"Дон Пендлтон. California Hit ("Палач" #11) " - читать интересную книгу автораHalf of the firefighting equipment in the city seemed to be spotted around the China Gardens. Fire hoses were strung out in precise patterns and firemen swarmed everywhere, many of them wearing asbestos gear and equipped with oxygen masks. It was a real scorcher. It was a damned lucky thing that this joint was sitting out by itself this way, or half of North Beach would have gone up with it. Detective Sergeant Bill Phillips of the Brushfire Squad paced restlessly about the Life Emergency command post, trying to put the pieces together in his mind and impatiently waiting to get down onto the scene. The Life Emergency - LE - people had found very little of life to worry about. Six victims were dead of gunshot wounds, another four had been killed instantly in the blast, and God only knew how many they'd find cremated inside - if they could ever get in there for a look-see. Another police cruiser eased through the confusion and came to a halt inside the emergency perimeter. The heavy man in blue who descended from it was the Harbor Precinct boss, Captain Barney Gibson, a tough old cop with many ups and downs in his spotted career. Gibson did not like black people - and Sgt. Phillips had a personal radar that detected such feelings, since Phillips himself was a black man - but he joined the Captain immediately and gave him a limp salute, not acknowledged. They stood shoulder to shoulder in a brooding silence for a long moment, then the sergeant commented, "You've got a messy one here, Cap'n." The Sergeant cocked his head and scratched absently at his neck. "Don't know," he admitted. "Right now it's just a damn mess. I happened to be in the neighborhood when the call came down... so I dropped in. It might be a Brushfire. What do you think?" Gibson shrugged his beefy shoulders. "This is a mob joint. Or it was." "Yes sir. That's one reason for all the heat, I guess. Fire Department says the basement of that east wing was a regular liquor warehouse. And I'll bet every drop of it was contraband." "How many gunshot victims?" Gibson asked, ignoring the other information. Phillips sighed. "Six." The Captain whistled through his teeth. "That many." "Life Emergency says another four died in the initial blast. They think it was caused by an explosives charge." "It figures." Gibson sniffed and swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. "Fog's bad tonight," he commented. "It's bad every night," Phillips said. "Who's in charge?" "Lt. Warnicke. He's inside, looking over the victims." Captain Gibson grunted and ambled off toward the LE van. Phillips hesitated momentarily, then followed the veteran cop into the rolling medical center. Warnicke was at the far end, in the DOA section, drinking coffee and talking with two white-clad medics. He was a tall, graceful man with a touch |
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