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

“Oh, yes.” She frowned at it. “Pretty little thing, isn't it?”

It was. It was so small that it fit in the palm of her hand. I took the gun from her and examined the barrel.
Etched into the plating were the initials V.L., exactly as I expected.

“What's there?” Lucinda asked.

“Hmm?” I looked at her. She was frowning at me. “Oh, nothing. Mind if I keep this?”

“I surely don't want it.” She put her hands on her wide hips. “But it is a special gun. He might come back
for it.”

“He might at that. Where's Travis?” Travis worked as her security on busy nights.

“Probably drinking. He hasn't come back since he fetched you.”

I checked the gun's chamber. It wasn't loaded. I slipped the gun in my pocket. “You get your own gun
out, stay awake a while. I'll make sure Sheriff Muller comes to keep an eye on this place, and I'll find
Travis for you.”

Lucinda smiled at me. “You always take good care of us, Will.”

In the past, I would have leaned over and kissed her cheek. But I didn't dare get more perfume on me
than had already leached into my clothes from this place. “You can tell Doc that it's all right to come
downstairs again.”

Lucinda's smile turned sly. “I'm sure he'll come down when he's ready.”

“When he does,” I said, “make sure he does something with Jeanne. Remind him that's his responsibility,
not mine.”

Her smile faded. “Of all my girls to end up like that, I'd've never imagined Jeanne.”

“Why not?” I asked.

Lucinda's gaze met mine. “She never was one who liked it rough.”
****

I found Travis and sent him back to Lucinda's, not that he would do much good considering the condition
he was in. Then I slapped Muller awake and sent him as well. He, at least, was a little more sober than
Travis, only because he'd had time to sleep it off.

All the while, I fingered the gun in my pocket, the cold metal sending shivers through me. It took all my
strength to find the men, to get them back to Lucinda's, before heading home.

The sun was rising as I walked up Main. My house was dark, curtains closed, and the door locked. I
opened the front door as quietly as I could and stepped inside. The early morning brightness hadn't
reached the interior of the house. Everything was in shadow. But the baby wasn't crying.
I made my way up the stairs. When I reached the bedroom door, I stared at my wife, asleep in our bed.
She lay on her left side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her chest rising and falling with her even