"park_9781436290630_oeb_c37_r1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robert B Parker- [Spenser 36] - Rough Weather)
RoughWeather
37
While I was examining the well-dressed young women passing below me on Berkeley Street, the phone rang. Still looking out my window, I picked it up and said “Hello.”
“I’m in Franklin Park,” Quirk said to me on the phone. “Near White Stadium. You might want to drop by.”
“Okay,” I said, and hung up.
It was a very nice fall day, more October than November, and a lot of the people walking by were coatless. I watched one especially attractive woman walk across Boylston Street and into Louis’s before I put on a leather jacket to cover my gun, and went downstairs to get my car.
It was easy to find Quirk. I could have probably located him from an orbiting spacecraft. There were half a dozen cruisers, some with the lights still rotating, at least two unmarked police cars, an ambulance, the coroner’s truck, yellow tape, flashbulbs, an amplitude of gawkers, and a couple of television news trucks at the edge of the scene. A uniformed cop stopped me after I parked behind one of the TV trucks and got out.
“Crime scene, bud,” he said. “Got business here?”
“Quirk asked me to come by,” I said.
The cop nodded and turned and yelled.
“Captain?”
Quirk looked over, saw me, nodded his head, and gestured me toward him. The patrolman who had stopped me grinned, and gestured me in with a big sweep while he pretended to lift a velvet rope.
“Right this way, sir.”
I walked over to Quirk, who was standing with a detective I didn’t know, looking down at a body covered with a tarp.
“Know anybody named Leonard Rezendes?” Quirk said.
“Know a Leonard works for Tony Marcus,” I said. “Don’t think I ever knew his last name.”
Quirk nodded.
“He’s had several. But Rezendes is what’s on his driver’s license.”
Quirk bent down and turned back the tarp. It was hard to be sure because his head had been shot up pretty good, but it seemed to be the Leonard I knew.
“They wouldn’t give a name, and there was no one here when we arrived,” Quirk said. “I got a guy canvassing the crowd.”
“Doesn’t appear to be accidental,” I said.
“Wow!” said Quirk.
“I’m a detective,” I said. “It comes pretty easy.”
“At least four rounds to the head,” Quirk said. “Probably forties. We found four shell casings.”
“So he was done here.”
“Unless they brought the casings and threw them around to fool us,” Quirk said.
“Boy, you must be a detective, too,” I said.
“And a captain,” Quirk said. “Lot of blood on the ground.”
“Hard to fake that,” I said.
“Yeah,” Quirk said, and grinned. “We assume he was killed here.”
“See?” I said.
“Leonard was Rugar’s connection to Tony,” Quirk said.
“Yes.”
“You think it got him killed?”
“Something did,” I said.
“His wallet’s still in his pants,” Quirk said. “Seven hundred dollars. His Rolex is still there; somebody told me it was worth about twenty thousand dollars.”
“For a watch?” I said.
Quirk shrugged.
“Wasn’t a robbery,” Quirk said.
“Four in the back of the head,” I said. “Sounds like an execution.”
“Any other thoughts?” Quirk said. “You being a detective and all.”
“Rugar killed him to break his connection to the attempt on me,” I said. “Or maybe Leonard did it without Tony, and it’s Tony’s way of explaining to him how wrong that was.”
“And breaking the connection to him,” Quirk said, “in the process.”
“True,” I said.
“It’s still all speculation,” Quirk said.
“At least,” I said, “we’re starting to have things to speculate about.”
“Which is what we do,” Quirk said.
“Until we know something,” I said.
“Which we will,” Quirk said.
RoughWeather
37
While I was examining the well-dressed young women passing below me on Berkeley Street, the phone rang. Still looking out my window, I picked it up and said “Hello.”
“I’m in Franklin Park,” Quirk said to me on the phone. “Near White Stadium. You might want to drop by.”
“Okay,” I said, and hung up.
It was a very nice fall day, more October than November, and a lot of the people walking by were coatless. I watched one especially attractive woman walk across Boylston Street and into Louis’s before I put on a leather jacket to cover my gun, and went downstairs to get my car.
It was easy to find Quirk. I could have probably located him from an orbiting spacecraft. There were half a dozen cruisers, some with the lights still rotating, at least two unmarked police cars, an ambulance, the coroner’s truck, yellow tape, flashbulbs, an amplitude of gawkers, and a couple of television news trucks at the edge of the scene. A uniformed cop stopped me after I parked behind one of the TV trucks and got out.
“Crime scene, bud,” he said. “Got business here?”
“Quirk asked me to come by,” I said.
The cop nodded and turned and yelled.
“Captain?”
Quirk looked over, saw me, nodded his head, and gestured me toward him. The patrolman who had stopped me grinned, and gestured me in with a big sweep while he pretended to lift a velvet rope.
“Right this way, sir.”
I walked over to Quirk, who was standing with a detective I didn’t know, looking down at a body covered with a tarp.
“Know anybody named Leonard Rezendes?” Quirk said.
“Know a Leonard works for Tony Marcus,” I said. “Don’t think I ever knew his last name.”
Quirk nodded.
“He’s had several. But Rezendes is what’s on his driver’s license.”
Quirk bent down and turned back the tarp. It was hard to be sure because his head had been shot up pretty good, but it seemed to be the Leonard I knew.
“They wouldn’t give a name, and there was no one here when we arrived,” Quirk said. “I got a guy canvassing the crowd.”
“Doesn’t appear to be accidental,” I said.
“Wow!” said Quirk.
“I’m a detective,” I said. “It comes pretty easy.”
“At least four rounds to the head,” Quirk said. “Probably forties. We found four shell casings.”
“So he was done here.”
“Unless they brought the casings and threw them around to fool us,” Quirk said.
“Boy, you must be a detective, too,” I said.
“And a captain,” Quirk said. “Lot of blood on the ground.”
“Hard to fake that,” I said.
“Yeah,” Quirk said, and grinned. “We assume he was killed here.”
“See?” I said.
“Leonard was Rugar’s connection to Tony,” Quirk said.
“Yes.”
“You think it got him killed?”
“Something did,” I said.
“His wallet’s still in his pants,” Quirk said. “Seven hundred dollars. His Rolex is still there; somebody told me it was worth about twenty thousand dollars.”
“For a watch?” I said.
Quirk shrugged.
“Wasn’t a robbery,” Quirk said.
“Four in the back of the head,” I said. “Sounds like an execution.”
“Any other thoughts?” Quirk said. “You being a detective and all.”
“Rugar killed him to break his connection to the attempt on me,” I said. “Or maybe Leonard did it without Tony, and it’s Tony’s way of explaining to him how wrong that was.”
“And breaking the connection to him,” Quirk said, “in the process.”
“True,” I said.
“It’s still all speculation,” Quirk said.
“At least,” I said, “we’re starting to have things to speculate about.”