"Rusch-SpiritGuides" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

champagne flutes, the scattered applause as the nominees were announced.
Searching for a kind of beauty that existed only in celluloid, a product of
light and shadows and nothing more.

El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Artgales de Porciuncula.

The City of Our Lady, Queen of the Angels of Porciuncula.

He knew nothing of the Angels of Porciuncula, did not know why Filipe de Neve in
1781 named the city after them. He suspected it was some kind of prophecy, but
he didn't know.

They had been fallen angels.

Of that he was sure.

He sighed, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a grimy hand, then returned to
his car, knowing that home and sleep would elude him for one more night.

Lean and spare, Kincaid survived on cigarettes, coffee, chocolate and bourbon.
Sometime in the last five years, he had allowed the LAPD to hire him, although
he had no formal training. After a few odd run-ins and one overnight jail stay
before it became clear that Kincaid wasn't anywhere near the crime scene,
Kincaid had met Davis, his boss. Davis had the flat gaze of a man who had seen
too much, and he knew, from the records and the evidence before him, that
Kincaid was too precious to lose. He made Kincaid a plainclothes detective and
never assigned him a partner.

Kincaid never told anyone what he did. Most of the cops he worked with never
knew. All they cared about was that when Kincaid was on the job, suspects were
found, cases were closed, and files were sealed. He worked quietly and he got
results.

They didn't need him on this one. The perp was caught at the scene. All he had
to do was write his report, then go home, toss the tennies in the trash, soak
the Levis, and wait for another day.

But it wasn't that easy. He sat in his car, an olive Green 1968 Olds with a
fading pine-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror, long after
his colleagues had left. His hands were still shaking, his nostrils still coated
with the scent of blood and burgers, his ears dogged with the faint sobs of a
pimply-faced boy rocking over the body of a fallen coworker. The images would
stick, along with all of the others. His brain was reaching overload. Had been
for a long time. But that little girl's voice, the plea in her tone, had been
more than he could bear.

For twenty years, he had tried to escape, always ending up in a new town, with
new problems. Shootings in Oklahoma parking lots, bombings in Upstate New York,
murders in restaurants and shopping malls and suburban family pickups. The
violence surrounded him, and he was trapped.