"Feehan, Christine - Lover Beware 03 - Brand, Fiona - After Midnight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feehan Christine)

"I don't care what Tucker's expertise is. He's got a suspect, and that's good enough for me."
"Then you're easy to please. I hope you sleep well tonight, Mason, because I won't be."
There was a general murmur of assent, punctuated by a sharp cracking sound as Macie crumpled her coffee cup.
"I don't care if he did do it." Macie glanced in the direction of the police station as she straightened with a graceful movement and slung the strap of her purse over one shoulder. "Speaking for every female on the planet, it would be criminal to lock that up for any length of time."

Chapter 4
GRIMLY, MICHAEL STEPPED out of the police cruiser onto the gravel drive that formed a circular area in front of his house. In contrast to the dry heat of the day, the evening was hot and brassy, laden with the pressurized steam-bath heat that presaged cyclone weather. The humidity was already climbing out of his comfort zone so that his skin was sheened with sweat, and his leg was aching, which meant it was going to rain. His head was aching, too, but that was because he'd been battering it against Tucker's entrenched police procedure all day long.
He'd had no alibi, since apart from the hour he'd spent at Jake Robertson's house, he'd spent that evening home, alone, so they'd had to wait on the sketch that the police artist had put together that morning with Carol Dillon, along with the fingerprint records, which hadn't yet been entered into their data system and had to be faxed along with the sketch.
While they'd waited for the paperwork to feed through the machine, he'd gone through the rigmarole of having his prints taken. Tucker had wanted a DNA sample as well, but Michael had held his ground on that one. The hell he was going to have a needle stuck in his arm on Tucker's say-so, when he

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didn't have to. It was bloody-minded-he wouldn't miss the few cc's of blood they required to get their DNA, and basically he didn't begrudge it, because he had no intention of committing any crimes-but by that time he'd been seriously pissed.
When the fax had come through, the print had been so dark, no one had been able to make out any conclusive detail, so an officer had been dispatched from Winslow with a copy of the evidence file.
When the records had finally arrived, the sketch had shown a male Caucasian with long, dark hair, which had, apparently, been another deciding factor in the decision to take him into custody, but the hairstyle had been wildly different from his. For some reason no one had seen fit to tell Tucker that while the murderer did have long hair, it was distinctively styled: cropped short on top, with rat tails hanging around his shoulders.
On the evidence of the sketch alone, Tucker's case was shaky, because there was no way Michael could have grown his hair back to full length in the two and a half days that had passed since the murder and rape had taken place. When they'd finally confirmed that his prints didn't match any of those found either at the Dillons' residence or any of the other sites of the recent wave of home invasion crimes, Tucker had had no choice but to let him go.
Michael watched while his guns were unloaded and deposited on the lawn beside the drive, his cold gaze on Parker as the nervous officer nearly dropped the Ruger again.
When the cruiser accelerated down his driveway, leaving behind a cloud of dust, Michael took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Welcome to Tayler's Creek."
Sonovabitch.
Sometimes he wondered why he bothered to come back.
Although, he'd seen the reason today, and her expression had been so blank, he had to wonder if she even knew he existed.
Broodingly, he surveyed the house, and what land he could see. The paddocks weren't in great shape, because he'd leased them for grazing for years, but that was nothing he couldn't fix up with hard work, sweat, and herbicide. In contrast, the rambling old colonial farmhouse was in good condition be-

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cause he'd systematically renovated and repaired it every time he'd had leave to burn. He'd scraped paint, replaced weatherboards, repainted, and replaced the roof. He'd built a deck off the family room and, when he'd finished on the house, he'd put in a lot of time renovating the stables and the implement shed. He'd kept his hands and his mind busy; otherwise he would have gone crazy wondering what was happening over at the O'Reilly place.
The house had originally belonged to his parents, who had bought the property fifteen years ago, but when his father had died, his mother had decided to move to a tidy little two-bedroom town house in Winslow, rather than cope with the large, sprawling homestead. Michael and his ex-wife had bought the place because at the time it had suited their needs- the farm was large enough that it would provide enough income that he could quit the SAS and they could start a family. The second he'd laid eyes on their new neighbour, Jane O'Reilly, that plan had crashed and burned.
He'd toyed with the idea of selling up and moving elsewhere with Clare, but he'd known instantly that that wouldn't work. Normally, he was disciplined and focused-a real pain in the ass to most people. He was used to controlling every area of his life, including his libido, but no matter how hard he'd tried he'd found he couldn't make himself want Clare. He'd wanted Jane, it had been that simple.
He hadn't wanted to hurt Clare, but as hard as he'd tried not to, he had hurt her, although from all accounts, she hadn't taken too long to get over him, and was now happily married to a barrister in Auckland.
Eyes narrowed, Michael surveyed the sky, which had turned leaden; the clouds churned and clotted, and were struck through with molten shafts of light as the sun dipped into the west. The air was thick with moisture and tasted like brimstone. After weeks of drought, there was going to be an unholy bitch of a storm, and the bad weather suited his mood.
Michael went down on his haunches beside the guns, picked up the Ruger and examined the walnut stock. There was no evidence of a scratch, which meant Zane could live, although he wasn't making any promises about Tucker. If he ever turned up on his property again in an official capacity,

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Michael was likely to put a hot round in his butt and the jail term be damned.
Jaw tight, he began carting the guns and ammunition into the house and securing them in his gun safe. When he was finished, he took a shower, changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt, and grabbed the keys to his truck. Jane's driveway was situated a kilometre north on the main road, although as the crow flies her house was a lot closer, the walking distance from his house to hers, less than half that.
He could walk over there now, but it was ingrained in him not to take that casual an approach. He'd always taken pains to keep his distance and preserve a certain formality in his dealings with both Jane and Patrick, unwilling to hurt a dying man, because he couldn't keep his hands off Patrick O'Reilly's wife, but right now he was too steamed to walk anywhere.
When he drew up next to the O'Reilly cottage, the long extended twilight had condensed into early dusk, helped along by the thick mantle of cloud. All the lights were off in the house, and Jess was barking.
Michael knocked on the front door. When there was no reply, he walked around the side of the house, his gaze brooding as he knocked on the kitchen door, then scanned the smoothly mown lawns, the neatly weeded vegetable garden, and the lush shrubbery. Jess was tied up, which meant Jane was out.
He strolled over to the kennel and went down on his haunches beside the little dog. She whined and shoved her muzzle at his hand. He rubbed behind her ears. "At least you're not afraid of me."
He had a strong suspicion that Jane was frightened out of her skin of him, and the way he felt right now, she should be.
He did a quick circuit of the outbuildings, automatically testing the locks, the urge to check the security of the buildings ingrained. The O'Reilly place was, in stark contrast to his, as neat and tidy as a new pin. A small herd of southdown sheep grazed in the paddock adjacent to the house, their wool recently clipped. The fences and the stockyard were in good repair, and the barn had just had a fresh coat of paint. He checked her garage and saw that it was empty.
Cursing beneath his breath, he thumped the side of the small weatherboard building. Damned if he'd leave without

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letting her know he'd been here. Jane had been avoiding him for days. The blank stare she'd given him in the car park outside the police station was the sum total of their interaction , since he'd come back.
He strode back to his truck, reached into the glove box, pulled out a pen, and ripped a sheet from his diary. Scribbling a note, he anchored the piece of paper on the doormat of the front door with a rock he found in the garden.
It was hardly satisfactory, but it conveyed his message. He was finished with playing games. He'd waited seven years.
As far as he was concerned that was seven years too long.
JANE EDGED THE car into her garage. It was dark, the night moonless and overcast as she slung the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and hauled her bags of groceries out of the boot. Juggling the bags, she locked the car and the garage door, then trudged the short distance to the house and set the groceries down on the path while she went to let Jess off the leash.
Jess strained at the collar, tail wagging, as Jane struggled to unclip the leash. A wet tongue swiped across her face, then the clip came free, and Jess bounded off into the night, doing her customary tour of the grounds as Jane collected the groceries and mounted the steps to the verandah. As she set the groceries down, the pale luminescence of a piece of white paper caught her eye. She retrieved the note, and set the rock that had anchored it to the doormat to one side, unlocked the door, and flicked on the hall and porch lights.
The note was brief and to the point.
"Call me, Michael."