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

wondered if he had committed some breach in procedure, then became
furious with himself for behaving like a kid hauled before the school
principal.

The hell with it, he decided, forcing himself to relax. The chair was
soft--too soft, and too short. To compensate, Slade curved his spine
into the back and stretched out his long legs. His eyes half closed.
When the interview was over, he had the stakeout to look forward to
again. If it went down tonight, he'd have a few evenings free to spend
at the typewriter. With any luck--and a solid month without
interruptions--he could finish the novel. Blocking out his surroundings,
he mentally reviewed the chapter he was working on.

"Sergeant Sladerman?"

Annoyed by the distraction, Slade lifted his eyes. Slowly his expression
cleared. He realized he'd wasted his time staring at the floor when the
commissioner's secretary provided a far more appealing view. His smile
was at once appraising and charming.

"The commissioner will see you now." The secretary answered the smile,
wishing he'd looked at her like that before, rather than sitting in
sullen silence. He had a face any female would respond to--a bit narrow,
angular, with dark coloring that came from Italian ancestors on his
mother's side. The mouth had been hard in repose, but now, curved, it
showed both promise and passion. Black hair and gray eyes were an
irresistible combination, especially, she thought, when the hair was
thick and a bit unruly and the eyes were smoky and mysterious. He was an
interesting prospect, she thought as she watched Slade unfold his long,
rangy frame from the chair.

As he followed her to the oak door he noted that the ring finger of her
left hand was bare. Idly, he considered getting her phone number on the
way out. The thought slipped to the back of his mind as she ushered him
into the commissioner's office.

There was a Perillo lithograph on the right wall--a lone cowboy astride
a paint pony. The left wall was crowded with framed photos,
commendations, diplomas. If Slade found it an odd combination, he gave
no sign. The desk, with its back to the window, was dark oak. On it were
papers in tidy stacks, a gold pen and pencil set, and a triple picture
frame. Seated behind them was Dodson, a dark, tidy little man who had
always reminded Slade more of a parish priest than New York's
commissioner of police. His eyes were a calm, pale blue, his cheeks
healthily ruddy. Thin wisps of white wove through his hair. All in all,
Dodson was the picture of avuncular gentleness. But the lines in his
face hadn't been etched by good humor.

"Sergeant Sladerman." Dodson motioned Slade to a chair with a gesture
and a smile. Built like his father, he thought briefly as he watched