"Robb, J D - In Death 09 - Conspriracy in Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robb J D)

the thin and sticky hand of charity. Training and assistance programs were
offered for those who could keep sane long enough to wind their way through the
endless tangled miles of bureaucratic red tape that all too often strangled the
intended recipients before saving them.
And as always, children went hungry, women sold their bodies, and men
killed for a handful of credits.
However enlightened the times, human nature remained as predictable as
death.
For the sidewalk sleepers, January in New York brought vicious nights
with a cold that could rarely be fought back with a bottle of brew or a few
scavenged illegals. Some gave in and shuffled into the shelters to snore on
lumpy cots under thin blankets or eat the watery soup and tasteless soy loaves
served by bright-eyed sociology students. Others held out, too lost or too
stubborn to give up their square of turf.
And many slipped from life to death during those bitter nights.
The city had killed them, but no one called it homicide.
-=O=-***-=O=-
As Lieutenant Eve Dallas drove downtown in the shivering dawn, she tapped
her fingers restlessly on the wheel. The routine death of a sidewalk sleeper in
the Bowery shouldn't have been her problem. It was a matter for what the
department often called Homicide-Lite -- the stiff scoopers who patrolled known
areas of homeless villages to separate living from dead and take the used-up
bodies to the morgue for examination, identification, and disposal.
It was a mundane and ugly little job most usually done by those who
either still had hopes of joining the more elite Homicide unit or those who had
given up on such a miracle. Homicide was called to the scene only when the death
was clearly suspicious or violent.
And, Eve thought, if she hadn't been on top of the rotation for such
calls on this miserable morning, she'd still be in her nice warm bed with her
nice warm husband.
"Probably some jittery rookie hoping for a serial killer," she muttered.
Beside her, Peabody yawned hugely. "I'm really just extra weight here."
From under her ruler-straight dark bangs, she sent Eve a hopeful look. "You
could just drop me off at the closest transpo stop and I can be back home and in
bed in ten minutes."
"If I suffer, you suffer."
"That makes me feel so ... loved, Dallas."
Eve snorted and shot Peabody a grin. No one, she thought, was sturdier,
no one was more dependable, than her aide. Even with the rudely early call,
Peabody was pressed and polished in her winter-weight uniform, the buttons
gleaming, the hard black cop shoes shined. In her square face framed by her dark
bowl-cut hair, her eyes might have been a little sleepy, but they would see what
Eve needed her to see.
"Didn't you have some big deal last night?" Peabody asked her.
"Yeah, in East Washington. Roarke had this dinner / dance thing for some
fancy charity. Save the moles or something. Enough food to feed every sidewalk
sleeper on the Lower East Side for a year."
"Gee, that's tough on you. I bet you had to get all dressed up in some
beautiful gown, shuttle down on Roarke's private transpo, and choke down
champagne."