"Crystal Skull" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacGregor Rob)

He tilted it toward her, made a face. "It's nothing."
She ran her fingers through his hair. "Nothing? It is all black and blue." Her fingers slid down over his cheek. "I wish you would be more careful. I worry about you."
That was Tina. Annoyed with him one moment, sentimental the next. He drew his head back. "There was nothing to be careful about. I had no idea I was in danger."
She rested her chin on her hand. "So tell me about this crystal skull. It sounds very mysterious."
"Not much to tell. That's why I want you to find something on it."
"Was it stolen?"
"Good guess. Listen, I've got to go. Call me when you have something. All right?"
Those big brown eyes fixed on him. "I always do," she said.
He stepped over the box, edged through the carts, and left the office. Jesus, she loved to make him feel guilty. But he knew damn well he asked for it. Even though it was her idea that they should remain friends, he was the one who kept asking her for help. Maybe it worked for some ex-spouses, but it wasn't working for him and Tina. Sooner or later, he would have to end it.
* * * *
Pierce drove slowly along a quiet residential street in Coconut Grove. A plum-colored ribbon of light bled across the western sky, the last vestige of dusk. Halfway down the block, he pulled to the curb near Elise Simms's house. Nice neighborhood. But when you paid nearly a quarter-million for a forty-year-old, two-bedroom wood-frame house, you'd damn well _better_ like the neighborhood.
The house was shrouded in hibiscus and bougainvillea, but he could see that the windows were dark and the driveway leading up to it was empty. He'd wait for her, but while he waited he'd have a chat with her neighbors. No resource had ever proven as fruitful as neighborhood gossip. The things some people divulged about their neighbors never failed to astonish him. It was as if they'd been waiting for someone to ask what so and so did at night, who visited, who else lived there.
Just in case Simms knew his car, he parked it around the corner. He passed under a streetlamp just as the light blinked on for the night, and his shadow veered out in front of him. Pebbles crunched underfoot. As he approached the house next to Simms's place, he took out his notepad, rang the bell.
When the door opened, a man in his early thirties, wearing suspenders and a tie, greeted him with a questioning look. "Can I help you?"
"Evening. My name's Tracy Holmes. I'm a private investigator. I'm just doing a routine insurance company check on your neighbor, Elise Simms. Can I ask you a couple of questions?"
"You got a card?" Suspenders asked warily.
Pierce patted his shirt pocket. "Just gave out my last one. Sorry."
He hadn't used his real name because he didn't want Suspenders warning Simms if he didn't manage to talk to her this evening. He always used Tracy Holmes, because it sounded vaguely familiar, like someone you'd heard of. No one, to his knowledge, had ever realized it was a combination of Dick Tracy and Sherlock Holmes.
"Look, I don't know her very well. We've only lived here a few months. I've said hello once or twice. That's about it."
"She have any friends in the neighborhood?"
Suspenders frowned at him, obviously interested in ending the conversation. "You might ask across the street. The old lady keeps tabs on everyone."
Over the years, he'd developed his own interviewing technique, and usually knew just what balance of authority and friendliness to use to get a person talking. With suspicious types, like Suspenders, he looked for leads while assuring them he'd be on his way any moment now. He noticed the man's smug smile when he mentioned the neighbor lady. Either the woman was going to beat him with a broom, or she'd talk nonstop about everyone on the block. He was hoping for the latter.
He thanked the man, started to turn away, then stopped. "Has Ms. Simms caused you any problems?"
"Like I said, I don't know her well. She's a good neighbor as far as I'm concerned. She's quiet. Real quiet. Like a mouse."
"Seen any visitors over there?" he asked, making one last effort.
"Can't say I've noticed any. But I don't have a good view with all her trees and shrubs, and I really haven't paid much attention. Now if you'll excuse me, my dinner's getting cold."
Pierce walked across the street. Suspenders had been a disappointment, but there were plenty of neighbors, even if he struck out with the old lady. Unlike most of the others on the block, the house the man had pointed out wasn't encased in tropical shrubbery. The front windows offered a clear view of the street, and he could detect a shadowy figure watching him as he stepped along the walk. He glanced over his shoulder as he reached the door; he could see Simms's driveway and part of the house.
As soon as he knocked, an outside light came on. He read the name on the mailbox just as the door opened. He wouldn't have been surprised to see a woman in a loose shift and gray hair tied in a bun, wearing pointy-rimmed glasses -- the prototype neighborhood gossip. Instead, he was looking at a spindly woman whose shoulder-length silver hair was streaked with pink. She was dressed in a gaudy outfit with black tights, tennis shoes, vibrant green mini-skirt, and paint-splattered baggy white blouse. She might've been dressed by a granddaughter on bad drugs. Her lips were smeared red; she was a nightmare.
"If you're selling something, I've already got one. Or I don't want it."
Pierce smiled, shook his head. "I'm not selling anything, Mrs. Johnson." He told her who he was and what he was interested in talking about. He caught a glint of interest in her eyes. She nodded.
"Well, you look like a nice young man. If we're going to talk, let's not do it on the front step. Please come inside, and you can call me Fanny."
She led the way into a living room that was furnished like a boudoir. She stopped in front of a plush pink couch. "Sit down. You're lucky you caught me. I was just about to leave for the movies. Can I get you a drink?"
"No, I'm fine." He felt a little uneasy as she sat down next to him on the couch.
"Now who'd you say you were with, Mr. Tracy?" She laughed. "This is kind of exciting. Like the movies. Did you see _Dick Tracy_?"
"It's Holmes. Tracy Holmes. Like I said, it's simply a routine check for an insurance company."
"Was it a home invasion? I haven't seen any police cars out here."
"No, it's nothing like that."
"Oh, just a burglary?"
Pierce knew it was important to feed her some information to encourage her to reciprocate. "She's a key witness in a case going to trial, and -- "
"Murder?" the woman's eyes widened.
"No, no. It was just a car accident. The insurer wants to know who's going to be on the witness stand to testify against his client."
She gave him a disappointed look. "Oh, what do you want to know?"
"Whatever you can tell me about her, Mrs. John -- Fanny."
"Well, she's an odd one."
Pierce nodded. Look who's talking, he thought.
"Know what she does for a living? She's one of these bone diggers."
"An archaeologist," he said evenly.
"Divorced, too. Think she kicked him out. Such a shame. You know, when I was young, it was terrible to have your husband leave you. Now, it's a goddamn ritual. But you know, I still see him poking around the place once in a while. Makes you wonder."
"Notice any other visitors, a boyfriend maybe?"
"There's one." She cackled, reached for his forearm and squeezed it, and gave him a conspiratorial look. "This old fart's gotta be in his seventies, a white-haired man. Long white hair. More my type than hers. Wonder where she dug him up." She laughed again and slapped him on the arm. "Get it? Dug him up?"