"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Death on D Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

Already I could hazard a guess on how the attack happened. He'd been sent to the back parlor and
waited there, standing near the empty fireplace as Jeanne came out of the kitchen, carrying a silver tray.
She'd clearly expected to entertain him, but whether that entertainment would lead to a trip upstairs, I
couldn't yet tell. She'd planned on drinking with him, though, and she hadn't even gotten to the place
where she could set the drinks down.

He grabbed her from behind, slit her throat quickly and viciously. She'd realized what was going
on—she probably had a hell of a self-preservation instinct—and grabbed at the knife as he pulled it along
her throat. But she hadn't had a chance to scream—he'd been too fast for her—and the method he chose
wouldn't have allowed it.

Her life sprayed out of her fast, but she'd still struggled, forcing him to spin around because he was
having trouble holding her. But she'd stopped pretty quick, going limp in his arms. Then he dropped her
and ran out the kitchen—arms and hands bloody, but otherwise unscathed.

Knife wasn't there. Nothing else was there, except a downed silver tray and the body of a woman Doc
felt important enough to take time from my family.

I pushed open the kitchen door, and went inside. The kitchen was clean and everything was in its place.
No dirt on the sideboards, tin canisters lined up against the walls. No fire burned in the stove, even
though this room was hotter than the parlor. The only thing out of order was the whiskey decanter on the
long kitchen table—and the bloody handprint on the back door.
****

I decided to talk to the girls individually. Most of them couldn't tell me anything—they'd been upstairs
with a client. Only Lucinda and Elly had seen anything at all.

Elly'd been between customers when the front door opened. A blond man, his hair falling ragged over
his collar, came inside. Despite the day's heat, he'd had on a gray coat. It was worn, almost a part of him.
His hands were tucked in the pockets, pulling it down, messing up its shape.

At first she thought him old because he was so thin and he walked with a limp. Then she looked at his
face and realized he couldn't be thirty yet. He spoke with a Southern accent and his eyes were haunted.
She figured him to be a Reb who'd been wandering since the war ended. She didn't remember seeing him
before.

She'd sidled up to him, put a hand on his chest, and thrust herself against him. “I'm just what you need,”
she'd said.

“Maybe so, darlin',” he'd said gently, “but you ain't what I want.”

She'd backed away from him then, and Lucinda'd come forward. Elly went to the kitchen where Jeanne
was cleaning the sideboards. She hadn't had a customer all night and she was restless, feeling trapped in
the house, unable to go outside.

They talked for a while, about nothing, Elly said, and then Elly rolled herself a cigarette and took it out
back so Lucinda wouldn't catch her.
Not that Lucinda was trying. She was talking to the stranger, finding out exactly what it was he wanted.

He'd heard, he said, she had a colored girl in the house. Then he'd lowered his voice so soft she had to