"Chalker, Jack L - G.O.D. Inc 1 - Labyrinth of Dreams" - читать интересную книгу автора (Chalker Jack L)

had the lead.
That still left the question of why he was in this mess in the first place. Not
that guys like him were honest; it was just that they generally let the
underlings do the dirty work and take the big falls.
It took about three hours to get the file together on him, and that was just
about the time Brandy returned with a whole mess of packages. These proved to be
some shirts and pants for me and a small wardrobe for her, all off-the-rack
stuff. She'd tried on only a couple of hers, and guessed at my sizes, but she
was dead on. The sleeves on the sport coat were a little long, but it was a damn
sight better than what I had at home.
I was a little surprised when she stayed with her old jeans and sandals and
faded shirt. "I called Minnie," she explained, "and she's expecting me. Any
black folks in that neighborhood don't look like Aunt Jemima are arrested for
suspicion of burglary. You still got that old cop ID with the fake shield?"
I nodded. "Uh huh."
"Then you take the missus and I'll take Minnie."
We walked down to the street, and I was startled to see a new-looking Ford
parked there behind ours. Brandy handed me the keys.
"You didn't charge this!"
She laughed. "Sure I did. At Avis. Looks a lot like the cars the detectives
drive. You take the front and it; I'll take our car and the servants' entrance.
We'll meet back at the Midway Diner and compare notes while we buy each other
dinner."
Whitlock's place was a simple one-story brick rancher off a long driveway in
Ardmore, one of the richer suburbs of Philadelphia. The fact is, the place
didn't look all that big from the front, but if you started walking around you
found out it went back a ways. Like maybe Pittsburgh.
There was only a single Mercedes wagon in the driveway, but even Little Jimmy
could tell me that Whitlock's two-door sports Mercedes coupe was still parked in
his marked space in the Tri-State lot downtown. I put on my glasses, which I
normally use only for reading, and was just going to the door when I saw our
two-tone Chevy come up and pull around to the side and Brandy get out and walk
on back. I rang the bell and stood there awhile, wondering whether it was that
nobody was home or only that with the housekeeper occupied, it was beneath the
dignity of a Whitlock to open her own door.
It wasn't. I guess even blue bloods get caught in the John.
She was tall and very slender, with a conservative hairdo, with makeup even in
the late afternoon with no place to go. "Yes?"
"Mrs. Whitlock? I'm Sam Horowitz, with the Department of the Treasury. Is your
husband at home?"
"You know he isn't. Your people were here earlier today."
I harrumphed apologetically. "Well, there are two separate agencies involved in
this, and I guess you understand the bureaucracy." She finally invited me in,
and we had a pleasant if inconsequential talk. I did finally get to see a photo
of him; a distinguished-looking man, much younger in appearance than his years
would indicate, with short, peppery hair, light complexion, blue or gray eyes,
clean shaven, no moustache, beard, or even sideburns, which look a bit out of
date these days. I have bushy sideburns myself, but that was overcompensation
for what was missing on top. I know what I look like with a beard, though, and
forget it.