Sammlung Russischer Geschichte. Bd. 5. Stück 1-2. Отсутствует

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СКАЧАТЬ believe I do.”

      Lauren pointed at the rolled-up canvas. “Then tell me what’s going on. Explain to me what my sister’s picture is doing on that. Tell me who killed her.”

      He scowled and walked over to a small table surrounded by three chairs. He raised the beer bottle he’d liberated from the small refrigerator in the corner of the room. “Can I get you a drink?”

      “No.”

      Heath sat in one chair and put his feet up in another. He sipped from the beer bottle. “I really would like for you to leave. What’s it going to take to make that happen?”

      Folding her arms over her chest, Lauren ignored him, keeping her focus on the rolled canvas. She felt confident he wasn’t going to try to physically remove her from the room. He’d have already done that if he’d wanted to. And she was certain he didn’t want to have anything to do with the local police after the confrontation in the morgue. The actual coroner had been very vocal about Heath’s presence there. “Do you think Gibson killed Megan?”

      After a brief hesitation, Heath looked at her. “Do you want me to lie to you? Because what I think doesn’t matter.” The note of sarcasm in his voice surprised her. At first she thought it was directed at her, then realized it was more personal than that.

      “I want you to be honest with me. If you can.”

      “I can. And I think Gibson killed your sister. Getting someone else to believe that can be difficult. I know. I’ve tried.” He frowned. “A lot of people, evidently, aren’t prepared for that kind of honesty.”

      Even though she’d asked for the answer, the words hurt. Lauren wasn’t as ready to hear them as she’d thought she would be. Still, she kept her composure. Being weak in foster homes wasn’t something that let a kid survive. She’d learned to keep her emotions inside and present that hard shell to the world.

      “I’m sorry.” Heath blew out a breath.

      “It’s fine.”

      “No, no it’s not. A person shouldn’t have someone taken away from them like that.”

      Lauren heard the note of wistful hurt in his words, and she knew that she wasn’t alone in her pain and misery. As a foster child, she’d learned to read tones and expressions and body language at an early age. That was part of the self-preservation tool set. “Who did you lose?”

      The wince and the slight hunching of his shoulders, like a boxer who had just taken a blow, let her know her instincts had been dead-on. This wasn’t just a case to the detective. “A friend.”

      Lauren nodded toward the canvas. “Is she on there, too?”

      He ran a big hand across his stubbled jaw and took a breath. He didn’t bother looking at the canvas. “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because that’s a visual victimology. My friend doesn’t belong with those others. When Gibson killed her, it was different.”

      “What was different?”

      “The motive for the murder. Gibson made Janet’s death personal because she’d made her pursuit of him personal.”

      “How did he make it personal?”

      Heath leaned back against the wall. Green flakes stirred restlessly in those gold eyes, but he looked tired. She hadn’t noticed that earlier in the coroner’s office. Looking at him now, seeing him better, he looked slightly pale beneath the new redness from the sun.

      “We worked a homicide in Atlanta. A real-estate agent. Thirty-two-year-old mother of three.”

      “‘We?’”

      Heath drained the rest of the bottle and set it on the window ledge. “Yeah. Janet and me.”

      “She was a police officer.”

      “Detective. Like me. She was working as lead on the Celeste Morrow murder, working the case with her partner. She used me as a sounding board. We did that for each other when we caught cases where we got stuck and needed an outside opinion. Janet let me have a look at the case.” He stared at the wall, but Lauren knew he wasn’t seeing it. “We both knew the serial killer was a sociopath. All the traits were there. Random killings. Nothing tying the victims together. But the killings were usually savage.”

      Memory of the crime scene photos on the canvas played inside Lauren’s mind. There had been so much blood. “My sister was drowned. She didn’t die like those others.”

      “No. She didn’t. But I learned that Gibson’s name came up in the investigation.”

      “He was identified by the picture she took with him.”

      Heath nodded. “I’ve been monitoring Gibson, trying to stay up with him, but he vanishes whenever he wants to.”

      “Inspector Myton doesn’t think Gibson had anything to do with Megan’s murder.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “I asked him. He didn’t come out and say it, but he let me know he thinks you’re obsessed and perhaps not in your right mind.”

      Heath smiled disparagingly. “Inspector Myton isn’t interested in ruffling any feathers, Miss Cooper. People die down here all the time. Sometimes they’re Americans. Myton accepts that. Part of the cost of doing business. Eventually all of that goes away. If Myton can catch someone red-handed, if that someone isn’t so connected that they’re practically untouchable, he’ll put that someone behind bars. I’m convinced that’s the truth.” Heath looked at her. “The problem down here is that money plays. That’s the name of the game. If someone has enough money, they can get away with murder. And a guy like Gibson has plenty of money.” He paused. “He’s clever, too. Otherwise he’d never have gotten to Janet.”

      Lauren wondered if the two of them had been involved. It wasn’t unheard of, especially with the kinds of hours police personnel worked. She wasn’t going to ask, but something must have shown on her face.

      “We were just friends.” Heath looked a little embarrassed, then hurt followed. “Actually, we were more than that. Janet was my FTO. Field training officer. She worked with me when I made detective. She got me started on my investigations, and she was there during some rough patches.”

      “I’m sorry for your loss.”

      “Yeah. Me, too.”

      Outside the window behind Heath, street noises filtered in. People walked by. Cars passed on the streets, rubber squeaking on hot pavement. Someone upstairs was playing the television or a music system too loud.

      “How old was she?”

      Heath scowled. “What?”

      “How old was your friend? If she trained you, she must have been older, right?”

      “Eight years.”

      “Making her forty or so.”

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