"Elrod, P.N. - Vampire Files 09 - Lady Crymsyn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

"The house or the club?"
"Club." I told him about the workmen finding a body in the wall.
"What? Only one?"
I was in no mood for black humor, until it occurred to me he wasn't joking. "One's more than enough." Then I told him how she'd probably died.
"Tough luck."
"And then some. It might also go bad for the guy who had this place before me."
"I get you." He didn't mention Booth Nevis, the mob tough who owned the lease. Gordy's phones were often tapped so he'd gotten into the habit of keeping shut on names or talking in code.
"It's none of my business what was done here five years back. I will be cooperating with the law on this. They're gonna want to know who owns the building, and I'll have to tell them. I'm not taking any chances over getting shut down before it's even open."
"You do what you gotta. The other guy can take care of himself."
"So long as he doesn't get any ideas about taking care of me for talking."
Gordy made an odd, abrupt sound I interpreted as his version of a laugh. "Like that'll ever happen. I'll see what he knows about it. He won't be bothering you, though."
"Thanks." If Booth Nevis had a murder to hide, he'd probably not say anything, even to Gordy, but it was worth a try if it took the heat off of me.
I hung up and thought about calling my girl, Bobbi, but she'd be in the middle of her set at the Red Deuces about now. She was their headline singer this week, and Thursday a local radio station would be broadcasting the show. Maybe the audience wouldn't be as big as some she'd reached, but she held the opinion that every little bit of work that got her name in front of people helped. A couple months back she'd done a successful performance on a national broadcast, which had resulted in a few promising offers. The Red Deuces was a short engagement for her, only a week, but it drew a swank clientele of show folk, the kind who could help her career. Just the sort I wanted to attract to my own place.
Fat chance of that if I didn't handle this disaster with kid gloves.
Someone clumped his way upstairs and marched toward my office, which was the only lighted room along the bare hall. I'd remembered to flick it on this time for appearances' sake. He was yet another cop telling me I was to come with him. I didn't ask why.
As though I couldn't find my own way, he guided me down to the main room. All the lights were on here, with cops and reporters wandering around like they owned the place. I hoped they weren't messing up the red velvet upholstery, that was the job of future paying customers. My entrance stirred up the fourth estaters, and once more I got blinded by a flashbulb going off. Several of them. Jeez, but when I'd been working on that side of the fence I had no idea how irritating the damn things could be. No wonder cursing people used to take swings at us.
The cop hustled me past the mob. I gladly let him. Better to be in a basement with a corpse than have a bunch of half-crazed reporters shouting questions that I couldn't answer. During the rush I didn't see Escott. I wondered if I should worry.
"Mr. Fleming, isn't it?"
At the foot of the steps, my vision still uncertain when I blinked, I came face-to-face with Lieutenant Blair, mustache, smug smile, and all. For all the dust down here his black suit looked quite untouched. And he damn well knew who I was. "Yeah, Lieuteneant, how you doing?"
"Quite a bad business, don't you think?" He didn't bother to shake hands. The cop leaned close and muttered something in Blair's ear before moving off. Because of the noise and echoes I didn't catch much of it, just something about me being in my office.
Looking past his shoulder, I could see he'd put my men to work on the wall, Leon and a couple of others. Most of it had been pulled down, revealing the skeleton. Her tattered and stained dress had been a blazing red once. Red sequins still defiantly flashed tiny points of light under the harsh overheads. She'd died on her knees, back bowed and head down as if praying. She'd probably been praying very hard indeed there in the stifling dark. I repressed a shudder.
"Got anything to say about this?" Blair inquired.
"It's bad business all right," I allowed. "And nothing to do with me."
"We'll see." He sounded very pleased with himself.
"Come on, you know I only moved here last August. This case could be at least five years old."
"How do you figure that?" He was good at his job, only asking questions for which he already knew the answers.
"Because that's when this joint was last open. There are records on file with all the dates, and you know where to find them."
"True, but anyone could have broken in here between then and now and put her here."
"That's for you to figure out. I'm just a victim of circumstance."
"You seem to collect them, Mr. Fleming. Let's go over here for a little chat, why don't we?" He motioned me toward a corner away from the hubbub, where we could have some privacy. "Who were you calling?"
"I called someone?"
"The man I sent to get you heard you talking."
The cop hadn't even been near the office by the time I'd hung up. Blair was slipping by making only a guess, but it had been a good one. "He must have ears like an Airedale or a great imagination."
"Who did you phone?"
"No one."
"Gordy Weems, perhaps?"
I tried not to react, but he was looking for the least little betraying twitch. Sometimes it's a sad thing to be born with a streak of telltale honesty.
"Perhaps to warn him of your little trouble here? No need to be too surprised. I've made a point of finding out who your friends are."
"You must have a lot of time on your hands, then."
"I just like to keep track of troublemakers."
He would.
"For instance, just how is it an unemployed reporter can afford to set up a palace like this?"
"I'm not unemployed; I work for the Escott Agency. As for this place, I got lucky at the track this year and decided to invest my winnings."
"I think you've been investing for the mob. Word is you're one of Gordy's insiders at the Nightcrawler Club."
"My girlfriend sings there sometimes. I just go over to drive her home after work. If I took her to the train station, would you accuse me of being a Pullman porter? Are you even supposed to be here? I thought this far north would be out of your district."
"Listen wiseass, after that business with MalcolmЧ"
"Ancient history, Lieutenant."
"It's still an open case, Fleming."
Before he could get himself fully launched down memory lane, I fixed him with a long, concentrated stare. "And past time you closed it," I whispered after a moment. From the profoundly blank expression that dropped over his face I knew he'd heard me. "The guy's no longer your concern. Your best guess is that he's the one who did the Wrigley Building murder, and the guilt drove him crazy. Ain't that so?"
"Yes, that's what happened." Blair's voice was thin and distant.