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

I didn't expect to ever get back here -- or be able to, once the feds found out I
was here at all -- so I decided to play a chance card or two and see if I passed
Go.
"Mrs. Whitlock, I know how hard this must be for you, but we have some evidence
that your husband was involved with organized crime. Laundering drug money, to
be precise. That's what this is all about, and why we think he left. We think he
stole some mob money and skipped."
She was not completely surprised by this, but some of it was new. "Oh, my. They
said something about the Mafia or something, but I find that hard to accept.
Drug money, you say! He -- he was on the Mayor's Council for Stamping Out Drug
Abuse. He always hated drugs. Wouldn't permit a smoker in the house, and had to
be ready for the hospital before he'd even take an aspirin."
"If that's true, then it makes even less sense," I told her honestly. "I mean,
he had a nice family, money, position. . . . Why do it? He wasn't a thrill
seeker, was he? Somebody who might do it just out of boredom?"
"Oh, my, no! He never even drove the speed limit in spite of his sports car!"
"Then they had something on him. Some kind of blackmail. Do you have any idea
what they had that they could blackmail him with?"
"Certainly not! His life was an open book!" But I could tell by her eyes that
she was hiding something.
There wasn't much more I could press, and I kept seeing the real feds coming
back any minute now, so I made my apologies and my sympathies, palmed a cameo
portrait of him from an end table, and bid her good-bye. Our car was still in
the driveway, but I wasn't going to wait for Brandy.
The tail wasn't hard to spot; they wanted to be noticed, and on the winding
little road leading back down to the expressway at Conshohocken, there wasn't
much chance of shaking or evading them if I wanted to. I knew who it was, and
when we got to the bottom just before the entrance to the Schuylkill, the
flashing light went up on top and he pulled me over into the parking lot of a
rustic-looking restaurant or catering joint.
I got out and leaned easily against the car, waiting for them. There were two
there, but one was on the radio while the other glared at me, then finally got
out and came up. "Can I see your driver's license and registration, please?"
"Can I see your ID first?" I responded. "I want to know who I'm dealing with and
I got a right."
He reached into a breast pocket and did a quick flip of a case too fast for me
to read, so I reached in and did the same damned thing. He reached for it and I
said, "Uh uh. You show me yours open and I'll show you mine."
He took it back out, looking pissed, and held it open. Marshall Kennedy. Neat
first name. I wondered if it had influenced his eventual line of work. He wasn't
a marshal, though; it was Drug Enforcement Administration.
I nodded. "Sam Horowitz, and I'm private, licensed in New Jersey," I told him
truthfully.
He frowned. "So what was that shield you flashed?"
"My old ID with a regular shield. I use it like you do, to get into places
easily. It's part of the job."
"You're looking for Whitlock." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. "Why?"
"I was hired to."
"By who?"
"You know I can't tell you that. I suspect, though, that it was by somebody who