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

three years."
"Do I need to ask the cause of death?" Fawcett inquired listlessly.
The M. E. straightened up, knee joints popping like small-arms fire.
"Take your pick," he said amiably. "Multiple bullet wounds to head and
chest, obvious internal injuries from the crash. They had a rough night,
Jack."
"You read this as an organization thing?" Fawcett asked, lowering his
voice slightly.
The medical examiner nodded. "Gotta be. Who else plays these kinds of
games?"
"Nobody," Fawcett answered wearily. "I'll need a copy of that report."
The examiner smiled and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke in Fawcett's
direction.
"Right now, or just immediately?"
"Everybody's a comedian," the homicide lieutenant growled, turning away
and walking back to his unmarked cruiser.
He had reached the vehicle and had one hand on the door when a big man
dressed with expensive good taste materialized beside him, as if out of thin
air. Fawcett blinked twice, glancing rapidly around the scene and wondering
where in hell the guy had come from.
"Jack Fawcett?" the big guy asked, smiling thinly.
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed with instinctive suspicion.
"Who's asking?"
The big guy flashed an official-looking card, then pocketed it again
before Fawcett could focus on it.
"La Mancha, Justice Department," he said, smile fading. "We need to
talk."
Fawcett exhaled heavily. "It figures."
The big guy raised a curious eyebrow. "How's that?"
"Sure, whenever the wise guys start to burn each other, the federates
are never far behind."
The man called La Mancha nodded toward the cluster of officers and
rubberneckers around the battered crew wagon.
"You're calling this a syndicate hit?" he asked.
"Hell, yes," Fawcett snapped. "It's got all the signs."
The big guy was circling Fawcett's cruiser, already climbing in on the
passenger side as he said, "Let's take a ride. I'm parked around the
corner."
Cursing softly, angered by the fed's take-charge attitude, Lieutenant
Fawcett slid behind the wheel, fired the cruiser's engine, and put the
unmarked car in motion.
"The Twin Cities are supposed to be quiet, Jack," La Mancha said when
they were rolling.
Fawcett shrugged, further annoyed by the first name familiarity.
"Sure, sure, but hell, who can figure these animals? Probably they got
mixed up in some damned vendetta or something."
"Maybe."
The big fed's tone was clearly skeptical.
Fawcett bristled, shooting a sidelong glance toward his uninvited
passenger.