"Дон Пендлтон. The Violent Streets ("Палач" #41) " - читать интересную книгу автораit open to show Fawcett a glittering pile of shell casings inside.
"Nine millimeter," the young detective said. "We picked up a couple dozen back there." He jerked his thumb over one shoulder to indicate the middle of the cul-de-sac. Fawcett grunted in reply, unwilling to waste words on the obvious. The young detective wouldn't be put off. He was anxious to display his knowledge and professionalism for the ranking officer on the scene. "Probably an Uzi," he began, "or a Smith and Wesson M-79. Of course, it could have been..." "What about the D.O.A.'s?" Fawcett interrupted gruffly. "Were they packing?'' The young cop faltered, breaking his verbal stride, finally nodding. "Uh, that's affirmative," he said. "We found a silenced .380 back where the vehicle started its roll, and the driver's wearing a .45. The .380's been fired recently." Fawcett allowed himself a small, sardonic grin. "Turkey shoot," he said softly to himself. "How's that?" Fawcett scowled, scanning the crime scene with narrowed eyes and a pointing index finger. "See for yourself," he said. "These cocks came barreling in here, hell for leather and ready to rip. Only they weren't ready enough." "A mob hit?" the younger man asked, sounding excited. Fawcett shrugged wearily. "What else?" It was the young cop's turn to frown. Fawcett snorted. "When was the last time you saw radicals riding around after midnight in fancy suits? Jesus." The young man's face reddened; he half turned away from the lieutenant, trying to hide his embarrassment from his superior officer. Fawcett sensed that he was on the verge of making an enemy and pulled back, his tone softening. "Listen," he said more gently, "why don't you finish inspecting the scene and get started on your report. You know how to handle it?" The young detective brightened immediately as he realized he was being placed in temporary charge of the investigation. "Yes, sir," he snapped, almost standing at attention. "I'll get right on it." He hurried off, barking orders at a pair of uniformed patrolmen and bustling around personally to examine the ruined hulk of an automobile. Fawcett ambled over to where the middle-aged coroner's assistant, an old acquaintance and sometime friend, was crouched beside the dead man from the car. As he approached, the M.E. glanced up and shot him a sarcastic grin of welcome. "Well, now," he said, "I thought you were working days." Fawcett treated the guy to one of his best scowls. "I'm working when they call me. Somebody thinks this one's special, I guess." The medical examiner cocked an eyebrow. "Somebody could be right. I haven't seen one like this in... oh, two, |
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