"Дон Пендлтон. The Violent Streets ("Палач" #41) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Bolan appreciated her spirit as much as her good looks. She was plucky
enough to endure a deadly and humiliating ordeal, and then play cop. She was
strong inside.
"The name I used to register will do for now," he told her. "Let's just
say that our paths crossed at an opportune moment."
"Opportune for me," she said. "Why for you?"
Bolan shrugged, dropping into a chair beside the bed.
"If you're dead, you can't answer those questions," he said simply.
"I may not answer anyway."
"You haven't heard them yet."
"Okay."
Bolan paused briefly.
"I need some information on one of your cases, "he began.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Which case?" she asked stiffly.
"The Blancanales rape."
It was as if he had slapped her across the face. She tried to regain
her composure at once, but the effect of his words was obvious.
"What's your interest?" she asked finally. She was going to stall.
"Let's say I'm interested in justice."
"You must know I can't divulge information in a rape case," she said.
Her voice had become confidential, even though they were clearly alone.
"You're wasting your time."
"I don't want the lurid stuff," he said. "I'm not interested in it. My
interest lies in what's being done to close the case."
It took her some moments to consider what he had just said. She averted
her eyes as she answered.
"A rape can be one of the hardest cases to break, especially where the
perpetrator is a stranger to the victim."
"Or when someone upstairs is running interference?"
He had timed that bomb deliberately. He watched her face closely. He
saw what he was looking for - angry fire in her eyes... and something more,
deep down, when her head snapped up to meet his cool gaze directly.
"What? Now, look, I don't think we should continue..."
"Why were you dumped from the rape squad, Fran?" He asked it softly.
"Why now, instead of last month or next year?"
She was stunned.
"Listen, Mr. Whoever, I wasn't..."
She paused in mid-sentence. Then her shoulders seemed to sag, as if she
was tired from carrying the weight of the world.
"So, okay," she said. "I was dumped."
"Why?"
She shook her head firmly, sending her barely dry blonde curls into
shimmering motion around her face.
"No. You're asking me to reveal department business for a civilian who
won't even give me his name."
Bolan fished a nondescript Justice Department ID card out of a breast
pocket and skimmed it across to her. It carried the La Mancha alias and was
one of the many traveling papers prepared for him by the machinery housed at
Stony Man Farm. The card would confirm an identity and official position for