"Laird Long - Broken Hearts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Long Laird)

I held the flask out to her. Just before my arm fell off, she finally took it. Then she killed the contents in one long swallow. A throat like that would be worth something in her business.

"I heard that Malcolm Bull had hired you to find his daughter," she said, smacking her thick lips.

"So?"

"I've put a lot of time and energy into that fat pig!" she said. "And just when he's about ready to kick the bucket, I'm going to sit back and let some bimbo show up and claim her inheritance? I got rights to some of that money!" She tossed her head back majestically. She ran her dirty fingers through her hair; they stuck."God knows I worked for it."

I almost felt sorry for her, but I still wrestled her to the floor to get the flask back.

After three days of scorching legwork, I had gotten nothing more telling than a sunburn. I had checked police records, county welfare records, school records - zip. Even in the blistering L.A. sunshine, it was obvious that the trail was stone cold. Out of sheer frustration, I drove over to Bull's place to ask him for more information. Otherwise, it was hopeless.

I smelled the smell of rotting flesh when I got to the door. Summer in Los Angeles can cook a corpse pretty quick. I found him sprawled on the floor of the living room. His throat was cut and there was a hole in his chest. His heart was missing.

"To find his daughter, right?"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

Boyle glanced at me with only slightly less disgust than he had shown the corpse.

Lieutenant Boyle of the LAPD was a short, stocky homicide hound with a bulldog grip and a machine-gun speech pattern. And, despite what I had told Carla Bleue, he was no buddy of mine. He had made Lieutenant the old-fashioned way: passing the necessary exams and keeping his nose clean for ten long years. He was a tough, honest cop, but he lived in constant fear of an assignment that would call for some brainwork. Thinking wasn't something you master through repetition. He resented that fact, and all those who were aware of it.

"Why'd he hire a bum like you?"

I smiled warmly. "He's loaded with money, Lieutenant. Obviously he can afford the best."

"That explains the digs," Boyle replied, jerking his head around the decayed room.

Boyle stared at the body for a while and then rubbed his tired-looking face with a pair of thick, callused hands. "Musta been some nut. Cut out a guy's heart." He glanced at me quickly. "We're going to keep that fact from the press. For the time being. We got enough problems without flagging the weirdos. So keep your mouth shut! 'Kay?"

"Okay," I said.

Malcolm Bull listened to all this, patiently for a change. He just stared up at the smoke-blackened ceiling. I wondered what he saw from down there.

I got back to the office after a two hour grilling by Boyle and his men. If I took off my shirt, there'd have been stripes on both sides of my torso. Even so, I think they believed my story. There's not much return in a private detective knocking off his wealthy, fee-paying client.

My job was effectively ended, yet I still had to clear my head. I thought of Carla Bleue, and the thousands of other people out there who must have had the misfortune of meeting Malcolm Bull during his sixty-odd years of stepping on faces, and wanted him dead. I thought of the random wackos who prowled the streets of Los Angeles impatiently waiting for their chance to show off. I thought of a little girl who had run away from home a year after her mother had died. Then I thought of the six-pack in the bar fridge in the corner and things suddenly got a whole lot less complicated.

After a couple of malt sandwiches, I was feeling better. I pushed the empty cans away and sat back in my chair. I stretched. I yawned. The traffic on Wiltshire Boulevard was heavy and noisy, but I didn't hear it. I was thinking about a heart. A seldom-used heart. Hardly any miles on it, folks! Malcolm Bull's death would be any ordinary murder, if there were such a thing, except for the missing heart. What, in God's name, would someone do with a human heart?

I smiled. I asked myself: what the hell was there to smile about? But I kept on smiling anyway. Then I frowned. I picked up the phone and pushed some buttons. The receptionist sounded like a long-lost friend. Her name was comprehension. I gave her another one - Doctor Weinkopf.

"Hello."

"Hi, Doc. It's Charles."

"Charles, you old peephole artist! Set up any good divorces lately?"

"I'm working on a case for your wife right now."