"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Spirit Guides" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

Inside stood potted palms and faded glamor. Pictures of motion picture stars
long dead lined the second floor balcony. Within the last ten years, the
hotel's
management had restored the Roosevelt to its 1920s glory, when it had been the
Site for the first ever Academy Award celebration. When he first came to LA,
he
spent a lot of time in the hotel, imagining the low-cut dresses, the clink of
champagne flutes, the scattered applause as the nominees were announced.
Searching for a kind of beauty that existed only in celluloid, a product of
light and shadows and nothing more.

El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Artgales de Porciuncula.

The City of Our Lady, Queen of the Angels of Porciuncula.

He knew nothing of the Angels of Porciuncula, did not know why Filipe de Neve
in
1781 named the city after them. He suspected it was some kind of prophecy, but
he didn't know.

They had been fallen angels.

Of that he was sure.

He sighed, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a grimy hand, then returned
to
his car, knowing that home and sleep would elude him for one more night.

Lean and spare, Kincaid survived on cigarettes, coffee, chocolate and bourbon.
Sometime in the last five years, he had allowed the LAPD to hire him, although
he had no formal training. After a few odd run-ins and one overnight jail stay
before it became clear that Kincaid wasn't anywhere near the crime scene,
Kincaid had met Davis, his boss. Davis had the flat gaze of a man who had seen
too much, and he knew, from the records and the evidence before him, that
Kincaid was too precious to lose. He made Kincaid a plainclothes detective and
never assigned him a partner.

Kincaid never told anyone what he did. Most of the cops he worked with never
knew. All they cared about was that when Kincaid was on the job, suspects were
found, cases were closed, and files were sealed. He worked quietly and he got
results.

They didn't need him on this one. The perp was caught at the scene. All he had
to do was write his report, then go home, toss the tennies in the trash, soak
the Levis, and wait for another day.

But it wasn't that easy. He sat in his car, an olive Green 1968 Olds with a
fading pine-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror, long after
his colleagues had left. His hands were still shaking, his nostrils still