"Stephen Woodworth - Through Violet Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Woodworth Stephen)

like a rosary. “A-B-C-D-E-F-G . . . H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P . . . Q-R-S-T-U-V . . .”

Her voice trailed off. The contours of her face subtly changed, her expression darkening.

Strength surged back into her small frame, and she whipped around, snarling, and clawed the fabric of his
mask, trying to pull it from his face. Anticipating that she would do this, the man caught hold of her arms
and forced them down.

“Who are you?” The girl's voice resonated with adult authority. “Why are you doing this to us?” She
glared at him with gleaming violet eyes.

The smooth, shallow hollows of his masked face betrayed no emotion, but the man trembled visibly.
Holding the struggling child at arm's length, he clasped her head with his rubber-skinned hands in an
almost tender caress.

And then, with a single brisk twist, he snapped her neck.

2

Summoning a Witness

TRAFFIC CLOTTED THE HOLLYWOOD FREEWAY THAT morning, and Dan missed the start of
the Muñoz murder trial. By the time he arrived at the Criminal Justice Center, the prosecution was
already preparing to summon the victim to testify.

Since he was running late, he decided to park in one of the privately owned downtown lots rather than
search for the law-enforcement garage. The Bureau could eat the fourteen-dollar charge. He regretted
the choice before he'd walked even half a block, though, for he could feel sweat dampen the dress shirt
beneath his blazer.

Despite the oppressive heat, spectators and television news crews clustered around the courthouse
entrance, the crowd held at bay by a cordon of uniformed guards from the Sheriff's Office. A Violet was
due to take the stand today, an event so rare that it made headlines. Usually, the mere threat of a Violet's
testimony served to force a plea bargain, yet Hector Muñoz had insisted upon his not-guilty plea and
demanded his day in court.

Dan nudged his way through the crowd to the roped-off area surrounding the entrance and flashed his ID
at the beige-shirted officer standing there, who waved him toward the door.

Relieved to be in the building's cool foyer, Dan showed the Bureau badge again at the lobby's security
checkpoint. “Okay, Agent . . . Atwater.” The white-shirted guard, a beefy Hispanic man, read the ID
and handed it back. “If you like, I can keep your gun for you until you pass through the detector. . . .”

Dan gave him a tight-lipped smile. “No need. I'm not carrying.” He emptied his pockets into a wooden
box and strolled through the door-shaped booth without setting off the alarm.

The guard grinned. “In that case, have a wonderful day!”

Dan touched two fingers to his forehead in a Boy Scout salute and collected his loose change and car
keys.