"Дон Пендлтон. The Violent Streets ("Палач" #41) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Bolan left her to get dressed, and returned to the bathroom and the two
corpses laid out headfirst in the garbage bags. He carried them out to the
waiting Caddy one at a time, slung over his shoulder in the traditional
fireman's carry. Outside, the ignition yielded up a key, and he dumped each
man in turn into the trunk. Joey the driver joined them in that ignominious
pile.
Trusting that Fran was confused and frightened enough to heed his
advice and stay off the telephone, Bolan spared more precious numbers to
fire up the Cadillac's engine and pilot the big crew wagon down the block to
the next intersection. He left it sitting beside the trash dumpers of an
all-night quick-stop market, and locked the keys inside.
Walking back, he retrieved his rental car and parked it in the Caddy's
former place in Fran Traynor's driveway. A quick glance down the street
showed him lights newly turned on in two of the houses, but there was no
other sign of activity.
They wouldn't have much time to waste, even so. He meant to be out of
there with the lady cop before being observed by any of the early-rising
neighbors, or police cruisers.
When he reentered the house, Bolan found Fran Traynor dressed and ready
to go. She was waiting for him in the bedroom, a purse and overnight bag on
the bed beside her. The snubby .38 was nowhere in evidence.
"I didn't know when I'd be coming back, so..." She gestured toward the
bags, leaving the sentence unfinished.
"Good idea," Bolan agreed. "And I hope it won't be for long."
"Let's go," she said, sounding suddenly disinterested, preoccupied. "It
doesn't feel homey here right now."

6

Bolan and Fran Traynor drove in mutual silence to a comfortable motel
set back several blocks from the tangle of downtown St. Paul. Bolan
registered with a sleepy, disinterested desk clerk, signing the registry for
Mr. and Mrs. Frank La Mancha. It was a name he would be using to significant
effect in the events to come. Bolan then parked his rented sedan in front of
a room at the far end of the motel's east wing.
He locked the door behind them and turned to find the lady cop standing
beside the double bed, facing him, digging something out of her purse.
He sighed. "I thought we'd gotten beyond the gun."
Her cheeks colored as she produced a leather billfold and snapped it
open, flashing her gold detective's shield into view.
"I want you to know who you're dealing with," she said.
"I know who you are, Fran. I told you."
She looked attractive as she very promptly became flustered.
"Well... damn!" was the best she could manage. She sat down on the edge
of the bed.
Bolan spoke after a long pause. He was looking at her intently. "There
are some questions I have to ask you."
"Not so fast, handsome." She raised a cautioning hand. "I've got about
a zillion questions of my own, starting with who you are, and I am not in
the best of health and humor, in case you hadn't noticed."