"Creighton, Kathleen - Eyewitness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Creighton Kathleen)

"Doesn't look like she put up a fight, either, does it?" said Buroside
as he came to join MacDougal at the foot of the bed. "No bruises.. :
His voice trailed off and the two men stood together for the space of a
moment too full of mutual understanding for words.

Buroside cleared his throat. "Whoever did it, looks like he, uh, made
love to her and then shot her. Just like that. Before he even got.. :
'

"Ain't love grand," MacDougal drawled, deliberately keeping his tone
dry. Emotions like anger and outrage had no place in a homicide
investigation.

Meanwhile, his gaze was traveling a familiar route around the bedroom,
searching, cataloging. No sign of the weapon, but he hadn't expected
it to be here. He'd been wrong before , but he was pretty sure he
already knew how this one was going to go down.

"Stay with her until forensics gets here," he said, tucking his
notebook into his shirt pocket. "I'm going to check around outside,
see what the lady's neighbors have to say about her love life."

Carefully retracing his steps back through the apartment , he detoured
long enough for a quick check of the contents of a purse he'd spotted
earlier on the floor beside the couch. Balanced on the ball of one
foot, he carefully withdrew a wallet of burgundy leather-not an
expensive one-and flipped it open to the driver's license. He stared
at the photograph encased in cloudy plastic for along moment , then
closed the wallet again. Before he slipped it back into the purse he
poked once more through the accumulation of odds and ends in the
bottom, just to make sure that what he hadn't found really wasn't
there. He rose, then, and let his eyes make a brief but thorough
survey of the living room. Nope-not here, either.

Two steps to the right gave him a good view of the tiny kitchen through
a pass-through opening lined with wooden swivel-type bar stools. He
gave it the same once-over, paying special attention to the countertops
and the small pile of items beside the phone, all the places a woman
might be expected to drop a set of car keys. Like the gun, he didn't
really expect to find them.

He stepped outside onto the sunbaked landing. Milton Stanislowski, the
medical examiner, was toiling up the concrete stairway from the
courtyard below, sweating in the October heatwave in spite of a
relative humidity that had to be near zero.

When the ME saw MacDougal he reared back in mock surprise and growled,
"What the hell are you doing here? Oh, Lord, it must be a homicide.
Can't think of anything else that'd tear MacDougal away from The Big