"Crystal Skull" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacGregor Rob)

"What is it?"
"You're looking at it. It's a twin to this crystal skull."
He looked from Loften to the skull, then back again. "Why was the skull hidden? Who hid it?"
"All I can tell you right now is that I have reason to believe that a man named William Redington is also after it. He lives in Coral Gables."
Loften opened his desk drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. "I'd like you to watch him. I want to know where he goes, and who he sees."
He dropped the envelope onto the edge of the desk in front of Pierce. "There's enough to cover you for a week at three hundred fifty dollars a day -- the fee you mentioned."
"Are you hiring me, or is the museum?"
"Good question. Actually, I'm acting at the request of one of the museum's major contributors."
Pierce counted the money, then stuffed it into his coat pocket. "What else can you tell me about Redington?"
"He's a pro -- "
Loften stopped in midsentence as the door opened. He looked up, and his eyes widened. Pierce turned, glimpsed a man in dark clothes rushing toward him, a hand raised like a club, lips drawn away from his teeth. A jagged scar sliced across the man's jaw.
Pierce started to raise his arm to block the attack, but it was too late. The hand slammed down and something hard crashed against the side of his head. He slumped in his chair; the light in the room darkened. As he spiraled into the blackness, the crack of gunfire followed him down.


2
The street in front of the museum was jammed with cop cars and a crowd of onlookers as the body was wheeled out on a stretcher. A white sheet covered it, and only a pair of deck shoes with well-worn soles protruded from one end. He won't need a new pair, Pierce thought morbidly as the body was eased into the back of an ambulance.
"Okay, let's go over it one more time, Mr. Pierce."
He turned to the burly black man, who had been questioning him for the last half hour, and adjusted the ice pack at his temple. "My head's pounding. I hope we can make this fast."
The detective tapped his notebook. His bulk filled an extra large guayabera shirt -- the Latin American substitute for a coat and tie. His clothes were rumpled; he looked like he was coming off a twelve-hour shift. "I'm just double checking. You can leave in a couple of minutes."
Pierce's thumb ran nervously back and forth across the raised letters on a business card that read: lieutenant morris carver, homicide division, metro-dade police. He was about fifty, and his short-cropped hair was thinning on top. His eyes were large, deep-set, and almost black, much darker than his skin. Penetrating, skeptical eyes, Pierce thought.
"Okay, Loften called you about a job. You go in the office. He takes the skull out of the safe, and a couple of minutes later, the white guy with greased-back hair and a scar on his jaw bursts in, knocks you on the head, kills Loften, and takes the skull."
"Right."
"Good timing by the bad guy, don't you think?"
"Yeah, good timing."
Carver lowered his notebook and gave him an exasperated look. "Pierce, no offense, but you don't feel like a detective to me. If I saw you on the street, I'd say, 'That guy looks like a college prof masquerading as a used-car salesman.'"
Pierce looked down at his brown polyester slacks, at the lime-green sport jacket that was draped over his arm. He'd bought the outfit a couple of years ago when he was hired by a man who wanted him to look as much like a police detective as possible while inquiring about his missing daughter. He took off his glasses, slipped them in his shirt pocket, and loosened his tie another notch. "I'm dressed like a typical detective."
A furrow formed on the burly detective's forehead. He turned and scanned the lawn. "Hey, Neil," he barked. "Come over here a minute."
A man with reddish-blond hair and an athletic build, who'd been standing a few yards away talking to the security guard, raised his head and ambled over. He wore a stylish sport jacket -- an Italian design, or a credible knock-off of one. To Pierce, he looked like a Hollywood actor playing a slick detective.
"Mr. Pierce here seems to have some stereotypes about how cops dress. I just wanted him to know that all of us aren't slobs."
The man grinned, extended a hand. "I'm Neil Bellinger, Mo's partner. How you feeling?" The man's features were boyish. His skin was fair and lightly freckled. His blow-dried hair was photo material for the window of a hairstylist. Spray held every strand in place. He pumped Pierce's hand and leaned forward. "Don't let him get to you." His soft voice was a comforting purr. "You're a P.I., but I gather you're not an ex-cop."
"Ex-travel agent."
"Really." He nodded, considering the career change. "I suppose anything's possible."
Pierce's head throbbed, and the ice in the compress was melting like ice cream on the beach. "Are we through? I'd like to go home now if you guys don't mind."
"Don't blame you." Bellinger glanced at Carver. "Let's go, Mo. Let the man escape this heat and get some rest."
He turned away, but Carver remained a moment. "You want a ride?"
Pierce shook his head. "I've got my car around the corner."
Carver took a step closer. His dark eyes bore in on him as a trickle of water ran down Pierce's neck. "You know, I've been a detective now for twenty-two years. I've learned that you sense things about a person as much as you pay attention to what he actually says."
"I suppose so."
"What I sense about you, Pierce, is that you're hiding something."
"I don't know what else to tell you."
Carver stepped back, regarded him a moment longer. His barrel chest heaved as he sighed and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "You better hope that this Redington has some answers."
Pierce watched the detective walk away. He dropped Carver's card in his shirt pocket and slung his coat over his shoulder. He felt the bulge of the cash-stuffed envelope that was in the inside pocket of the coat. Carver was right about him; the cop had savvy.
He lifted the compress from his head, tightened the fabric around it, squeezed out the excess water. He put it back into place and slipped under the yellow crime-scene ribbon. Most of the crowd and police cars had dispersed.
The Bible thumper and Hare Krishnas were nowhere in sight as he reached Twenty-first and Collins. They'd been replaced by a pair of Moonies hawking roses at the stoplight. Two hookers -- one white, one black -- eyed him as he neared his car. "Need some directions, sorehead?" one of them called out as he passed. "I'm a tourist guide."
"What time you got?" the other one asked.
Pierce kept walking. "Time to get high," a man's voice hissed from a doorway. "Crack, Jack?"
He glanced at a pair of red pants and kept walking. Fucked-up people. Fucked-up day. He spotted a decorative addition to the window of his eight-year-old Saab. He snapped the parking ticket from under the windshield wiper, and patted the fender with his free hand. "Nice going, Swedie."
He drove the dozen blocks to his apartment holding the towel and ice with one hand to his head. As usual, all the parking spaces on the street in front of the apartment building were taken. He slowly circled the block, watching for an opening between the line of cars. He thought he found one, but as he pulled even with it saw a motorcycle filling half the space.
"Shit." He drove ahead as water seeped over his chest. Disgusted, he flung the sopping towel to the floor, then slammed on his brakes as a car pulled out from the curb. He immediately claimed the spot.
The building was a flashy Art Deco prize with racing stripes stretching around its curved corners, porthole windows, and a checkerboard front. He climbed the steps to his second-floor apartment. Inside, the place was less than a prize. The pipes rattled. The electrical system was archaic. His one-bedroom abode had a living room, a tiny dining area, and a standing-room-only kitchen so small that the refrigerator door hit the counter on the opposite wall if it was opened too far. As he entered the apartment, the late afternoon sunshine filtered through the two porthole windows that looked out onto palm trees at the side of the building. Between the portholes was a wall of photos displayed in plastic box frames. Some were of foreign destinations Pierce had visited over the years, others were studies of Miami Beach's Art Deco facade. At the moment, all of them shone with dust.