"Mike Resnick - Dog In The Manger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

“It wasn't in the car?”
“No.”
“Then it's probably running around loose in the woods. What you need is a game warden.”
“What I need is a detective!” he snapped. “If you don't want my money, just say the word and
I'll find someone who does.”
I assured him that his money was very near and dear to my heart, and asked where he was.
It turned out that he was at the Clermont County Morgue, some fifteen miles east of the city. I
took a cold shower, put on a fresh if somewhat rumpled blue suit, got into my ‘88 LeBaron,
and drove off to meet him.
The sun was just rising as I left the highway and began winding my way down the little
country roads, and a golden mist seemed to hang over the fields in the damp morning air.
So what if it was six in the morning? I had money in the bank, the Reds were in first place like
the Big Red Machine of old, and I was working again. It looked like the beginning of a pretty
good day.
I was wrong.
Good days were about to become as scarce as $25,000 Weimaraners.

2.

A typical front page story in Cincinnati will concern a viaduct that's being repaired, or perhaps
the condition of Jose Rijo's elbow. A proposed renovation of Fountain Square is good for six
columns and a banner headline. It's a pleasant, peaceful, civilized little city where nothing
nasty ever seems to happen. First Amendment rights get suppressed from time to time—it's
the only city ever to bust an art museum for obscenity, and nudity in print, in film, or in person
sends you straight to hell or to jail, whichever comes first, without passing Go—but most of
the inhabitants, who would never dream of exercising such rights in the first place, think it's a
pretty small price to pay for the resultant tranquility.
So I wasn't surprised to find reporters from both papers and all three TV stations at the
Clermont County Morgue. Journalists were just as starved for action as detectives, and the
fact that Clermont County is a good fifteen miles to the east of Cincinnati wasn't going to stop
them from getting a story. Except that there wasn't any story to get: Alice Dent had evidently
lost control of her car, skidded off the road, and plunged right into the Little Miami, where she
died either of multiple internal injuries or drowning, whichever came first. Open and shut.
I had driven through the sleepy little town of Milford, which seemed to specialize in
undertakers and eight-chimney homes built during the Revolution, and had stopped off for
coffee and a donut. It was just after daybreak when I arrived, and I pulled the LeBaron up
next to one of the mobile news units and got most of the details from a disgruntled
cameraman who kept complaining about driving all the way out here for a routine drowning
story. I felt much the same way.
Lantz met me at the front door, hopping around like a schoolboy trying to control his bladder
until the bell rang.
“You're late,” he complained.
“Nobody is ever late at six thirty in the morning,” I answered drily. “Where's the body?”
“This way,” he said, taking me by the arm with a stronger grip than I would have given him
credit for, and leading me down a sterile white corridor. A number of police were milling
about, and I got the impression from what I could overhear that the previous night had been a
bad one for car wrecks. I introduced myself to the coroner and showed him my ID, and he
ushered Lantz and me into a cool room that smelled of formaldehyde.
There were five bodies stretched out on metal tables, each with an impersonal little tag
hanging from the big toe of the left foot. Three of them were messed up pretty badly, but we