"Linnea Sinclair - Rhapsody In The Key of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sinclair Linnea)

someone as out of place in this life as I was, though for different reasons.
His reasons didnтАЩt bother me any more than my being a PI and a revenant
bothered him. A duo of the damned, we often joked.
Granville wasnтАЩt as forgiving. тАЬYou canтАЩt get a description? I thought you
people could tell everything.тАЭ
тАЬI can tell you,тАЭ I said, running one hand through my hair, snagging a few
knots as if that could clear the blankness in my mind, тАЬthat the murderer was male,
about the same height as the victim.тАЭ
тАжSomething hard shoved against my chest as I swung my feet off the edge
of the bed. A callused hand grasped my elbow, yanked me up.
тАЬWhat theтАФ!тАЭ I stumbled forward, cracked my forehead against my
attackerтАЩs. But the hard cold metal against my skin stopped any further movement.
тАЬQuiet!тАЭ a harsh voice rumbled in my ear. Something pungent on the
manтАЩs breath reached my nose. It was a smell I couldnтАЩt identify, not yet. I knew it,
but...
The gun in my chest was of greater concern. I had more than just good
hands. I had good ears, too. IтАЩd heard the low, distinct humming noise of a fully
charged Racker 750. Small, easily concealed, very expensive. IтАЩd often thought
about carrying one, but my marksmanship skills were worse than my nonexistent
musical abilities. Good hands notwithstanding.
тАЬWhat do you want?тАЭ I managed to whisper. Quietly. When a man points a
Racker 750 at you and demands quiet, you comply...
The information on the Racker wasnтАЩt new. IтАЩd told Granville about the
weapon when weтАЩd first spotted the body lying in front of the living roomтАЩs large
window. Through the gauzy drapery drawn across it, the lights of the moonтАЩs
spaceport twinkled dimly in the distance. Not the commercial spaceport, but the
private one for the use of the casinoтАЩs privileged guests. Like Pavin Truedell, whose
good hands hadnтАЩt been able to prevent his own death.
тАЬThe murderer had an odor.тАЭ I thought again of TruedellтАЩs sensation of
disgust, yet familiarity. тАЬIt was unpleasant. Probably from something he ate, or
drank. Or perhaps a medical condition.тАЭ Though I couldnтАЩt think of what, given the
advances in medical science in the past century.
тАЬBut what did he look like?тАЭ
тАЬI havenтАЩt found that out yet.тАЭ
GranvilleтАЩs lip curled but any further comment was stopped by KieranтАЩs
forward movementтАФthe firmness of his step and the hard set of his shoulders
clearly sending a message. Granville blanked his face and I could feel a trickle of
apprehension shoot through him. Whatever high society nobles heтАЩd catered to
before hadnтАЩt prepared him for Kieran Risardas. But then, unbeknownst to Granville,
this wasnтАЩt just Lord Kieran who glared down at him. It was Captain Risardas, the
Butcher of Sinder Station, dead now, as far as Granville was concerned, for over
five hundred years. A man vilified by corrupt historians.
Not the noble now lauded for his generosity.
Sometimes I envied his chance at metamorphosis, courtesy of a temporal
anomaly that no longer existed. It was the one way weтАЩre very different: heтАЩd
escaped the past. I lived in it.
The doors of the suite slid open, pulling me back to the present. A silvery
med тАЩdroid with the emblem of the coronerтАЩs office on its chest-plate glided in. A
dark-haired woman in a tailored brown suit hurried behind the тАЩdroid, her wrist
comm raised to her mouth. She had the high cheekbones, exotic features of a