"Allison Sinclair - Assassin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sinclair Allison)

"Look, Glad, he's sharing the spot for suspect number one, for the same reason.
He was brought up as a fundamentalist--"
"Which he rejected--"
"Traumatically."
"But hasn't he spoken about going back recently?"
"I don't remember telling you that," I returned, very sharply, though I did; I
wanted to see how she'd react to a direct challenge. She paused, looked at me,
and said, "Lunch, last week."
"Yes," I said, "I did. But I don't see how that pertains. For one thing, Errel's
people aren't murderous. Their main concern is to save the souls of our own; as
far as they're concerned, God will deal with the rest of us in his own sweet
time."
"Has anyone else used your PC?"
I returned stare for stare.
"No."
"And threads are unique to their machine of origin."
I didn't answer.
"So it's either you or Errel."
"Yes," I said, "Yes, alright, I'll accept that. Either Errel or I loaded it.
Knowingly or unknowingly."
"Unknowingly--you? Since when was your hygiene that bad?"
"Look," I said. "You're showing a dangerous bias."
"What should I have done? Reported you and had you investigated?"
"By the book, yes. Just--take precautions, Glad. I'm not admitting anything, but
don't tell me about them."
She raised both eyebrows, but didn't say anything, so it was up to me to spell
it out. "Either I'm responsible, and you will have to contend with me, or I'm
not, and if I look into it--as surely you know I will--and I find trouble, that
trouble could find its way back to you."
She sorted through all the implications of that. "How long do I give you?"
"Don't tell me that, either."
"Anything I can do to help?"
"No."



When the brass called me over for an in-person meeting that afternoon to confirm
office rumours that I was being touted for D'Inde's job, I responded with a
giggle of suppressed hysteria, which I hope they ascribed to surprise and
delight. I did not go back to the squad office afterwards, but walked over to
the Beth Israel to look in on D'Inde alone. He hadn't been doing well; I knew
from the hospital record I'd hacked into that they had had to implant a
pacemaker to control an arrhythmia, so that along with his brain, his heart was
hooked up to the hospital mainframe. I sat down beside his bed, met his silent
eyes, which always looked to me like burned almonds. I was almost used to his
shrunken appearance, and the ash overlay on his brown skin, but I still couldn't
stand the lost expression in those eyes. I didn't look at him as I talked. I
told him about Glad's virus, about its origin, about my knowledge that I had not
done it, and about what that meant. I told him it looked like the man I had
loved for six years--wanting to go home and knowing it was impossible--had begun