school sweetheart, the compliant
blonde who'd cheered his exploits, both on the athletic fields of
Bay-side High and in the back seat of his father's Cadillac; adjusting
to the woman she'd become was beyond him. As for Julia, there was no
going back for her either. Instead, in the years following her
divorce, she'd advanced from sergeant to lieutenant, from patrol to
detective. Only a week before, she'd been notified that she'd ranked
twelfth on the captain's exam and was likely to be promoted within the
next couple of years.

A celebratory dinner with the woman Julia had come to think of as her
"rabbette," Deputy Chief Bea Shepherd, had followed the formal posting
of the list. They'd met at the Hudson Cafe, then lingered for nearly
two hours. As far as Julia could remember, at no point had they
discussed the virtues of law enforcement or the historically low crime
rate. Instead they gossiped about the job through cocktails,
exchanging rumors and anecdotes, then moved on to their ex-husbands,
their children, boyfriends past and present.

A SHARPLY spoken "Damn you" drew Julia's attention. A middle-aged man
in a cashmere overcoat was shaking his fist at a retreating taxi. The
man looked at Julia, his jaw thrust forward as if he expected her to
offer some objection to his display, then strode beneath the canopy
fronting an apartment building, through a glass door held open by a
uniformed doorman, and into the lobby.

As the door closed, Julia became aware of her huddled shoulders. As a
general rule weather was something you learned to ignore, but the cold
was now reaching down into her chest. Her feet, even in fur-lined
boots that rose almost to her knees, were cold enough to hurt. Still
she lingered; still the words rose into her consciousness. Little Girl
Blue.

There was a song, she remembered, called "Little Girl Blue," but it was
a sad song about someone a lot older than ten, a love song. Plus,
there was the nursery rhyme, Little Boy Blue, a very sad poem as
well.