Last Song Sung. David A. Poulsen

Last Song Sung - David A. Poulsen


Скачать книгу

      What was more likely, of course, was that it had been a small animal that I’d seen, or that animal’s shadow, thus rendering my evening’s excursion utterly unproductive.

      Nevertheless, I wanted to be thorough. I again cast the beam of the flashlight around the area behind the garage. Saw nothing. Then I went over the ground in smaller pieces, moving the light and my vision back and forth across the alley … again, seeing only gravel, dirt, and a couple of garbage cans against the fence. They, too, would be invisible from Kennedy’s vantage point, and I stepped closer to them, thinking, though not with great certainty, that whatever I had seen had to have been in this general area.

      The garbage cans, their grey metal shining when I splashed the light on them, were on a small wooden stand maybe a foot off the ground. I scanned the area again and saw nothing … except for a single piece of paper, clearly something that had escaped the confines of the trash bins. I picked it up and stuffed it in my pocket, if for no more reason than to avoid returning from my wild goose chase completely empty-handed.

      One last look around, splaying the light first here, then there. Nothing. Not even a second scrap of paper. I made my way back up the alley to the street and retraced my steps to Kennedy’s house. Once inside, I returned the flashlight to the upstairs windowsill and out of curiosity rewound the tape to see what I had looked like prowling the lane behind the murder scene. I first saw flashes of light created by my placing my hand over the flashlight, then removing it. Then I was on the screen, moving slowly, clearly visible despite the darkness and shadows of the alley. I rewound the tape, watched it again, and was surprised to note that as dark as the alley had been, and even though I was never in the flashlight’s beam, I was recognizable — a testimony, I supposed, to the quality of Kennedy’s equipment. Watching the tape, I realized my expedition had, in fact, borne some fruit. Going down there had been useful in terms of providing a frame of reference for what I was seeing when I looked through the viewer of the camera.

      And having provided at least a little justification for my nocturnal prowl, I reset the tape and headed off to bed. I was asleep in seconds, but it wasn’t a peaceful night. I woke several times, tossed and rolled around the bed, and dreamed of shadows.

      Unpleasant shadows.

      Six

      Cobb arrived just after nine and came, as he always did, bearing gifts: Starbucks coffee and bakery items that had definitely not come from Starbucks.

      Before we sat down to coffee, I showed him around the place, augmenting the tour with commentary explaining Kennedy’s way of conducting the surveillance and recording of what he observed. Cobb was silent during the tour of the two rooms, nodding occasionally but offering no comment until we were sitting at the kitchen table, coffee poured and butterhorns warmed and buttered.

      “He hasn’t spared any expense,” Cobb commented after a sip of the Pike Place.

      I nodded. “State-of-the-art equipment, and up to date, meaning he must upgrade fairly regularly.”

      Neither of us spoke for a couple of minutes, but I noticed Cobb shaking his head.

      “What?”

      “Damned sad,” he said in a soft voice. “You spend virtually every hour of your life staring at two places; you spend all your money making that possible, and the first break you take from it in over twenty years is to be with your ex-wife while she’s dying. I’d say that’s pretty damned sad.”

      Kyla had expressed much the same sentiment.

      “Can’t argue that.” I broke off a piece of the butterhorn, chewed, and swallowed. I looked at Cobb. “You ever tell anybody about …” I looked around the room. “About this? About finding Kennedy? Any of the guys you both worked with?”

      Cobb shook his head. “Didn’t think that would be a good idea.”

      I nodded, and that was the end of conversation until we’d finished eating. I topped up the coffee with some I’d brewed before Cobb had arrived. He snapped open an old-school briefcase and pulled out a long manila file folder thick with pages.

      I looked at the folder as he removed a long elastic band from around it. He extracted an envelope, reached inside, and pulled out several photographs. He didn’t say anything until he had them spread out on the table between us.

      I scooched my chair around a bit to get a better look at them. Cobb pointed. “There are more, but this is a pretty good representation. This one,” he said, laying a hand on one of the photos, “is Jerry Farkash. He played guitar and occasionally keyboards. And that’s Duke Prego, who played bass; he had joined the group only a couple of months before they came west.”

      Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

      Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

      Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

      Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAgEBLAEsAAD/7QAsUGhvdG9zaG9wIDMuMAA4QklNA+0AAAAAABABLAAAAAEA AQEsAAAAAQAB/+IMWElDQ19QUk9GSUxFAAEBAAAMSExpbm8CEAAAbW50clJHQiBYWVogB84AAgAJ AAYAMQAAYWNzcE1TRlQAAAAASUVDIHNSR0IAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPbWAAEAAAAA0y1IUCAgAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARY3BydAAAAVAAAAAz ZGVzYwAAAYQAAABsd3RwdAAAAfAAAAAUYmtwdAAAAgQAAAAUclhZWgAAAhgAAAAUZ1hZWgAAAiwA AAAUYlhZWgAAAkAAAAAUZG1uZAAAAlQAAABwZG1kZAAAAsQAAACIdnVlZAAAA0wAAACGdmlldwAA A9QAAAAkbHVtaQAAA/gAAAAUbWVhcwAABAwAAAAkdGVjaAAABDAAAAAMclRSQwAABDwAAAgMZ1RS QwAABDwAAAgMYlRSQwAABDwAAAgMdGV4dAAAAABDb3B5cmlnaHQgKGMpIDE5OTggSGV3bGV0dC1Q YWNrYXJkIENvbXBhbnkAAGRlc2MAAAAAAAAAEnNSR0IgSUVDNjE5NjYtMi4xAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS c1JHQiBJRUM2MTk2Ni0yLjEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAFhZWiAAAAAAAADzUQABAAAAARbMWFlaIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABYWVogAAAA AAAAb6IAADj1AAADkFhZWiAAAAAAAABimQAAt4UAABjaWFlaIAAAAAAAACSgAAAPhAAAts9kZXNj AAAAAAAAABZJRUMgaHR0cDovL3d3dy5pZWMuY2gAAAAAAAAAAAAAABZJRUMgaHR0cDovL3d3dy5p ZWMuY2gAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAZGVzYwAA AAAAAAAuSUVDIDYxOTY2LTIuMSBEZWZhdWx0IFJHQiBjb2xvdXIgc3BhY2UgLSBzUkdCAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAuSUVDIDYxOTY2LTIuMSBEZWZhdWx0IFJHQiBjb2xvdXIgc3BhY2UgLSBzUkdCAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGRlc2MAAAAAAAAALFJlZmVyZW5jZSBWaWV3aW5nIENvbmRpdGlvbiBp biBJRUM2MTk2Ni0yLjEAAAAAAAAAAAAAACxSZWZlcmVuY2UgVmlld2luZyBDb25kaXRpb24gaW4g SUVDNjE5NjYtMi4xAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAB2aWV3AAAAAAATpP4AFF8uABDP FAAD7cwABBMLAANcngAAAAFYWVogAAAAAABMCVYAUAAAAFcf521lYXMAAAAAAAAAAQAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAKPAAAAAnNpZyAAAAAAQ1JUIGN1cnYAAAAAAAAEAAAAAAUACgAPABQAGQAeACMA KAAtADIANwA7AEAARQBKAE8AVABZAF4AYwBoAG0AcgB3AHwAgQCGAIsAkACVAJoAnwCkAKkArgCy ALcAvADBAMYAywDQANUA2wDgAOUA6wDwAPYA+wEBAQcBDQETARkBHwElASsBMgE4AT4BRQFMAVIB WQFgAWcBbgF1AXwBgwGLAZIBmgGhAakBsQG5AcEByQHRAdkB4QHpAfIB+gIDAgwCFAIdAiYCLwI4 AkECSwJUAl0CZwJxAnoChAKOApgCogKsArYCwQLLAtUC4ALrAvUDAAMLAxYDIQMtAzgDQwNPA1oD ZgNyA34DigOWA6IDrgO6A8cD0wPgA+wD+QQGBBMEIAQtBDsESARVBGMEcQR+BIwEmgSoBLYExATT BOEE8AT+BQ0FHAUrBToFSQVYBWcFdwWGBZYFpgW1BcUF1QXlBfYGBgYWBicGNwZIBlkGagZ7BowG nQavBsAG0QbjBvUHBwcZBysHPQdPB2EHdAeGB5kHrAe/B9IH5Qf4CAsIHwgyCEYIWghuCIIIlgiq CL4I0gjnCPsJEAklCToJTwlkCXkJjwmkCboJzwnlCfsKEQonCj0KVApqCoEKmAquCsUK3ArzCwsL Igs5C1ELaQuAC5gLsAvIC+EL+QwSDCoMQwxcDHUMjgynDMAM2QzzDQ0NJg1ADVoNdA2ODakNww3e DfgOEw4uDkkOZA5/DpsOtg7SDu4PCQ8lD0EPXg96D5YPsw/PD+wQCRAmEEMQYRB+EJsQuRDXEPUR ExExEU8RbRGMEaoRyRHoEgcSJhJFEmQShBKjEsMS4xMDEyMTQxNjE4MTpBPFE+UUBhQnFEkUahSL FK0UzhTwFRIVNBVWFXgVmxW9FeAWAxYmFkkWbBaPFrIW1hb6Fx0XQRdlF4kXrhfSF/cYGxhAGGUY ihivGNUY+hkgGUUZaxmRGbcZ3RoEGioaURp3Gp4axRrsGxQbOxtjG4obshvaHAIcKhxSHHscoxzM HPUdHh1HHXAdmR3DHeweFh5AHmoelB6+HukfEx8+H2kflB+/H+ogFSBBIGwgmCDEIPAhHCFIIXUh oSHOIfsiJyJVIoIiryLdIwojOCNmI5QjwiPwJB8kTSR8
Скачать книгу