"TUROW, SCOTT - THE BURDEN OF PROOF" - читать интересную книгу автора (Turrow Scott)

States Attorney assigned to the matter, a young woman named Klonsky,
declined to say precisely who was under suspicion, beyond exonerating
the customers themselves. But to a practiced eye, this all had an
ominous look. The out-of-town subpoenas reflected a contemplated effort
at secrecy. The investigators knew what they were seeking and seemed
intent on quietly encircling Dixon, or his companies, or someone close
to him.

So Stern stood travel-weary and vexed in the slate foyer of the home
where Clara and he had lived for nearly two decades. And yet, what was
it that wrested his attention so thoroughly, so suddenly? The silence,
he would always say.

Not a tap running, a radio mumbling, not one of the household machines
in operation. An isolated man, he drew, always, a certain comfort from
stillness. But this was not the silence of rest or interruption. He
left his bags on the black tiles and stepped smartly through the foyer.

"Clara?" he called again.

He found her in the garage. When he opened the door, the odor of
putrefaction overwhelmed him, a powerful high sour smell which dizzied
him with the first breath and drove up sickness like a fist. The car, a
black Seville, the current model, had been backed in; the driver's door
was open. The auto's white dome light remained on, so that in the dark
garage she was warmly spotlit. From the doorway he could see her leg
extended toward the concrete floor, and the hem of a bright floral
shirtwaist dress. He could tell from the glint that she was wearing
hosiery.

Slowly, he stepped down. The heat in the garage and the smell which
increased revoltingly with each step were overpowering, and in the dark
his fear left him weak. When he could see her through the open door of
the car, he advanced no farther. She was reclined on the camel-colored
leather of the front seat. Her skin, which he noticed first, was
burnished with an unnatural peachish glow, and her eyes were closed. It
seemed she had meant to appear neat and composed. Her left hand,
faultlessly manicured, was placed almost ceremonially across her
abdomen, and the flesh had swollen slightly beneath her wedding rings.
She had brought nothing with her. No jacket. No purse. And she had
not fallen back completely; her other arm was rigidly extended toward
the wheel, and her head was pinned against the seat at a hopeless,
impossible angle. Her mouth was open, her tongue extruded, her face
dead, motionless, absolutely still. In the whitewashed laundry room
adjoining the garage he was immediately sick in one of the porcelain
basins, and he washed away all traces before calling in quick order 911
and then his son.

"You must come straightaway," he said to Peter. He had found him at
home. "Straightaway." As usual in stress, he heard some faint