"Van Lustbader, Eric - Linnear 04 - The Kaisho" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

'Right,' Do Duc said, flashing his ID briefly as he stepped across the threshold.
The man's eyes tracked the plastic badge. Tm Tony DeCamillo, Mr Goldoni's brother-in-law,'
'Yeah, I know,' Do Duc said, burying his fist in DeCamillo's solar plexus. He held the man up almost gently as DeCamillo retched and gasped for air. Then he brought a knee up into DeCamillo's chin, snapping his head back.
Do Duc let DeCamillo's unconscious form slide to the floor. While so bent over, he took the time to inventory the man's gold jewelry - rings, watch, cufflinks, tie pin. Then he took DeCamillo under the arms and dragged him into the coat closet in the huge marble-floored foyer.

Do Duc used flex he produced from his bag to tie DeCamillo's wrists and ankles. He took a scarf from a shelf, balled it up and stuffed it in DeCamillo's mouth, then secured it with more flex.
There was no cook; Margarite DeCamillo prided herself on being a first-class chef. But there was a live-in cleaning woman. Do Duc found her in the kitchen pantry, preparing her own dinner. He came up silently behind her, looped a-piece of flex around her neck and exerted pressure. She gasped, tried to cry out. Her .nails flailed the air, scratched him down one burly forearm before her breath gave out and she pitched forward into the cans of Redpack tomatoes. He left her there, hunched over, cooling quickly. He crossed to the phone on the wall next to the enormous built-in refrigerator, cautiously picked up the receiver. It was not in use, and he dialed a local number, listened while the electronic clicks and relays sent it caroming on its way out of State. He counted off the requisite five rings before the call was answered, then said into the silence, 'I'm in.'
Back in the foyer Do Duc mounted the wide mahogany staircase. The wood was polished to such a high gloss he could see himself reflected in it. His shoes made no sound on the Persian runner.
Margarite DeCamillo was luxuriating in a steamy bath in the master bedroom wing. Her head was back against a rubber pad, her eyes half closed as she felt the heat seep through her muscles into her bones. This was her favorite time of the day, when she could shut the world away, relax and let her thoughts drift free. The added responsibilities her husband had taken on recently had changed him irrevocably. She knew he was worried, definitely over his head, and probably in trouble.
She knew she was the only person in the world who could help him, but he was Sicilian, and she knew she would have to tread a careful path. It would do no good

reminding him of the roster of show business personalities who had become his clients because of her contacts,
Serenissima, her highly successful boutique cosmetics company, catered to many of the biggest stars of Hollywood and New York, and because she was the creator of all the products they wanted to meet her. Because she was such a shrewd judge of character, it wasn't difficult to pass some of them on to Tony.
As her mind drifted, her fingertips almost unconsciously explored her body, pressing those spots that hurt, the bruises that recurred. The heat of the bath drew the pain out, like the tendrils of some sea creature, and she relaxed.
Eventually, as they inevitably did, her thoughts turned to Francine. At fifteen, her daughter was at a difficult age, too old to be considered a child, too young for the responsibilities of adulthood. The fact that she already had the body of a woman only compounded the problem. Several times, before her brother Dominic had entered the WITSEC program, Margarite had been forced to go to him and ask for his help in extricating Francie from difficulties at school or with a boyfriend too old for her.
Margarite sighed. She loved Francie more than anything in life - and perhaps the resonances of that love were overwhelming to her. She had been torn between following a career and raising Francie virtually alone. She was all too aware that she had never spent enough time with her daughter. But what was she to do? She would shrivel and die if she were chained to the house. Tony had no time or patience for a female child - she believed he continued to resent her for not giving him the male heir he so desperately wanted. But now Margarite could no longer bring a baby to term, and there would only be Francie. No wonder Tony was angry all the time.
The outsized tub was carved from a monstrous piece of black-and-brown onyx, an oval bowl filled now with hot water, aromatic salts and Margarite DeCamillo's voluptuous form. The water spigot was gold, carved in the shape

of a swan's head and artfully curved neck, the taps, also gold, its wings. The niche into which the steeping tub had been set was dad with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, which now reflected the image of Do Duc as he entered the humid room.
Margarite DeCamillo started, simultaneously sitting up straight and clasping her hands over her naked breasts. Her amber eyes opened wide, her ample lips forming an 'O'.
'Who are you? What do you mean by coming -'
'I'm here to make you an offer.' Do Duc's deep voice was soft. Nevertheless, Margarite was compelled to silence.
She stared at this interloper and, somewhat to Do Duc's surprise, had the presence of mind to say, 'What have you done to my husband?'
'He's not dead,' Do Duc said, 'if that's what you're thinking.' He approached her slowly across the steam-sheened tiles. Her eyes watched him as a mongoose will scrutinize a cobra, with equal degrees of fascination and dread. 'He's not even badly injured. Just - sleeping.'
Do Duc now stood at the edge of the tub, looking down at Margarite. She was an exceedingly handsome woman in her mid-thirties, with high cheekbones, wide-set, direct eyes, prominent nose and a thick head of curling dark hair, wet now at the ends so strands stuck to the pearlized flesh of her shoulders and neck. It was an altogether aggressive face, yet he could see that she had learned to guard her private thoughts well. She had that canny, intelligent look that he had seen in many a successful gambler. The initial fright was over, and color returned to her cheeks as she recovered her composure. Do Duc gauged that she was not as frightened of him as she ought to be.
'You said something about an offer.'
Do Duc nodded, noting the choice of her response as well as the coolness of her voice. That's right. We both have something the other wants.' He allowed a smile to

spread over his face. 'For instance, I want to know where Dominic Goldoni is,'
A look of relief came over Margarite, and she laughed. Then you've come to the wrong person. Ask the Feds. I have no idea where my brother is.' Then she snorted derisively. 'Now get the hell out of here, you cheap hustler.'
Do Duc ignored her. He said, 'Don't you want to know what I have that you want?'
She smiled sweetly. 'What could you possibly-?'
Do Duc had already stepped into the tub, the water slopping noisily over the side. He put one hand over her face, the other on her chest, and pressed her violently down until her head disappeared beneath the hot water.
He sidestepped her thrashing legs and dug his fingers into her thick hair, pulling her sputtering and coughing from the water. Her eyes were tearing, her heavy breasts heaving. He saw that, at last, he had gotten her attention.
'Now,' he said, 'can we agree that we have something to talk about?'
'Bastard,' she moaned. 'Bastard to do this to me.'
You haven't seen anything yet, Do Duc thought with a measure of satisfaction.
'I've got nothing to say to you.' Margarite pulled her hair off her face. She sat on the edge of the tub, seemingly oblivious now to her nudity. 'My own life means nothing to me. I'd never betray my brother, even if I knew where they've put him.'
Do Duc drew an oversized bath towel from a rack above his head, threw it at her. 'Dry yourself off,' he said, stepping out of the tub. 'I've got something to show you.'
He herded Margarite out of the bathroom. She had wrapped the towel around her so that it covered her from just above her breasts to just above her knees.
'How stupid are you? Don't you understand it doesn't matter what you do to me? I don't know anything. The Feds made sure of that.'
He took her through the vast master bedroom with its

canopied, four-poster bed and sunken sitting area, complete with curved velvet love-seat and ornate marble fireplace, its mantel held aloft by carved cherubim. A hideous ormolu clock ticked sonorously in the center of the mantel.
Halfway down the hall, Margarite felt her throat catch. She knew where they were headed. 'No,' she said in a very small voice. 'Oh, please, God, no!'
He allowed her to break away from him, and she ran the rest of the way through a half-open door into another bedroom suite. Do Duc followed after her, stopped at the threshold, stooping to retrieve the bath towel that had come undone. He put it over his left arm as he entered a room painted pale pink. Ruffled curtains covered the windows and a number of large stuffed animals sat or stood on the bed.
'Francie!'
Do Duc watched the scene: the naked mother, distraught, tea'ry, hands clasped to her face, staring in horror at her fifteen-year-old daughter strung up by her ankles to the central light fixture.
'Oh, my God, Francie!'
The teenager's oval face, flushed with blood, was wholly inexpressive. Her eyes were closed, her lips half open.