"Rain, Anthony Vincent - The Dangerous Type" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rain Anthony Vincent)

"I'm staying with some friends in Queens. They have two little children and I don't want to disturb them with phone calls and messages. I'll be in touch with you."

I gave her my cell number.

"I have to ask you one last thing," she said. "Please do not approach him. I'm afraid he will run away again. He's such a hot head. I want to be the first one to talk to him."

"You're the boss," I said.

The next day, I used some sources in the Mayor's Office to obtain a list of permits granted for construction projects in Manhattan. Over the next two days, I did footwork. I started downtown near the ferries, showing Tommy's photo at various construction sites. On the second day, a construction worker operating a mixer on Duane Street told me Tommy looked like a guy doing carpentry renovation on a project on the Lower East Side. He didn't know exactly where.

"I worked with him on a building in Midtown. He told me he was headed over there to work on a brownstone. He wasn't union, but he did good work."

"You're sure it's the same guy?" He took the photo again in large hands covered with gray cement powder.

"Yeah, that's him."

There were several ongoing renovation and construction projects on turn-of-the-century brownstones in the East Village, and they all centered around Tompkins Square Park. As it happened, I lived on the north side of the park. The whole neighborhood had been cleaned up in the late 1990's and was fast becoming an 'in place' to live. When I first moved in fifteen years ago, the junkies were everywhere.

I knew that the Ukrainian restaurants on Avenue A were popular for serving great food at cheap prices, and that practically everyone went there. I frequented them regularly myself.

I showed Tommy's photo to Eugene, the counter man at Odessa's.

"Yeah, sure. He comes in for breakfast occasionally."

"Was he in today?"

"No, not today. You can talk to him probably tomorrow. Tomorrow kielbasa is our breakfast special. I remember he liked them. Everyone likes them."

I contemplated checking the construction sites nearby on my list, but this seemed like a solid lead. Since it was late afternoon already, and I was close to home, I packed it in for the day.

Later that night, Mary called me on my cell when I was at home going through The New York Times.

"Mr. Beckett, its Mary. Did you find out anything?"

"I've located the restaurant where your brother eats breakfast. It's in the East Village on Avenue A and 7th Street. I can stake it out tomorrow, if you want."

"No. I'll go myself early tomorrow morning. Thank you so much, Mr. Beckett." Her voice sounded brittle over the phone. I figured it was the pressure of seeing her brother after an unpleasant breakup.

up. I got out of bed and stepped outside to see where the white and blue Crown Victoria cruisers were headed. It had drizzled overnight, and the streets were slick and shiny. I saw flashing lights accumulating on Avenue A.

Putting on some clothes quickly, I jogged over and my stomach knotted when I realized the center of attention was Odessa's. I knew one of the cops by the door and he let me pass, more from the commotion than anything. At the counter sat a man in work clothes and work boots, with his head down in a plate of kielbasa and eggs. I walked around him and saw a neat bullet hole in the back of his head, just under his left ear. Blood flowed from the wound down his neck and onto his plaid shirt collar, staining it a dark red. Blood also ran from his left ear. I looked at the face and recognized the man whose photo I had been showing around town the past two days.

waiter who had been present the day before, when I had spoken to Eugene, recognized me. I had obviously been the topic of his conversation to two patrols in the process of interviewing him.

"That's him," he blurted out. The sergeant grabbed me and shoved me down on a table and I felt the air rush out of my lungs. Cuffs were fastened around my wrists. When the sergeant pulled me back up, I saw Eugene shaking his head behind the counter.

The interrogation room at the Fifth Precinct is like most of the other precincts. It's a squat, square room with no windows, stuffy and smelling of stale coffee and the nervous sweat of suspects. It was painted puke green. A single beaten up table sat in the middle of the room, and someone had carved "suck me" into the top. A two-way mirror against the far wall gave whoever was behind it a good look at the whole room.

I knew one of the cops questioning me. Harry Pappas was middle-aged and looking to early retirement. He carried the weariness of his entire homicide career on his shoulders and in his face muscles.