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

The man had three bullet wounds to his back. The shots were placed in a tight pattern. I felt under the jaw, not expecting to find a pulse. I didn't.

His eyes were focused on the gravel-covered ground. Whatever he was seeing, it wasn't of this world.

The trunk of the car was up. In it were boxes of computer hardware. Blood spatters were on the boxes and the car. Near the front passenger side, money was scattered in the gravel and grass.

I looked in the windows. A take-out bag on the front seat was open, as though he hadn't been able to wait till he got home. A bag of dog food was on the back seat.

The parking lot driveway led out onto Babylon Lane, which ran perpendicular to A1A on the right. A series of lazy-looking ranch houses, scattered like driftwood, ran its length further up.

I looked both ways, but saw only pine trees and a few lights from the houses. The dunes fronting the beach were dark and vague.

I walked ten feet beyond the dead man, running my eyes over the ground in a semi-circular pattern. I caught the faint glint of a bullet casing. I bent down and nudged it with my fingernail to get a better look.

It was a steel casing for a 9mm.

The desk clerk came running into the lot.

"I called the police," he said. "Is he breathing?" He bent over the body, a pair of reading glasses dangling from his neck.

"He's dead," I replied, heading back.

"Did you see what happened?"

"No. Is he a guest?"

The clerk put his glasses on. The slackness in his face grew rigid. "No. No, never seen him before."

I put the back of my wrist against the car hood. "Well, he's been here for some time. His car engine is cool. At least, I assume this is his car."

"What should we do?" he asked.

"Well, you called the cops already. Go check on your other guests."

He nodded and trotted off.

I didn't really think he'd need to do anything for his other guests. I just wanted to be alone. As a law enforcement operative, I knew that I shouldn't disturb the crime scene. Nonetheless, I fumbled around in my pocket and pulled out a tissue. Then I pried the man's wallet from his back pocket.

I brought the wallet over to an arc lamp which lit up several garbage cans and a flock of mosquitoes. The deceased had a Florida driver's license. His name was Donny Jackson, and he was born April 11, 1972. He lived in Titusville, Florida. The photo showed a man with unkempt sandy hair and close set blue eyes. The mouth was loose, the chin sharp. The overall expression was amusement.

Nothing to be amused about anymore, Donny Jackson.

His billfold held thirty dollars cash. An ATM card, a Blockbuster membership card and an old Powerball ticket rounded out the contents.

I heard a police siren closing in. I closed the wallet and put it back.

A patrol car from the Brevard County Sheriff's Office pulled in about ten seconds later. From that point on, everything got very busy, very quickly. An ambulance pulled up, as well as units from the Melbourne Police. The crime scene was cordoned off with yellow tape. The ME van arrived along with forensics and more sheriff's cars.

The motel guests were being questioned in the front lobby. We formed a motley crew of tired, disheveled people.