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

The following morning I borrowed KJ's laptop and found the Brevard County Sheriff's web page. I didn't find what I was looking for on the sheriff's site, so I tried the Melbourne Police Department website next.

And there it was: Criminal History Requests.

A CHR allows virtually anyone with a credit card to discover prior criminal activity on anyone else. It was primarily meant for employers who wanted to screen new employees, but it does have its other uses.

Both yesterday's and today's local paper had run articles on the murder. Neither one had revealed Jackson's name, and my guess was the police were still trying to find a next of kin. They did toss the reporters one tidbit. They said that the victim appeared to have stolen merchandise in his car trunk. I guessed Jackson hadn't just started stealing.

I typed in Jackson's name, his date of birth and address, which I remembered from his driver's license. A social security number would have streamlined things, but I didn't have it.

I put in my credit card numbers and drank coffee while I waited. Within a short period of time, the CHR registered a hit.

Jackson had been arrested a year ago for robbing a sporting goods store in Routledge. He had also been arrested for assault at the Melbourne Greyhound Park just a few weeks ago.

The rest of the information provided further details, including location and time of arrest, as well as demographics on Jackson, such as physical description and his occupation, which was lawn maintenance. Maybe he had been killed by an irate customer who'd found a patch of crabgrass.

I shut down the laptop, grabbed my car keys and my shades. I went through my bag and took out my Ed Brown .45-caliber and holster, which I'd told the lieutenant I didn't have with me. C'est la vie.

By now, the police would have gone through Jackson's apartment, but I thought I'd have a look for myself anyway. You never know.

I went out to my Lexus, locked my gun into the glove compartment and checked the map for Titusville. There comes a point early in a case where doors either open or close. If they open, you have to move fast. Jackson's priors were an opening.

Jackson lived in a middle-income cul de sac next to a run-down golf course. The ponds on the course were drying up and the grass was tall. I had to practically drive across one of the holes just to get to the apartments. I kept my eyes peeled for flying golf balls.

I pulled into the complex and parked by a dumpster two doors down from Jackson. He lived on the first floor of a yellow two-level unit, a weather-beaten wood stairwell connecting the levels. Another ground floor apartment was attached on the left.

I rang the bell and looked in the front window. I would give it a few seconds, making sure no one was around, before taking out my latex gloves and pick case.

The apartment to the left suddenly opened up.

A woman in her sixties came halfway out. She was about five three and wore square brown eyeglasses. Her hair was short and intensely gold, as though someone had dyed it with melted bullion. I could hear opera music playing inside her apartment.

"Hello," I said. I took off my shades.

"Are you a friend of Donny's?"

"No. I'm a private detective." I showed her my license. "In case you're not aware, I have some bad news. Your neighbor was murdered the day before last."

She fingered a crucifix around her neck. "Oh, I know. The police were here. It's just too terrible to think about. Were you hired by someone in his family?"

"No. I represent other interests."

"Oh."

I glanced past her at the space her halfway closed door made. I tried to be discreet, but she must have noticed. She let it close all the way.

"Why were you knocking on his door?" she asked.

"I thought he might have lived with someone."