[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.” She glanced up at him.“That’s Internal Affairs.”It was his turn to stiffen, but she tugged lightly on his arm, waving her free hand vaguely toward the street.“It’s all right, they’re not following me, it’s nothing like that.Corruption or anything, I mean.” A deep breath that exhaled quietly.The grip on his arm didn’t change.“There was a shooting over at East Bridge last weekend—that’s a mall, by the way—and I was involved.A daylight robbery attempt.The guy’s dead.” She hesitated.“I was the shooter.”He heard no remorse in her tone, nor did he sense any.“The trouble is, he was black, and I’m not.”“So?”“So it was either desk duty and a whole bunch of stupid papers, or leave until everything’s sorted out and the protests calm down a bit.I took the leave.”They were the only ones on the street.No cars, no buses; it might as well have been midnight.A faint mist began to fall, and it felt as if they were walking through fog.Another block, and there were curbside trees, their branches bare, skeleton shadows cast across the damp pavement.Treed islands in the center of the street as well, now, and in the distance the faint sound of an ambulance wailing.“Here’s the thing,” she said, fumbling in her purse with her left hand.“Check those reports out tonight.I assume you’ll know what you’re reading.”“Pretty much,” he answered, taking a business card from her.On the back she had written what he gathered was her home telephone number.“I’ll meet you tomorrow for breakfast,” she continued.“If you have any questions, ask them then.Then … whatever you need me for.”“We can’t talk tonight?”“Is there a rush?”The last killing had been a fortnight ago, according to the sketchy information Chesney had given him.Anything fresh would have been gone days ago.He shook his head.“Good.Because I have a date, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand him up.”The Read House was on the corner, a narrow canopy stretching from its brick front to the curb.There was no doorman, only a trio of empty newspaper machines.Long windows stretched left and right away from the glass-door entrance—to the right, they displayed clothing for the half-dozen expensive shops inside; to the left he could see small restaurant/bar tables, empty of patrons, in a section cut off from the rest of the room by a latticework wall.Across the boulevard someone laughed drunkenly, and someone scolded.They stood for a moment beneath the canopy, backs to a sudden wind, before she released his arm and looked up at him, one eye partially closed.Examining him, the ghost of a smile at her lips.She wants to ask, he thought, but she probably won’t.Not tonight.“Nine o’clock,” she said abruptly, turned, and walked across the street without checking for traffic, toward a large and largely empty parking lot on the opposite corner.He watched until she let herself into a small sedan and drove away.Then he went inside, took the elevator to his floor, and stood for a second in front of his door, searching his pockets for the electronic key.He hated those things.They didn’t seem real, just stiff cardboard with holes punched in them.When he found it, he let himself in, softly kicked the door closed behind him, and flicked the wall switch on as he shrugged off his coat.A table lamp was the only illumination, but he didn’t need anymore.One look told him someone had been here while he’d been gone.It wasn’t the maid.The room had been searched.The room had once been two, the center of the connecting wall replaced by an archway that accentuated the high plaster ceiling and pale floral wallpaper.Opposite the door was a three-cushion couch fronted by a glass-top cocktail table and flanked by end tables on which stood two tall brass lamps; a high window behind the couch overlooked Broad Street, hidden now by thick drapes.To the right was a closet and an inset wet bar backed by a mirror; to his left, a cherry-wood table with three matching padded chairs set around it.Richard dropped the coat onto the nearest chair and moved toward the arch.Beyond was a king-size bed with two low night-stands, a window behind it.Facing the footboard was a tall cabinet of scrolled walnut—behind its upper doors was a television, with three drawers set below it.In the far wall was another closet, and the bathroom door.The sitting-room lamp didn’t quite reach that far; all he could see was the near side of the bed.The rest were shapes and shadows.And a scent.Before he had left the hotel for the park, he had made sure he’d spoken to the maid who had cleaned his room, a flimsy excuse about misplacing an important paper.They hadn’t chatted long, but it was long enough for him to learn her scent.This wasn’t it.His left hand closed into a loose fist.He swallowed several times and tightened his jaw to keep his temper from overriding his good sense.It was a struggle he wasn’t so sure he wanted to win.What he wanted to do was let the Garou take him, take the form and let him rip the place apart; what he had to do was find the one who had invaded his place.And that sparked his anger further, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it here.As he prowled, nostrils flared, gaze searching slowly, he realized that whoever it had been, had been extraordinarily careful.Nothing had been disturbed except a drawer not quite closed all the way, a pen not quite in the same position beside the bed’s telephone.He growled quietly.Scent on his clothes in the drawer, scent on his clothes in the bedroom closet.His left hand tightened.Scent in the bathroom.It hadn’t been the cop, the woman.Although she hadn’t worn perfume, he could still recall the clear scent of her shower-fresh and warm despite the winter air.He would know it anywhere.And this wasn’t it.When he returned to the sitting room, he switched off the lamp and forced himself to sit on the couch, his eyes narrowed, his breathing deliberately slow.This wasn’t the work of the Warders; they knew better.It couldn’t have been the rogue, because it—he or she—didn’t, couldn’t, know he was here.Neither would it have been so cautious.His lungs filled and emptied.Muted voices in the corridor rose and faded.The dark took on weight and made his lungs work harder.Somebody else knew, and his frustration grew when he couldn’t focus his concentration on anything but the invading scent that threatened to overwhelm him.Out, he decided then; he had to get out.Five minutes later he was on the deserted street behind the hotel, the air much colder, moisture on the tarmac slowly turning to wafer ice.He crossed over and walked on, more rapidly now, lights from a motel across the way blurred as the mist thickened into a light rain.His shadow kept him company.A few cars passed, none of them slowing down.Faster still, nearly running, as he made his way under the interstate overpass, listening to the traffic above him fleeing to the suburbs here and in Georgia, not five minutes away [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]