"Roberts, Nora - A Matter of Choice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

A Matter of Choice
==================

Prologue
--------
Contents - Prev | Next

James Sladerman frowned at the toe of his shoe. He'd been frowning since
the summons from Commissioner Dodson had reached him in the squad room
that morning. After blowing out a long stream of smoke, Slade crushed
out the cigarette in the mosaic ashtray to his left. He barely shifted
his body. Slade knew how to wait.

Only the night before he had waited for more than five hours in a dark,
chilly car in a neighborhood where it paid to watch your back as well as
your wallet. It had been a tedious, fruitless five hours, as the
stakeout had produced nothing. But then, Slade knew from long experience
that police work consisted of hours of endless legwork, impossible
boredom, and paperwork, punctuated by moments of stark violence. Still
he preferred the five-hour wait to the twenty minutes he had spent in
the commissioner's carpeted, beige-walled outer office. It smelled of
lemony polish and now, his own Virginia tobacco. The keys of a
typewriter clattered with monotonous efficiency as the commissioner's
secretary transcribed.

What the hell does he want? Slade wondered again. Throughout his career
Slade had studiously avoided the politics of police work because of an
inherent dislike of bureaucracy. In his climb from cadet to detective
sergeant, there had been little opportunity for his path to cross
Dodson's.

Slade had had brief personal contact with Dodson at his father's
funeral. Captain Thomas C. Sladerman had been buried with all the glory
and honor that comes from serving on the force for twenty-eight years.
And dying in the line of duty. Mulling over it, Slade recalled that the
commissioner had been sympathetic to the widow and the young daughter.
He'd said the right things to the son. Perhaps on some level he had been
personally grieved. Early in their careers Dodson and Sladerman had been
partners. They had still been young men when their paths had
separated--one finding a niche in politics and administration, the other
craving the action of the streets.

On only one other occasion had Slade had one-to-one contact with Dodson.
Then Slade had been in the hospital, recovering from a gunshot wound.
The visit of the commissioner of police to a mere detective had resulted
in talk and speculation that had embarrassed Slade as much as annoyed
him.

Now, he realized, it would be all over the station house that the old
man had called him in. His frown became a scowl. For a moment he