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

self-confidence returning.
"Says who?"
"Call it intuition," the fed replied. "While you're at it, you might
want to pick up the other three."
He was already out of the car and leaning in through the passenger's
window, big forearms neatly crossed on the frame.
Fawcett was flustered now, hopelessly confused.
"Other three what?" he asked.
"Bodies, Jack," La Mancha said patently.
And the man called La Mancha proceeded to tell the dumbfounded Jack
Fawcett exactly where and how to find a Caddy with three cold ones in the
trunk. Fawcett had just enough presence of mind to memorize the details for
future use.
"You have to get on the right side of this thing, Lieutenant," La
Mancha was saying from the window. "We don't want to see a career man get
caught with his pants down."
Jack Fawcett felt numb.
"I don't know what you're talking about, mister."
The federale's smile was back in place.
"Okay. I'll be in touch in case you change your mind."
And Fawcett was still trying to think up a snappy retort to that when
he noticed that the big guy was gone. He craned his neck, catching a brief
glimpse of the man's retreating back in the rear-view mirror before he
disappeared entirely. After another long moment, Fawcett came to himself and
put the cruiser in casual, aimless motion.
I understand you've got yourself a headcase.
Jack Fawcett cursed, softly and fluently. It would be the homicide
lieutenant's job to find out how much this guy knew and where he was getting
his information.
And along the way, he might have to check up and see just who Mr.
No-Name La Mancha really was. That Justice Department ID looked okay at
first glance, and yet...
Another thought came to Jack Fawcett, banishing all others in an
instant.
He would have to get in touch with the commissioner, no doubt about
that. And no delaying it, either.
He checked his watch, wincing at what it told him.
The commissioner wouldn't like being roused from a sound sleep this
early in the morning. When you reached his station in life, you were
accustomed to something like bankers' hours.
Fawcett grinned mirthlessly to himself. If I don't sleep, nobody
sleeps, he thought.
But he didn't feel the bravado, not down inside where his guts were
still quaking and shifting.
And he wasn't looking forward to his next encounter of the morning. Not
one damned bit.

8

Mack Bolan, alias John Phoenix and lately Frank La Mancha of