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

"They said all sorts of senseless things. They questioned KJ all night. They made me sit in the hallway. Wouldn't let me talk to him. They kept my son in a small room seven hours straight. No water, no bathroom break."

"You got a lawyer, right?"

The clerk raised his voice. "The police said 'oh, you don't need a lawyer. We're just asking questions'. Screw them. I argued with the desk sergeant, and he finally called for a public defender. And he took a long time getting to the police station. The lawyer says that the police are building their case for murder. The lawyer thinks the DA will offer a deal. Who wants a deal? My son is innocent."

The sun had inched up higher on the lawn in front of us. I could almost hear the grass sizzle.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Do you want to check out?"

I was in no rush to face Mack, or New York just yet. Still, this wasn't what I'd had in mind.

I could have moved to the Hilton further up the road. I had ideas of lounging by an Olympic-sized pool drinking frozen margaritas, getting a killer tan. I'd have to cover the expenses that Mack wouldn't, but I was thinking some good should come out of all this.

"I'm going to stay in the area a little longer," I said. "But listen, you need to find yourself an experienced trial lawyer. Cops are generally good people, but they're human. If your son looks good as the killer, they'll be inclined to get this case off their desk. I've seen it happen before. You'll want someone who can go toe to toe."

"How do you know so much about this?"

"I'm a private investigator."

"You're a private investigator?" His eyes got big. "Maybe you can help us?"

"I don't see how."

"You're like a cop. The police'll talk to you. Maybe they'll even listen to you."

"They won't talk to me. And listen to me? They'll tell me to stick it where the sun don't shine. And in this state, that's saying something."

He took a step towards me. "Please."

* * *

The living room was messy. Clothes were draped over furniture and shoes kicked under chairs. Tools were lying on a dusty coffee table.

I felt at home.

The motel clerk turned out to be the owner/manager. His name was Sunil Singh and he had owned the Three Palms for ten years. His wife had died, and he was raising his son KJ on his own. They lived in cramped quarters in several combined rooms at the motel.

A floral print sofa was against one wall with a love seat across from it. I sat on the love seat, Sunil and KJ opposite on the sofa. We were staring at each other like a bunch of zoo monkeys.

KJ sat on the sofa, arms crossed over a Quicksilver T-shirt. He was a slight young man with a thoughtful face behind silver-framed glasses. He tapped his right foot beach slide on his knee.

Sunil had set out two Millers, a Coke and three plastic glasses. I ignored the glasses and drank a Miller from one of the bottles.

"You lie to me, or I even think you're lying to me, I walk," I said.

Sunil looked sternly at his son. KJ looked at the floor.

"Tell me what happened last night."