"Staggs, Earl - The Missing Sniper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Staggs Earl)

Adam spent more than an hour going through the files. He started with reports of the shooting.

The sniper had fired three shots. The first two missed. The third shot hit and killed a security guard. A woman reported seeing a man running across a nearby rooftop and gave the usual vague description. Medium height, medium build, dressed in beige or tan, brown hair, carrying a briefcase or small suitcase.

That was followed by reports of interviews with possible suspects. Hundreds of them. None were substantial, but it was obvious that the sheriff's department had devoted a great number of manhours to the investigation.

Another file contained photographs of Senator Thornton and the security guard who had been killed and pictures taken at the scene. There were also news releases and articles about Senator Thornton. From these Adam gleaned a profile of the flamboyant and popular politician. At the age of 63 he was seeking re-election to a fourth term. His campaign style was outlandish to say the least. At one outdoor convention he had made his appearance by skydiving right onto the platform. At another, he had arrived carrying a live alligator across his shoulders.

After the shooting, Thornton expressed his deep regrets over the unfortunate death of the security guard, identified as Melvin W. Parsons, a retired state police officer, but vowed to continue his campaign in spite of continuing threats on his life.

Tired of reading and needing a break, Adam stood, stretched and walked out into the cubicled area. He spotted an alcove across the room where a table held a coffee urn and sleeves of Styrofoam cups. Four uniformed officers, three male and one female, stood by the table with cups in their hands.

As Adam approached them, the tallest of the men turned to greet him. He was about forty and spoke with no trace of a southern accent. "Ted Jackson, Mr. Kingston. It's a real pleasure to meet you. We're all looking forward to working with you on this sniper thing. We've been going at it night and day and getting nowhere."

Adam thanked him and accepted his offered handshake.

The youngest of the group, a gangly redheaded young man, burst in with enough accent for all four of them. "I'm Jimmy Gallagher. From Pensacola?" Without giving Adam a chance to reply he continued with enthusiasm. "My Aunt Virginia's in the same business you are. She reads palms? Just blows my mind, some of the things she comes up with. I remember once -- I was only fifteen? -- she read my palm and told me...."

Jackson interrupted him. "I'm sure Mr. Kingston is very interested in your aunt's talents, Jimmy, but we have to get on the road."

Adam gave Jackson a thank-you look. Jackson nodded and led his exuberant young partner away.

Adam turned to the female officer. She had short brown hair, a slender build and a pleasant oval face. "Sounds like the whole department's been looking for the sniper," he said.

"That's for sure," she said. "Dillon's really pushing everybody on this one. Especially himself." She turned her eyes away for a second when she spoke of Dillon, and something in her tone grabbed Adam's curiosity. He sensed more than a professional relationship here. She looked back to him immediately and gave him a beaming smile that revealed perfect teeth and turned her face from pleasant to pretty. "I'm Judy Wilson, by the way. Welcome to Mendes County."

"Thank you, Deputy Wilson." He returned her smile and her handshake. "I hope you don't mind if I get a cup of coffee. One of my many weaknesses, I'm afraid." He held her hand a few seconds longer than he should have and saw Dillon and Judy Wilson out of uniform -- and everything else -- under circumstances which satisfied his curiosity about their relationship. He released her hand and gave himself a mental slap on the wrist. He was being naughty.

Judy handed him a Styrofoam cup. "Here you go." She was still smiling and getting prettier by the second.

Adam thanked her and turned to look at the other officer standing there. Middle-aged, bald on top, overweight and ruddy faced, he blocked access to the coffee urn. Adam extended his hand. "Adam Kingston."

"Sergeant Cooley," the man said as though his rank was more important than his given first name. Adam shook his hand and found it as weak as the half-smile the man offered.

"Excuse me," Adam said politely, looking at the coffee urn and reaching his cup toward it, hoping Cooley would take the hint and move aside.

The sergeant took his time. He looked at Adam's cup, then slowly turned his head toward the coffee urn. Next he looked down at his own feet. Finally, he took two short steps backward.

"Thank you," Adam said as he stepped up to the table.

"So you're the swami, huh?" Cooley said, stirring his own coffee and intently watching it go around.

Adam sighed. There always seemed to be at least one. The local cop who resented an outsider coming in. He looked at Cooley with a tight smile. "I beg your pardon?"

"So you're the swami come down here to pull a sniper out of a hat for us."

"Well, Sergeant Cooley," Adam said, turning back to watch his cup fill. "The truth is, I left my swami hat at home. I brought my Orioles baseball cap, though. I'll just have to give it my best shot with that."

Cooley seemed oblivious to Adam's humor, but Judy Wilson wasn't. She grinned. Adam gave her a quick wink.