"Lipinski, Thomas - Home Office" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lipinski Thomas)

HOME OFFiCE
By Thomas Lipinski

Six counties to the northeast from home, deep into the forests of Pennsylvania's Northern Tier, Dorsey rested against a tree trunk, his arthritic knee aching, a three mile hike already under his belt. A weatherproof backpack containing several film cassettes, water bottles, and sliced turkey remains from a recent Thanksgiving dinner sat at his feet in a fresh two-inch coat of snow. Good news for the first day of deer season, Dorsey thought. Tough break for the deer.

Dorsey hefted an older video camera to his shoulder and decided to concentrate on his job and let the deer deal with their own problems. He sighted the camera down a hillside, working to find an unencumbered view of a trailer home anchored along a creek that ran the gully floor. Satisfied that no tree or branch blocked the lense, he swept the area, taking in the trailer, the dirt road that led up to it, and the mud-splattered pick-up truck parked a discrete fifty yards away. In the cab, on the passenger side, was a man dressed in orange hunter's overalls smoking a cigarette. The truck bed held duffle bags and two oblong weathered rifle cases.

The door of the trailer swung open and Dorsey taped another man dressed in orange jogging over to the truck. Framed in the trailer door way was a dark-haired woman, early forties, dressed in a robe, working a cigarette out of its pack. The scene was frozen for a moment -- Dorsey figured it for indecision on the second hunter's part -- and then the pick-up's passenger door opened and he slowly made his way across the mud and snow. The woman smiled, held the screen door open for him, and then they were inside.

Lowering the camera from his shoulder, Dorsey fished in the pocket of his down vest for a miniature tape recorder. Fingering the controls, he spoke into the recessed mike, recording the date and time to match the stamp on the videotape, a description of the activity, the pick-up, and its license plate number.

"This'll never work," he muttered once the recorder was turned off. "Utter bullshit."

*************

"How do you think bullshit like this gets started?"

A week earlier, Dorsey had been in the claims office of Blackwell Insurance, across the desk from a claims manager named Corso.

" Let me tell you how," Corso went on, speaking loudly enough to send several underlings running for cover. "It starts with some guy in home office who gets a bug up his ass about something. He's a young guy, but he's been pushed up the ladder 'cause someone said he was a genius, but he's a genius with no experience. Which means he's a genius with no sense. So, the genius calls one of my young adjusters, a big suck-up for sure, and they cook up this headache for me. And now I'm hiring you to make my headache go away."

"C'mon," Dorsey said, "nobody, not to my knowledge anyway, has tried this before." Paging through the copied file material he had been given, Dorsey listened to the reluctant tone in his voice and knew it to be hollow. Blackwell Insurance was the cash cow he fed from. Eighty per cent of his business came from them. He knew he'd do as they asked.

Corso settled deeper into chair. A small man, he seemed ready to rest his chin on the edge of his desk.

"I'll explain it like it was explained to me. It's like the law says: a guy gets himself killed at work, his wife gets her weekly compensation check for the rest of her life. But there are a few conditions. She can't remarry, she can't live with her new guy if she finds one, and she can't enter into the life of prostitution."

"I know the law," Dorsey said. "You want me to prove she's a whore so you can cut off her check."

"Personally, I don't want you to touch this thing." Corso wagged his chin at the idea. "It's a mess from beginning to end. But my young genius was in here reviewing claims a few months ago. And he's an outdoors kind of guy, loves to hunt, right around where our lady lives. And he's heard some stories about the single women up there. How the hunters come in from all over. Some of them never get a deer. But they get to bag something for all their trouble."

****************

A snow flurry kicked up and Dorsey pulled his watch cap further down over his ears, the lobes already a shining red. The video camera was resting on the backpack, the trailer and its approach now quiet. Over the tree hours that Dorsey had been in position, he had taped four visitors, two in pick-ups and two in late-model SUV's.

All had been dressed in reflective orange, state issued licenses flapping from the rear of their hats or collars. Dorsey wondered how much of that thermal wear had to be gotten through before the trailer hostess could get down to business. He checked his watch, figured on staying another forty minutes and allowing enough daylight to get back to his car, when he heard branches and twigs snap and sway behind him.

"Most deer won't fall down and die unless you shoot them. Gotta have a rifle to do that."

Dorsey turned to the voice. Six feet even, but with those big shoulders that have you thinking that you're dealing with a much larger man. The uniform was khaki and the winter jacket was green with sheriff's deputy patches on the sleeves. "Care to tell me what you're doing?"

Dorsey had a few moments of foolishness, searching for a story that would never hold water, and then came back to his senses, recalling the laws against misrepresentations. After asking permission, he went to his back pocket for his wallet and identification as a private investigator. The deputy looked over the laminated card, Dorsey and his belongings, and then shot a glance down at the trailer.

"Gather up your things." The deputy returned Dorsey's wallet. "We'll take a walk." The deputy started down the hillside.

"My car is the other way," Dorsey told him, slipping the backpack over his shoulders. The camera was across his chest on a strap, slung bandoleer-style.

"I know that. You still have to come with me."

Dorsey fell into step behind him, the weight of a lost license, or worse, hanging over him. The hillside grew steeper near the bottom and although the deputy had little trouble, Dorsey found himself digging for footholds and snatching at tree branches for support. Once they reached level ground, the deputy went to the trailer, knocked once at the door, then let himself in. He gestured for Dorsey to follow.