"Robb, J D - In Death 08 - Midnight In Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robb J D)

[version 1.1 - March 2, 2002 - Converted to .rtf, fixed formatting, read
in detail and corrected typos.]
MIDNIGHT IN DEATH
J. D. RobbCopyright (c) 1998
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[Blurb]
A Christmas to Remember...
The strong, dreamy scent of pine made Eve shake her head. Roarke had gone
wild for tradition on this, their first Christmas together. Who knew what he had
paid for the live trees he'd placed throughout the house. And this one, the one
that stood by the window in their bedroom, he'd insisted they decorate
together...
"Tree lights on," she ordered, and smiled a little as she watched them
blink and flash.
She was sitting on the arm of the sofa taking off her boots when Roarke
came in... She angled her head and studied him as he stood just inside the
doorway. She let her second boot drop and stood up slowly. "Come here."
Recognizing the glint in her eyes, he felt the light tingle of lust begin
to move through his blood. "There?"
"You heard me, slick."
Keeping his eyes on hers, he walked across the room. "What can I do for
you, Lieutenant?"
Traditions, Eve thought, had to start somewhere...
-- from "Midnight in Death"
"Midnight in Death" by J. D. Robb copyright (c) 1998 by Nora Roberts.
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CHAPTER ONE
Murder respects no traditions. It ignores sentiment. It takes no
holidays.
Because murder was her business, Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood in the
predawn freeze of Christmas morning coating the deerskin gloves her husband had
given her only hours before with Seal-It.
The call had come in less than an hour before and less than six hours
since she'd closed a case that had left her shaky and exhausted. Her first
Christmas with Roarke wasn't getting off to a rousing start.
Then again, it had taken a much nastier turn for Judge Harold Wainger.
His body had been dumped dead center in the ice rink at Rockefeller
Center. Face up, so his glazed eyes could stare at the huge celebrational tree
that was New York's symbol of goodwill toward men.
His body was naked and already a deep shade of blue. The thick mane of
silver hair that had been his trademark had been roughly chopped off. And though
his face was severely battered, she had no trouble recognizing him.
She'd sat in his courtroom dozens of times in her ten years on the force.
He had been, she thought, a solid and steady man, with as much understanding of
the slippery channels of the law as respect for the heart of it.
She crouched down to get a closer look at the words that had been burned
deeply into his chest.
JUDGE NOT, LEST YOU BE JUDGED
She hoped the burns had been inflicted postmortem, but she doubted it.
He had been mercilessly beaten, the fingers of both hands broken. Deep