"Lamar, Melinda - The Gentle Giant" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lamar Melinda)

She swallowed back the burn in her throat and dialed the number to Jerry's pager by rote.

Jerry Sullivan was awake when his pager's annoying blip echoed from the tray across his lap. He pushed aside the slop that doubled as breakfast, glanced at the LCD readout, and eyed the snowy-white cast on his left leg. The one that had been there since shortly after three this morning, when he'd startled the cat by stumbling over his son's twelve basketball shoes, then tripped over the fleeing animal, and broken his damn ankle. All for a Dagwood sandwich -- which he'd never gotten. And now all they could offer him was this crap that he thought was supposed to be eggs.
Tossing the pager back onto the tray, he picked up the phone and punched in a number.
Bayard Russell was on his 227th pushup when the phone rang. He eyed the apparatus curiously for a moment. It rang so seldom, for a second he thought his alarm clock had gone haywire. Grabbing his towel, he mopped his face and shouldered the phone.
"Russell here," he barked into the receiver.
"Hey, Bay, I need to cash in on a favor."
His boss, Jerry. "What favor is that?" Bay asked, running the corner of the towel through his damp beard. He didn't recall owing Jerry anything.
"A big favor -- you know that long vacation you wanted to take -- the European history museum tour or whatever it is?"
"Yeah," Bay answered, wondering where this conversation was leading.
"Well, you've got the time now. I'll give you that full month of vacation you want. You just got to do me one tiny favor."
"Okay, what's that?"
"See, I got me laid up with a broken leg, here. Damn cat. And, I got to go check something out with a gal up towards Crater Lake."
Bay shrugged. No doubt a hiker had unearthed a skeleton, probably deer or bear, and was convinced it was human. A forensics expert needed to check it out. Happened all the time in the summer. As much as he hated the outdoors, that long vacation sounded great -- and besides, one didn't argue with one's boss. Especially a boss with an attitude nursing a broken ankle.
"Okay, shoot."
When Bay hung up the phone a few minutes later, he wished he'd never owned a phone or wanted to go to Europe or was dumb enough to agree to Jerry's favor.
["One"]["#TOC"]
Chapter One
Turning into the parking lot, Dia negotiated the gray Wrangler through the midmorning bargain hunters. She parked in the pre-arranged rendezvous spot where she and Jerry always met. A glance at her watch told her she was right on time -- three hours after the initial call.
She watched the heat shimmering on the pavement, felt the humidity building. Though the sky was a clear cerulean and the Cascades were deep lavender and green in the distance, the thunderstorms would return this afternoon.
Where the hell was Jerry? He was always on time -- early even. If he didn't get here soon, they might as well forget it. The rain would wash away the evidence.
She took a deep breath, watching the cars passing by, the commuter jet gliding into Rogue Valley International Airport - Medford on a northbound jaunt from San Francisco. At least the occupants of both were getting somewhere, not stuck, waiting.
Dia checked her watch again. She'd give Jerry ten more minutes, and then she was out of here. He'd just have to call Bob at BFNetwork and get the coordinates himself. She wasn't giving him a second longer.
The scrunch of tires on the pavement coming nearer and pulling in beside her drew Dia's attention. A late-model, white sedan, not Jerry's maroon Explorer.
She glanced at the driver, big and bearded. Why did he have to park here -- next to her at this empty end of the lot? In Jerry's spot.
The man's blatant stare, even behind his dark aviator sunglasses, prickled her skin with an awareness that made Dia uneasy. Her heart accelerated when he stepped from his car. While not tall, he gave the impression of hugeness -- bull neck, broad shoulders straining the fabric of his blue-plaid shirt, barrel chest. In the sun, his hair and beard glinted fiery russet.
The man moved around the front of his car on jean-clad legs as massive as the rest of him.
"Dia Norwell?" he asked, leaning down, the bulk of him filling the open window frame. His voice was low and husky and sounded vaguely like he'd just rolled out of bed. An image, red hair, white sheets, flashed in her mind and was gone, leaving a hot chill skittering along her spine.
Dia tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, skin steamy against her finger tip. It must be the humidity, the heaviness, the electrical build-up in the air.
She challenged the blank, gray-green lenses masking his eyes. "Who's asking?"
"Bay Russell. I'm Jerry's associate." She recognized the name. The lab guy. The lab guy who looked anything but the stereotypical, white-coated nerd.
"Where the hell is Jerry?"
The man's -- Bay's -- eyebrows, a shade darker than his hair, jumped above the rim of his sunglasses like twin woolly bears. "He didn't call you?"
"No," Dia snapped, "he didn't call me. Would you kindly care to enlighten me about what is going on?"
Bay sighed impatiently and ran a hand through his hair, leaving its wiry strands standing on end. "He fell over the cat last night and busted his ankle."
"The cat?" she asked, hoping to sound innocent, to trap this ... interloper in a lie.
"Yeah, the cat, Dena. He also tripped over Jerry Jr.'s basketball shoes." The man's beefy hand went through his hair again. "Do I pass the test, Lady?"
"I'd like to see some ID," Dia announced, feeling a telltale flush creeping up her face.
"Some ID? Look, Lady..."
"No, you look!" Dia exploded. "It's Dr. Norwell, and this is my project. Show me the ID."
Bay shook his head, his lip curling up in disgust. "I don't believe this," he muttered. He straightened and dug into his back pocket.
The gesture pulled his shirt taut over bulky shoulders. Dia felt an unexplained urge to test the breadth of them with her hands. A shimmery heat quivered inside her at the thought.
"Here, Lady."
Dia shook her head, trying to clear it. Prickly chagrin burned her face. The humidity must be getting to me, she told herself, focusing her attention on the driver's license the man extended between two, large fingers.
Swallowing, she pulled the laminated card from his hand. It was warm from his body and smelled like leather. She blinked and forced herself to examine the Oregon license.
Bayard Aiken Russell, it read, with a local address. Height: six foot, weight: two hundred pounds, hair: red, eyes: brown. She studied the mug-style photo. His hair and beard were shorter then, and one corner of his mouth tipped up in an almost-smile. His eyes glowed red from the camera's flash.
"Take off your sunglasses," she commanded, telling herself it was to verify the color, not to divest him of the shield between them.
"Judas Priest, Lady." Bay worked the hooked ear pieces carefully off one ear and then the other.
Dia stared into the deep-gold of his eyes, unprepared for their naked impact. For the way they seemed to look through her, inside her, to penetrate her soul. For the way they seemed to turn to liquid honey, warm and sweet, and flow in her veins.
"So do I pass muster, Lady?" His voice came from the outside somewhere.