Пётр Левин – Blood Wolf’s Path (страница 5)

“No, let’s see…” I pulled the trigger.

At that second, two agents burst into the room, their faces puzzled.

“Easy, boys. I always leave one chamber empty in the cylinder so I don’t blow my ass off, since I don’t always keep the revolver in its holster – sometimes I have to carry it concealed… Don’t freak out. Now I see you’ve loaded it with real rounds. At least thanks for that,” I said, slowly placing the revolver on the couch, looking into the dull faces of the black and white agents.

The revolver my partner had given me was an old model without a safety. So I always kept one chamber empty, just in case I accidentally put a bullet in myself.

The day was starting off cheerfully. I stepped outside and breathed in the fresh air. But I had to go to the department, do the routine, and wait for Crooked-Dick’s man to make a move on me. Well then – let’s get to work!

Chapter 3. Murder on the Beach

I got into my Ford F-150 pickup and sped down Blue Hill Avenue toward 40 Sudbury Street, where I worked. From Austin Street, where I lived, to my workplace was only ten miles. But in the morning there were terrible traffic jams, so it took me a full forty minutes to get there. The engine rattled as usual, and the truck kept pulling to the right. I’d been meaning to get it repaired for half a year, but there was never any time.

I had barely sat down at my desk when my boss, David Scott—nicknamed Goatface—called me in. I’d given him that nickname for his goat-like face and equally goat-like behavior. He was rude and constantly snapped at his subordinates.

“So, what did that fed sniff out? Are we in trouble?” the boss started without a greeting.

“Everything’s fine. The trouble’s not going to be here in the precinct. We’ve got nothing to do with it. I sold him on the idea that I needed information from Crookeddick on the Cupcake case. I told him Crookeddick was involved in the murder, so I sent an agent to him.”

“But how could Crookeddick have killed him if he’s in prison?” Goatface asked, baffled.

“That FBI guy didn’t go into details. I just sold him the version,” I chuckled, trying to sound convincing, though it came out forced.

“I didn’t understand a damn thing,” Goatface sighed. “Well, to hell with it. Shoot yourselves up with whatever you want, you devils… You won’t bend David Scott!’’ Goatface did his victory dance, shuffling his right foot behind his left and back again.

“Can I go now?” I was already bored.

“Go, go. And let the feds handle your partner’s case. Last time I’m telling you this! You’ve already caused enough trouble! By the way, it’s been two months since Hank Sullivan’s death. Time to pull yourself together. Now you’re working with Cherry Legspiss. Go meet her. And… no jokes about Black people.”

I went back to my desk and plopped into my chair. At a desk forming an “L” shape next to mine sat a short Black girl of about 25. She was clearly a rookie detective and shy. Her smooth, wrinkle-free face was pleasant, and she smelled of berry jam and chocolate. A yogurt sat on her desk.

“Hi. We’ll be working together. The boss told me I’d be working with Cherry. But here I see Blurry…” I laughed. I don’t know if Cherry took my words as flirting, but I was trying to make a good impression.

Cherry blushed. Another five seconds and she’d have started crying. So I defused it:

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. I was joking. Cherry lives matter. And I’m not racist, so we’ll work well together. Besides, you’re not ugly.” In short, I’d just said enough to get fired without severance pay.

Under other circumstances, I’d never have said that, but right now the FBI had my back, so I could afford it. Plus, I needed to establish who was in charge here right from the start—take the bull by the horns, so to speak.

While I was musing, Goatface burst in looking rattled.

“We’ve got an emergency. Triple murder in Boston. Here’s the address—get over there and handle it.”

The paper read: Malibu Beach.

“Well, Cherry, let’s ride! We’ll take your car. Mine’s all squeaky and muddy,” I said, standing and offering my hand. She didn’t take it, just stood up silently, grabbing her yogurt.

“Sugar’s bad for you. So’s salt,” I said as I headed for the exit.

We flipped on the siren and, despite the traffic, made it to the beach quickly. Police cars were already there. Onlookers stood at a distance, filming with their phones.

At the beach entrance stood a uniformed officer. I flashed my badge and asked,

“What happened here, officer?”

“Young people killed. A guy and two girls, about nineteen. Knife wounds,” the officer reported flatly.

“I hope no one’s touched anything. Keep everyone out. The forensics team and photographer will be here soon,” I said, heading toward the crime scene, gesturing for my partner to follow.

The sight before us was grim. On the sand lay a guy in swim trunks and two girls in bikinis. Each had multiple stab wounds to the neck and chest. The sand around them was crimson. The bodies lay close together, just a couple of meters apart, in unnatural positions. Nearby was a neatly folded pile of clothes.

“Well, Cherry, your theories. What do you see?” I asked, giving her a chance to shine.

“Well, it’s a murder. No weapon here, likely one perpetrator. I can tell from the footprints in the sand—only one person ran away from the scene,” Cherry observed smartly.

“Good. Now here’s a stumper—why are the bodies so close together? Let’s say the killer was alone. He stabs one victim. Why didn’t the others run?”

“Hmm, maybe they were drunk. I see beer bottles…” Cherry said.

“Maybe. Or maybe the killer was one of their group and took them out all at once. Then, after wounding each, finished them off.”

“So it’s a planned killing, not spontaneous? And the killer knew the victims? Maybe they were students and the killer a classmate,” Cherry suggested.

“Most likely. This wasn’t a robbery—nothing’s scattered. And the killer’s white,” I said.

“Why?” Cherry didn’t like that one bit. She was one of those Black folks who hated any mention of skin color.

“Because the victims are white. Unlikely they were close friends with a Black guy. That only happens in movies.”

“But I’m Black!” Cherry exclaimed.

“And are we friends?” I said, giving her a look like she was an idiot.

I put on gloves and searched the victims’ pockets. As I suspected, they were classmates—that much was clear from their IDs.

“Well, Cherry, let’s head to Fisher College. Beacon Street,” I said. We were done here.

“What about forensics?” she asked.

“We don’t need forensics. We’ll have the case wrapped up by evening. Let’s roll!” I photographed the IDs and walked off, Cherry hesitating a moment before following.

On the way to the college, I called ahead and spoke with the dean, a woman who assured me the victims’ classmates would be ready for questioning by the time we arrived.

The dean met us at the door—a large Black woman of about fifty with plump lips and a huge backside.

“Hello, Miss Perthington…” I greeted her. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Good afternoon. Such a tragedy… The students are in the lecture hall. But you understand that…” she trailed off.

“We just need to clarify some details. We’re not accusing anyone.”

I winked at Cherry to let her know everyone was a suspect.

The large lecture hall, decorated with portraits of unknown men in stiff suits, was depressing. It smelled like old shoes. About fifty students sat slouched in their chairs, staring at their phones.

“Hello,” I began. “Here’s the thing. Jimmy Lungova, Berry Kontova, and Snetta Kushka have been murdered.” I read their names from my phone. “I know you knew them, liked them, maybe were friends. But we need to find the killers. And the easiest way is while the trail’s still hot. I have one small request.” I paused.

“With me today is well-known psychologist Cherry… Cherry Campus. Don’t let her youth fool you—she’s from the FBI. She’s going to determine whether the killer is among you. Remember, this is an investigation, and you’re all suspects. Now, do exactly as I say. I’m going to count to five, and on five, raise your right hand. Cherry will instantly spot the killer with her method. Ready? One… two… three…”

On “three,” a huge guy, built like a boar, bolted from the room. Cherry and I had to give chase. The bastard was fast, and within thirty seconds we were sprinting down Beacon Street after him. Cherry kept up, and I drew my revolver, emptying the cylinder into his legs. I hit him—he tumbled and crashed into a trash can.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Cherry yelled.

I didn’t care—the feds had my back. Plus, I wanted to know for sure whether the rounds in my gun were blanks or live.

I ran up to the bleeding guy. “Police! Why’d you kill your classmates, you bastard?” I shouted.

Back at the precinct, Goatface wasn’t pleased.

“What the hell are you doing, Jerry? I’d rather you screwed me than pulled that stunt,” he snarled.

“It’s just a couple of scratches. He lunged at a passerby—I was justified in using my weapon,” I said.

“It’s true,” Cherry added.

She was starting to grow on me. She must have realized she’d be working with me for a while and wanted to earn my goodwill.