"Robb, J D - In Death 10 - Loyalty in Death (1)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robb J D)

to hers -- one brush, then two.
It was her mouth that heated, her hands that reached up to fist in his thick,
black hair and drag him closer. Take him deeper. Before he could shift to set
the wine aside, she flipped over, knocking the glass to the floor as she
straddled him.
He lifted a brow, eyes glinting, as he used his nimble fingers to unbutton her
shirt. "I'd say we know how this one ends, too."
"Yeah." Grinning, she bent down to bite his bottom lip. "Let's see how we get
there this time."
CHAPTER TWO
Eve scowled at her desk-link after she'd finished her conversation with the PA's
office. They'd accepted a plea of man two on Lisbeth Cooke.
Second-degree manslaughter, she thought in disgust, for a woman who had cool-
headedly, cold-bloodedly ended a life because a man couldn't control his dick.
She'd do a year at best in a minimum-security facility where she'd paint her
nails and brush up on her fucking tennis serve. She'd very likely sign a disc
and video deal on the story for a tidy sum, retire, and move to Martinique.
Eve knew she'd told Peabody to take what you could get, but even she hadn't
expected it to be so little.
She damn well let the APA -- and she'd told the spineless little prick in short,
pithy terms -- inform the next of kin why justice was too overworked to bother -
- why it had been in such a fucking hurry to deal it hadn't even waited to
settle until she'd finished her report.
Setting her teeth, she rapped a fist against her computer in anticipation of its
vagaries and called up the ME's report on Branson.
He'd been a healthy male of fifty-one, with no medical conditions. There were no
marks or injuries to the body other than the nasty hole made by a whirling drill
bit.
No drugs or alcohol in the system, she noted. No indication of recent sexual
activity. Stomach contents indicated a simple last meal of carrot pasta and peas
in a light cream sauce, cracked wheat bread, and herbal tea ingested less than
an hour before time of death.
Pretty boring meal, she decided, for such a sneaky ladies' man.
And who, she asked herself, said he was a ladies' man but the women who'd killed
him? In their damn rush to clear the dockets, they hadn't given her time to
verify the motive for the pissy man two.
When it hit the media, and it would, she imagined a lot of dissatisfied sexual
partners were going to be eyeing the tool closet.
Lover piss you off? she thought. Well, see how he likes a taste of the Branson
8000 -- the choice of professionals and serious hobbyists. Oh yeah, she thought
Lisbeth Cooke could work up a pretty jazzy ad campaign using that angle. Sales
would shoot right up.
Relationships had to be society's most baffling and brutal form of
entertainment. Most could make an arena ball playoff game look like a ballroom
dance. Still, lonely souls continued to seek them out, cling to them, fret and
fight over them, and mourn the loss of them.
No wonder the world was full of whacks.
The glint of her wedding ring caught her eye and made her wince. That was
different, she assured herself. She hadn't sought anything out. It had found
her, taken her down like a hard tackle to the back of the knees. And if Roarke