"Rain, Anthony Vincent - Three Palms" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rain Anthony Vincent)

She took off her sunglasses and looked me in the eye. "Don't get the wrong idea. Odyssey isn't just a money machine to me, Mr. Caruso. He has a wonderful heart. You know how some animals seem possessed of a special spirit, an almost humanlike soul? That was Odyssey."

"How was Odyssey stolen?"

Newport made a face. "Fact is, we don't really have security here at Melbourne Park, or at least we didn't. Whoever took Odyssey either studied the park and realized this, or he was naive enough to think he could just walk up and take a dog. Which, as it turns out, is what he did.

"We have a dog walker who feeds the dogs, exercises them, brushes them. You get the picture. Well, she took several of the dogs out for exercise and left some of the others in their pen. Someone just walked up, put Odyssey on a leash and walked him out the back way. I don't think the person necessarily knew my dogs and their records. Dante was left behind and his record is better than Odyssey's."

"Did you ever contact Donny Jackson directly?"

"No, I figured I'd let the authorities handle that. I had no direct proof."

"Odyssey is a valuable dog. You weren't even a little bit curious, or maybe even angry that this man may have taken your valuable property?"

"No. I only had Thomas's theory to go by. What are you getting at?"

"If I were you, I might go talk to Jackson, or hire someone to go talk to him. Maybe lean on him a little bit. Shake him up and see what falls loose."

"That's the way you operate, not me. And I'll cut to the chase. I had nothing to do with his murder. I want my dog back, but I wouldn't kill over it."

She put her sunglasses back on. "I have a race to get ready for. I put reward posters up. That's how I'm dealing with it. Help yourself to one, if you want."

I thanked her for her time and walked away. I watched where I stepped.

The information operator gave me an address for The Chatterbox that turned out to be only five minutes down from the racetrack. I thought the woman who cut Jackson's hair might be worth talking to.

The Chatterbox was located in a new wide-open shopping complex. All the storefronts were made of candy-pink stucco, the metal trim gleaming and the glass fronts smoked. A digitized billboard advertised a sale on wetsuits at Ron Jon's Surf Shop. The hair salon was on the far-left corner.

Inside, it was cool and split into two levels. The floors were covered with thick lime carpeting and there were lots of hanging plants, potted palms and birds of paradise. The walls had large mirrors fastened to them and I could see myself from various angles.

Most of the clients were old ladies with white hair going in and blue hair going out. A chemical odor intermixed with the smell of plastic and shampoo.

I asked the salon manager, Donna Lee according to her nametag, where I could find Karen.

"That would be her over there," said Donna Lee. She pointed to the second level, where a woman in her late twenties perched in a cutting chair with a glossy up to her nose.

"I need to take your name."

"I'm not here for a haircut," I said.

Donna Lee smiled blandly at me and let me by.

"Excuse me, Karen?" I asked as I approached her workstation. Other than the usual hair stuff, it was dominated by a photo of Karen with a yellow Mustang, splotched with patches of white where the salt had eaten the paint. A few thousand dollars would have done wonders for the car, but I didn't suppose most hairstylists had that kind of extra money lying around.

She lowered her magazine and half glanced at my hair. "Uh-huh. You here for a cut? You have to give your name to the manager. She'll call you when I'm ready."

"No, I want to talk to you. I'm a private detective. Got a minute?" I showed her my license.

The magazine sank to her lap.