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

His thick fingers rubbed at a yellow stain he was trying to wipe out of his tan sport coat. "So take me through it once more, Miles."

"Harry. You're not going to hear it any different. I'm not trying to get anything past you."

"Smart man. But let me hear it again," he sighed.

I repeated the facts of the case.

"So you never actually spoke to the stiff?"

"Never. And there was no need to bring me in here cuffed."

"The sergeant was doing his job. He didn't know the extent of your involvement."

A voice in the corner boomed at me. "You have to admit Beckett that things seem too close together. You're asking around for the guy one day and he gets popped the next." Pappas' partner, Jorge Garcia moved from his leaning perch near the two-way and stood next to the table. He was chunkier than Pappas, and I could see under his expansive belly that he had made new holes in his belt. His tight tie looked like a garrote around his thick neck. "I think maybe you found him so your client could pop him."

"I'm having the same thoughts. Only she didn't let me in on the plan." I turned to Pappas. "Are you charging me with accessory? If not, I'm going home."

There was a knock on the two-way. Both detectives got up and left, closing the door behind them. The started drinking the coffee that Pappas had given me when we first arrived. I abruptly stopped when the bitter taste nearly choked me. Its amazing the shit that cops will drink. After ten minutes, during which time I went over in my head the means for tracking Mary Johnson down, which bottom lined at zilch, the detectives came back in and left the door open.

"I want you to take a look at some mug shots. Then I want you to give a description of the woman to our artist." The expression on their faces had changed.

"What did the Lieutenant call you inside for?"

"Its private police information."

"We're on the same page here, Pappas. She played me and I want her as much as you do. You got a line on something?"

Pappas looked at Garcia, who looked away. Then he looked at me. "The stiff's real name was Tommy Phillipi. We ran his prints in the database and his name came up tagged to the Organized Crime Investigation Division. OCID has him listed as a shooter for garbage in Nevada, a Johnny DeStefano."

"He's a long way from home."

"Maybe he was working on a long-distance project for DeStefano. Or he was loaned out. Maybe your client is hired muscle mixed up with a gang war."

I spent the next half-hour looking at several pages of female mug shots. The faces looking back at me were a combination of scared, defiant or placid. Many looked spaced out on drugs. The ones that showed no emotion scared me the most. None of them was Mary Johnson.

My next stop was the forensic artist. I sat down next to him at a computer console and using a blank template and then pulling up screens of various facial parts, he compiled them together until he had a near-likeness of my client. He manually filled in the nuances of her face. It was nearly dead-on accurate. He printed it out and gave me a copy.

Pappas warned me to be a good boy and to stay in touch. I promised him I would, but I'm a damn good liar.

Back out on the street, I put on my leather coat and put my returned cell phone back in my pocket. I felt something in there and pulled out a book of matches. I remembered Mary had left them at the bar and I had picked them up. The cover read "Hotel Earl, West Fourth Street." I wrapped them in tissue and put them back. I would give them to Pappas to check for prints later, right now I was pressed for time. I hailed a cab downtown for what I hoped would be a rendezvous with Ms. Johnson, or whoever the fuck she really was.

The Hotel Earl was a small, seven-story structure of dark brown brick nestled between apartment houses down the block from NYU. The drizzle had started up again and made the building look even darker. The lobby was small, not too clean and moderately lit, and it smelled of take-out. A desk clerk was behind the counter. He looked young, with frosted hair and a camouflage tee shirt and a pierced eyebrow. I made him for an NYU student.

I put my copy of the sketch of Mary Johnson on the counter and slapped a twenty next to it.

"I'm looking for this woman and I believe she was staying here as recently as this morning."

The young man pocketed the cash and then picked up the sketch. "It looks like 6C." He turned to his computer and punched some keys. "Joanna Carlson. She checked out this morning before eight o'clock."