"Дон Пендлтон. California Hit ("Палач" #11) " - читать интересную книгу автора


Half 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."
"Figure it's a Brushfire?" Gibson sourly inquired.
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