"Van Lustbader, Eric - Dark Homecoming(eng)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

Majeur provided more directions, and they ended up cruising slowly down a deserted street called Rosemary Avenue. Croaker had never been here before. Up ahead, he could see the black wrought-iron fence of a cemetery.
"Park at the end of the street, would you," Majeur said.
It was a No Standing zone, but that didn't seem to bother the attorney any. When they got out, Croaker saw that Majeur had exchanged his attach? for what looked like an old-fashioned lunch box with a domed lid. Majeur saw the direction of Croaker's look and said almost apologetically, "Breakfast. With my schedule, it pays to be prepared twenty-four hours a day." He shrugged. "Tomorrow never knows."
He led Croaker across the pavement to the locked gates of the cemetery. He produced a key and unlocked the gates. They slipped through and he carefully relocked it.
Sun shone and birds twittered, flitting from tree to tree. They strolled, seemingly aimlessly, down moss-strewn paths, past granite headstones scrubbed dull by wind and torrential rain. Occasionally, they passed the tattered remains of an offering: the stems of flowers long dried to dust, burned-down votive candles in red glass cups.
"Hungry?" Majeur placed the lunch box atop a headstone and snapped it open. This grave had a bouquet of fresh flowers atop it, tightly wrapped in green florist's paper, as if someone had just placed it there. But Croaker, scanning the vicinity, determined they were alone in the cemetery.
"Breakfast for two." Majeur pulled out a pair of big Cuban sandwiches of roast pork and fried onions wrapped in waxed paper. He also had a thermos of rich, dark Cuban coffee and Cuban sweet rolls.
"I think I'll pass, for the moment," Croaker said.
"Pity. I waited for you." Majeur was already unwrapping waxed paper from around a sandwich.
You could tell a lot about someone by the way they ate and the way they made love, Croaker had found. Not surprising. Both stemmed from a primitive place, animal instincts that existed in all human beings. But it was in the way in which those instincts manifested themselves that spoke of how a personality had been shaped, twisted, and bent, what was important to it and what was not. In eating and making love, artifice ended and the true person began to emerge.
Majeur was fastidious. He manipulated the awkward sandwich the way Croaker imagined a surgeon handled a living heart. Firmly, delicately, precisely, Majeur took dainty, even bites out of the monstrous thing, reducing it by stages to smaller and smaller squares until it was entirely consumed. When he had chewed and swallowed the last bite, he spun off the top of the thermos and poured coffee into the plastic top. The smell of it was instantly overpowering. He did not touch the sweet rolls.
When he was finished, he did not even have to wipe his lips. He rubbed his hands together and got down to business. "Mr. Croaker, my offer is a simple one. My client has access to a healthy human kidney. It is compatible with your niece's blood type and body chemistry. We would, of course, provide all the necessary documentation for the doctor-I believe her name is Jennifer Marsh."
The thought that Rachel had a shot at life made Croaker feel woozy with elation, as if he'd had too much of Bennie's mescal. But he needed to calm himself, to get some assurances, to make certain this wasn't some kind of scam. "If you have any shred of human compassion, Mr. Majeur, you'll tell me the truth. Does your client really have a compatible kidney? I mean if this is bullshit... well, a young girl's life is nothing to fuck with, I can tell you."
"I assure you it exists, Mr. Croaker, and that it is available to my client." From an inside breast pocket he slipped Croaker a set of folded papers.
"Is this a registered kidney?"
Majeur smiled. "As far as UNOS is concerned it's strictly kosher."
Croaker had seen papers like these before; Jenny Marsh had shown them to him just before she'd administered the compatibility tests. They were certificates of specification-blood type compatibility, HLA typing, so forth. Because Jenny Marsh had shown them to him, he knew Rachel's blood type and HLA levels. A match of six out of six human lymphocitic antigens would be perfect; the risk of organ rejection that much less. Also, it would be too good to be true.
Croaker's pulse rate accelerated as he saw that five out of six of the donor's antigens matched Rachel's. Good God, this was no joke.
Majeur had the one thing that would save Rachel's life It was like a gift from God.
Majeur bent forward from the waist and whispered as he had done at the hospital entrance. "So easily it will be available to your niece."
Croaker ruffled the pages. "I'll want to hold on to these."
Majeur spread his hands wide. "By all means. Show them to your Dr. Marsh. Check everything out. My client wants you to feel secure in his promise." He waited only a moment. "But do not take too long. As I am certain Dr. Marsh has made clear your niece has very little time remaining before even a compatible kidney will do her no good." Croaker scarcely heard Majeur. His heart was beating so fast he could hardly hear himself think. The kidney was real, it existed. It was Rachel's only chance at life. He could not let it slip through his fingers. But what did this joker and his client have up their sleeves? "How does your client know about my niece's situation?"
"From Dr. Marsh, I believe." Majeur held out one hand, palm up. "Indirectly. She's made quite a number of phone calls on your niece's behalf. Renal pathology is a kind of closed community, so the word spread quite rapidly. He has many physician friends."
"And your client is...?"
Majeur smiled. "For reasons that will shortly become apparent, he wishes to remain anonymous."
"Sorry," Croaker said. "I don't do business with anyone by that name."
"Oh, come now, sir." Majeur spread his arms. "Back north in New York City you dealt with many an anonymous source."
"Criminals."
Majeur stroked his temple with a forefinger. "Not all of them, surely."
Croaker stared at him, silent.
Majeur was unperturbed. "In any case, I don't believe you have any choice in this matter." He waited an appropriate moment, and Croaker had another flash of him dramatically addressing a jury in closing arguments. "Not, that is, unless you want Rachel to die." His first use of Rachel's name was as shocking as a splash of cold water in Croaker's face. "And she will die, sir, without that kidney. Dr. Marsh-and others, I have no doubt-have confirmed that."
Croaker said nothing for a very long time. Dimly, like a background wash, he could hear the traffic picking up on Broadway, Rap music, raw and searing, on a boom box, waxed and waned, drifting away on the sunshine. Here, in the cemetery, it was unnaturally still. And getting hotter by the minute.
Croaker stirred. "Okay. Say your client does have access to a kidney that's compatible. How much does he want for it? I'm not a millionaire, though my sister's got access to money."
"Oh, it's not money," Majeur said. "No, no, nothing like that. In fact, my client would like you to keep the keys to the Mustang."
"I don't think so."
"Tangible evidence of his sincerity and good will." Majeur carefully stuffed the used waxed paper back into the lunch box. "There are no strings attached, I assure you." He poured himself more coffee. "Ownership papers are in the glove compartment; you'll find them in order, I assure you. The car is yours no matter what may eventuate."
Then he looked up at Croaker and smiled his most benign smile, the one he reserved for the members of the jury, the one they'd undoubtedly take back with them to their deliberations. "Take it, sir. I know my client. It would be an offense if you refused his gift."
By that one simple statement Majeur was telling Croaker all he needed to know about the mysterious client: he was rich, he was powerful, he had considerable influence. He was generous, probably honorable, quite possibly without scruples.
"What's the quid pro quo for the kidney?"
Majeur nodded, as if he approved of the decision Croaker had made. "Before I begin, my client wants you to know that it was his wish to donate this kidney to your niece free and clear. Unfortunately, circumstances make that largesse impossible." His forefinger tapped the front of the headstone. "You see this?"
Croaker looked at the granite marker. It said: THERESA MARQUESA
BARBACENA 1970-1996. MAY GRACE AND MERCY FOLLOW HER FOREVER.
"As you can see, Theresa was twenty-six when she died." Majeur closed the lunch box slowly and silently. "When she was murdered." His hands were clasped loosely atop the lunch box, like attendants awaiting further instructions.
"What relationship was the girl to your client?"
It was Majeur's turn to keep his own silent counsel.
Croaker took a deep breath. "So in return for the kidney your client wants me to find out who murdered her."
"Oh, no, sir." Majeur had clearly reached the climax of his summation. "My client already knows who killed her. Her husband, one Juan Garcia Barbacena. He killed her by beating her insensate, then tying an electrical cord around her neck and squeezing until her tongue popped out of her mouth and blood leaked from her eyes."
Majeur was a master. He waited just long enough for Croaker to have digested the grisly details of the murder before he went on.
"And do you know why he killed her, sir?" He shook his head. "It was for the most banal of reasons. He had a mistress, and Theresa found out about it. Instead of going to someone who could help her-someone such as my client-and allowing him to act on it in his own time and manner, she confronted Juan Garcia. She threatened him-verbally, not physically, I assure you. She was not that kind of person. And, in response, he promptly killed her."
"Sounds like an open-and-shut case," Croaker said. "If what you say is true-"