"Reichs, Kathy - Temperance Brennan 01 - Deja Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichs Kathy)

decomposed bodies, or corpses freshly dragged from the river. Ideas come
easily to me, enacting them comes harder. I usually let things go.
Perhaps it's an escape hatch, my way of allowing myself to double back
and ease out the side door on a lot of my schemes. Irresolute about my
social life, obsessive in my work.

I knew he was standing there before the knock. Though he moved quietly
for a man of his bulk, the smell of old pipe tobacco gave him away.
Pierre Lamanche had been director of the Laboratoire de M6decine Ugale
for almost two decades. His visits to my office were never social, and I
suspected that his news wouldn't be good. Lamanche tapped the door
softly with his knuckles.

"Temperance?" It rhymed with France. He would not use the shortened
version. Perhaps to his ear it just didn't translate. Perhaps he'd had a
bad experience in Arizona. He, alone, did not call me Tempe.

"Oui?" After months, it was automatic. I had arrived in Montreal
thinking myself fluent in French, but I hadn't counted on Le Franfals
Quibecols. I was learning, but slowly.

"I have just had a call." He glanced at a pink telephone slip he was
holding. Everything about his face was vertical, the lines and folds
moving from high to low, paralleling the long, straight nose and ears.
The plan was pure basset hound. It was a face that had probably looked
old in youth, its arrangement only deepening with time. I couldn't have
guessed his age.

"Two Hydro-Quebec workers found some bones today." He studied my face,
which was not happy. His eyes returned to the pink paper.

"They are close to the site where the historic burials were found last
summer," he said in his proper, formal French. I'd never heard him use a
contraction. No slang or police jargon. "You were there. It is probably
more of the same. I need someone to go out there to confirm that this is
not a coroner case." When he glanced up from the paper, the change in
angle caused the furrows and creases to deepen, sucking in the afternoon
light, as a black hole draws in matter. He made an attempt at a gaunt
smile and four crevices veered north.

"You think it's archaeological?" I was stalling. A scene search had not
been in my pre-weekend plans. To leave the next day I still had to pick
up the dry cleaning, do the laundry, stop at the pharmacy, pack, put oil
in the car, and explain cat care to Winston, the caretaker at my
building. He nodded.

"Okay." It was not okay. He handed me the slip. "Do you want a squad car
to take you there?" I looked at him, trying hard for baleful. "No, I
drove in today." I read the address. It was close to home. "I'll find
it." He left as silently as he'd come. Pierre Lamanche favored