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

They shared a brief chuckle at that, and then Jack Fawcett rose to
leave.
"Don't get up, Chief," he said quickly, when Smalley made no move to do
so. "I can let myself out."
"Goodbye, Jack. And remember - stay cool."
When Fawcett had gone, the commissioner snared the ornate telephone
receiver from its cradle at his elbow. He listened to the droning dial tone
for a long moment, thinking.
Fawcett was in a sweat, no doubt about that. Smalley didn't know yet
whether his concern was justified, but he had every intention of playing it
safe. The federal angle was a puzzler, and coming on top of the shootings
that morning, it could mean trouble, but Roger Smalley was not about to
panic before he had exhausted all logical possibilities.
He would make some calls. You didn't get to be the assistant P.C. in a
city the size of St. Paul without making some high-level contacts at
Justice. And if La Mancha - or whoever the hell he was - was working in
Smalley's backyard, someone would know about it.
And finally, saving the best for last, he would call the Man.
Roger Smalley smiled at the thought, his first open, genuine smile of
the day as he began dialing the telephone.
Hell yes, he told himself, there was already plenty of sweat to go
around on that warm summer morning. And who better to do the sweating than
the man who had started the whole frigging mess in the first place?
Roger Smalley's face froze in the smile. It was the grin of a predatory
animal, carved in stone.

9

The scheduled meeting place was one of those plasticized restaurants,
part of a chain, that always look and smell the same no matter where you
find them. Bolan took a corner booth away from the broad front window and
sat facing the doors. He was working on his first cup of mediocre coffee
when Fran Traynor entered.
She glanced around the cafe, then spotted Bolan and crossed quickly to
his booth. She slid in opposite him, and they sat quietly until a waitress
delivered Fran's coffee.
She sipped at it and finally spoke.
"I've been thinking about what you said," she told him.
"What did you decide?"
She hesitated. "At first, nothing, but I wanted to keep digging on my
own. Now... well... I'm thinking that you may be right."
Bolan was curious. "What changed your mind?"
Bolan noticed the slightest tremble in her hands as she set her cup
down.
"After you left," she began, "I put through a call to a friend of mine
on the rape squad. She really helped me get the unit started in the first
place. She told me that all the eyewitness sketches of our Blancanales rape
suspect have been withdrawn."
Bolan's frown was deep with anger.
"You have an idea who's behind this?"