"Van Lustbader, Eric - Linnear 01 - The Ninja" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

hold her this way, even though, quite clearly, rock was sex and dancing was,
subliminally, the same thing. What matter? She would dance.
She shadows me in the mirror And never leaves on the light...
In giving herself up to the rhythms she was sensual, a kind of glossy
exoskeleton dissolving at her feet, unearthing an ardour rich with substantive
and elemental fury.
Some things that I say to her They just don't seem to bite...
It was as if the music had freed her somehow of her chains, of her wounds -
inhibitions was a word with far too few ramifications to serve the situation -
of her fear, not of him, not of any man, but of herself.
She says leave it to me
And everything will be all right.
With her shoulder touching his and the music filling another room, she said, 'I
grew up reading. At first it was anything I could get my hands on. While my
sister, always so good with people, was out on dates, I would be gulping down
one book or another. Curiously, that didn't last long. I mean, I kept on reading
but I quickly became quite discriminating in what I read.' She laughed, a rich
happy sound that surprised him in its wholeheartedness. 'Oh, I had my phases,
yes indeed! The Tremayne dog books and then Howard Pile - I adored his
Robin Hood. One day, when I was about sixteen, I discovered de Sade. It was
rather forbidden reading then and therefore exciting. But beyond that, I was
struck by much of his writing. And then I had this fantasy that that was the
reason my parents had named me Justine. However, when I was older and asked my
mother about it, she said, "Well, you know, it was just a name that your father
and I liked." It must have appealed to her Continental leanings, I imagine; she
was French, you see. But then, oh how I washed that I had never asked her! My
fantasy was so much better than the reality of it. Well, what can you expect?
They were both banal.'
'Was your father American?'
She turned her face towards him and the warm glow from the living-room lamps
burnished one cheek as if by an artist's brush. 'Very American.'
'What did he do?'
'Let's go inside,' she said, turning from him. 'I'm cold.'
First there was the large black and white photograph of a rather heavy-set man
with a firm jaw and undaunted eyes. Printed underneath was the legend: Stanley.
Teller, Chief of Police 1932-1964. Next to that was a framed copy of Norman
Rockwell's The Runway.
The office was a spare cubicle with double windows overlooking the courtyard
parking lot. There was not much to see out there, this time of the evening.
'Why don't you cut the doubletalk, Doc, and run it by me in plain English,'
Lieutenant Ray Florum said. 'Just what's so special about this drowning?"
The subdued crackle of the two-way radio down the hall was a constant background
chatter, like being on the telephone with a crossed line.
'That's just what I've been trying to explain to you," Doc Deerforth said slowly
and patiently. 'This man did not die of drowning."
Ray Florum sat down in his wooden swivel chair. It creaked beneath his weight.
Florum was a big man, both in height and girth, which made him the butt of a
series of ongoing jokes batted about good-naturedly among his staff. He was
commanding officer of the Village Police of West Bay Bridge. He had a
beery-cheeked face on which was positioned dead centre, as if it were the