"Kyle, Duncan - Terror's Cradle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kyle Duncan)

'There can't be many like that.'

'Like what?'

'Men she didn't know. Four hundred million Chinese, perhaps. A few Russians and Albanians.'

'Cut that out!'

'Who was he?'

Spinetti shrugged. 'Who knows? His name was Bruzzi.'

'Where from?'

'Vegas.'

'And the gentleman's occupation?'

'Bartender.'

The picture wasn't even remotely fuzzy. I said, 'She was high. Drugs or alcohol?'

He shrugged again. Smooth creases slid about the beautiful knitwear jacket as his shoulders moved. 'You won't print it.'

Preserve the public's illusions. Miss Rhodes, tired and sleeping soundly, didn't hear . . . I said, 'The only question is, who actually shot him?'

Spinetti grimaced. 'That's what the sheriff's office is asking.'

'Romantic quarrel over beauteous actress,' I said. 'Crime passionel. Between a bartender and a gunman. And ten feet away, on the other side of a plasterboard wall, she's overtired as a newt and hears nothing."

'You've got the picture.' His voice was suddenly a little weary.

'You've had a hard day,' I said. 'Relax. Have a real drink.'

'Just Coke.' Confirmation: reformed alcoholic and it still hurt.

'Has she talked to the sheriff's office?'

'Not yet.'

I said, 'But you moved quickly.'

'Sure I moved fast. She was in a state of collapse. The doctor wouldn't -'

'That would be the film unit doctor?'

'Yeah.'

'And how long does the tame doctor say it will be?'