Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги без регистрации txt) 📗

Frank Entwistle had always taught her to think of police work as a pool game, always setting up the next shot and the shot after that. Thinking about the end game—the trial. The ultimate shot should land the bad guy in prison.

This strategy made her a lousy pool player, but a good investigator.

Victor was talking, excited about the case for the first time. She knew he had a pool game of his own in mind: Getting home to his wife and family.

This was not the first time Victor had cut corners. He saw everything in terms of exit strategy—close the case, boost the solve rate.

Laura said, “We can’t do that, Victor. We don’t have enough evidence.”

“That’s the beauty of it. We’ll get the evidence, once we’re inside.”

“You really think he’s the one?”

“Don’t you?" Suddenly his mouth flat-lined. “Shit! You don’t. You don’t think it’s him, do you? You’re still fooling around with that motor home idea. Nothing can be easy for you, can it?” He stood up and walked around in a circle. “I knew you were gonna do this.”

“Victor—“

“What, afraid you’ll lose your membership in the ACLU?”

She tried not to lose her cool. “It just won’t work.”

“Of course it’ll work. You just don’t want it to.”

Suddenly, it dawned on her. “Did Buddy Holland have anything to do with this?”

“Oh, that’s great. You never give me any credit, do you? What, I can’t think for myself?” He set the bottle down on the table so hard that beer sloshed up—a sharp yeasty smell.

“Victor, I don’t want to say this, but—“

“Then don’t.”

“It’s my case. Like it or not, I’m the lead. I say we’re not going to do this.”

He smiled at her sadly. “Too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a done deal. We’re meeting Sylvia Clegg over at Lehman’s tomorrow.”

It shocked her so much, for a minute she couldn’t speak.

He stood up. “Sorry you’re not happy about this. I came here as a courtesy. We’re meeting the probation officer over at Lehman’s at eight a.m. See you then—if you want to be there.”

18

Driving up West Boulevard the next morning, Laura resolved to do the best she could to hold her case together.

She knew when she was beat. The probation office had agreed to this search, and if she objected now, it would only send a signal that the right hand didn’t know what the left hand was doing. That in turn would be communicated to other jurisdictions on many levels and would affect her ability to get things done.

Perception was reality.

Victor and Buddy had made an end-run around her. She had to salvage what was left of her case and go on.

When she reached Lehman’s house, the first thing she saw was a new black Suburban parked two houses down. The vanity plate said RICOPRZ. She knew it: The Suburban had been seized from a Mexican-American drug lord under the RICO laws. It was driven by Lieutenant Mike Galaz.

What was he doing here?

Laura remembered a difference of opinion she’d had with Victor about the new lieutenant. Victor insisted that Galaz was a control freak. But as far as she could tell, Galaz seemed detached from the job, letting the sergeants run the day-to-day—which suited her fine.

She suspected that Victor resented Galaz for other reasons, more ephemeral stuff, like his expensive home in the foothills; his constant talk about his golf game; his breedy-looking second wife, a high-powered Anglo lawyer.

Laura glanced at Galaz. The fact that he was here really didn’t surprise her. An important case like this, it wasn’t unprecedented that the lieutenant would want a piece of the pie—especially since this one was already unofficially running for mayor of Tucson.

The Suburban, a Bisbee PD patrol car, and Buddy Holland’s Caprice were all parked on the street half a block from Lehman’s house. A small group had collected near Victor Celaya’s shiny black truck. Laura recognized everyone except a skinny bleached-blonde in Guess Jeans that molded tightly to her ass, and an older Hispanic male: Sylvia Clegg and the chief of probation, Ernie Lopez.

Victor leaned against the front fender of his new GMC, the window open so he could get his last few minutes of Rush Limbaugh. A Mexican ditto-head—who’d’ve thunk.

Galaz nodded to her, his brown eyes assessing. She wondered why he was so interested, put it down to the fact that he hardly knew her. He explained that later today he was speaking at a law enforcement seminar in Sierra Vista, and he decided to come by and see how “his people” were doing.

Those inscrutable eyes, weighing her. Laura turned to Ernie Lopez.

“Is he home?”

“His car’s there.”

They headed up the street, the Bisbee PD officer, Chambers, leading the way. Galaz hung back—not sure of his role? He’d come up through the administration side of DPS, with a long stint in Internal Affairs. Not a cop’s cop.

Laura glanced back, uncomfortable that her lieutenant was walking behind her. When he saw her looking back he transferred his gaze from Clegg to her and flashed a smile. Galaz was one of those people dirt didn’t stick to. Manicured nails, expensive suit, immaculate white cuffs crisped to a razor edge, micro-managed haircut. With his patrician good looks and Spanish elegance, even at eight a.m. he looked ready for a thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraiser—a world Laura knew existed, but would never in her life see firsthand.

She could smell the products that went into him: shampoo, cologne, mouthwash, body wash, hair spray. His expensive shoes clicked on the sidewalk behind her like a metronome.

Officer Chambers rapped on the door.

Laura was aware that Lieutenant Galaz remained near the curb. Was he worried there might be shooting? Laura’s own hand hovered near her weapon—automatic.

Lehman came to the screen. Shirtless again.

He took one look at them and said, “Oh shit.”

Sylvia Clegg said, “Chuck, I’m informing you that I am here to do a search.”

Lehman glared past her at Laura. “This is your doing. You trying to get back at me?”

Unperturbed, Sylvia said, “Chuck, you know that under the terms of your probation, you have to allow me in to search.”

For a moment it looked like there would be a stand-off. Chambers shifted his weight slightly, his hand near his gun.

Lehman stood in the doorway, arms folded, looking like an angry Mr. Clean.

“What did I do?” he demanded. It took Laura back to the other day when he’d yelled at her like a drill sergeant. “What did I do?”

A powerful engine started up on the street. Laura looked back to see Mike Galaz pull out and drive away. Why had he bothered to come at all?

Clegg said quietly, “Chuck. May I proceed with the search?”

“And if I don’t, you’ll arrest me.”

“Come on, Chuck, this isn’t such a big deal,” Clegg said. “Take a deep breath and—“

“You’re gonna arrest me, am I right?”

“No one’s going to arrest you. If you just let me take a look around, we’ll be in and out in no time. You know I wouldn’t—“

He shoved the screen door open so hard it slammed against the wall of the house. “Go ahead. I have nothing to hide.”

“First you need to secure your dog,” Clegg said.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!" He whistled for the dog and took him outside, returning a few moments later. “I put him in his run, that good enough?”

Clegg smiled like she’d won the lottery. “That’s great, Chuck.”

They traipsed in: Laura, Victor, Buddy Holland, and Sylvia Clegg. The rest remained out on the street.

Buddy Holland cruised the room, eagle eyes taking in everything. Laura was worried that he was going to piss Sylvia Clegg off, but it appeared they were friends. Buddy must not have seen anything incriminating, because he joined them and stood there with a bored look on his face.

Chuck Lehman lived well. Blond hardwood floors, oriental carpet, Danish furniture. Doggie bed in the corner, near a river stone fireplace. Colorful kites hanging from the walls.