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

Fawcett had sounded nervous on the phone, hardly making sense, in fact,
so Smalley had reluctantly told him to come on over and relate his problem
in person. Now, with his wife sleeping upstairs, Smalley sat in his rather
luxurious study, smoking his first cigar of the new day.
Commissioner Smalley was not unfamiliar with wake-up calls, both from
his superiors and, less often, from his subordinates. But now, at age
fifty-two, one step removed from the pinnacle of power in St. Paul's police
establishment, the superiors were fewer in number, and subordinates were
well advised to hold their calls until office hours.
It would have to be something special, really extraordinary, for Jack
Fawcett to call and wake him at sunrise, demanding a face-to-face meeting.
And because it would be something special, something extraordinary, Roger
Smalley was not only feeling disgruntled. He was feeling nervous.
The assistant commissioner would humor Jack Fawcett - to a point. But
he hoped for the lieutenant's sake that Fawcett wasn't letting the strain of
his job get the better of him.
Yeah, it had damned well better be something extraordinary.
Smalley heard the soft knock on the side door and padded through the
house to greet Fawcett in the kitchen. In the pale morning light, the
detective looked calmer than he had sounded on the phone - but only just.
"Good morning, sir," Fawcett began hastily. "I am sorry about the
time."
Smalley forced a smile before turning his back. "This way," he said
curtly. "And catch the door, will you?"
Fawcett followed his superior into the study, and they sat down facing
each other in leather upholstered chairs. Smalley pushed a humidor toward
his nervous guest.
"Cigar?"
Fawcett shook his head.
"No, thanks. I'm trying to quit... again."
"What's so urgent at..." Smalley paused to consult a wall clock.
"...Five-forty in the morning?"
"I think we got trouble," Fawcett said.
Smalley arched an iron-gray eyebrow.
"So you said on the phone, Jack. Can we have some specifics?"
"I don't know where to start, sir," the detective said. "Well... I
mean, I don't even know what it means."
Smalley sighed resignedly, expelling a blue cloud of fragrant cigar
smoke.
"Take your time, Jack. Try starting at the beginning."
Fawcett took a deep breath, held it an instant to steady his nerves,
then let it go in a long, whistling sigh. The ritual complete, he began
telling Smalley about the predawn shooting, his meeting and cryptic
discussion with a man named La Mancha, and the subsequent discovery of three
more leaking stiffs, exactly where the big stranger said they would be
found. When he had finished, the two men regarded each other in silence for
several moments through the haze from Smalley's cigar.
At last it was the commissioner who broke the silence.
"You believe there may be some connection between these killings and
our other problem?"