Regina’s Song. David Eddings

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       CHAPTER SIX

      I didn’t sleep very well that night, and when I finally drifted off, I had some peculiar dreams involving Milton, Whitman, and Twinkie. For some reason, they were all ganging up on me, and the green chain kept turning up to complicate things all the more.

      Anyway, I was a little foggy when I stumbled downstairs the next morning. James, Charlie, and the bathrobe brigade were clustered around the small television set on the kitchen counter, watching and listening intently.

      “What’s up?” I asked, homing in on the coffeemaker.

      “A small-time hood got himself wasted last night,” Charlie replied. “The TV reporters say it’s a rerun of the Muñoz killing a couple weeks ago.”

      “Another one of those carve-up jobs?” I asked, pouring myself a cup of Erika’s coffee.

      “Was it ever,” Charlie said. “Some of the reporters looked green around the gills. I guess there were body parts and guts all over the place.”

      Trish made a gagging sound. “Do you mind?” she snapped at Charlie.

      “Sorry, babe,” he apologized. “Anyway, this one was even closer to home than the Muñoz killing. They found the carcass along the shore of Green Lake in Woodland Park, only about a mile from here.”

      “Evidently the killing was close enough to the zoo to upset the animals,” James added. “A couple of reporters mentioned that earlier. I guess everybody who lives in the vicinity heard lions roaring, elephants trumpeting, and the wolves howling up a storm. Somebody put in an emergency call to the zookeepers, and it was one of them who found the body and called the police.”

      “Anyway,” Charlie continued, “the cops and the reporters are all sagely stroking their beards and announcing that there might just possibly be some connection between this murder and that one two weeks ago down on campus. Isn’t that astounding? Two guys get gutted out in the same part of town within a couple of weeks, and the cops suggest that there might be a connection? Well, goll-lee gee!”

      “Quit trying to be such a clown, Charlie,” Sylvia scolded.

      “People who announce the obvious with a straight face always bring out the worst in me,” Charlie replied. “These reporters are all trying to look grim and serious while they go on and on about a ‘serial killer,’ but there’s nothing like a few messy murders to fill up the blanks in the day’s news.”

      “They’ve already come up with a name that I’m sure we’ll have to listen to over and over for the next month or two,” Trish told me. “They’re talking about ‘the Seattle Slasher’ as if it’s something of international significance instead of a turf war between a couple of rival gangs. You know how reporters can be.”

      “Oh, yes,” I agreed. “I’m waiting for the day when one of the weather guys has a grand mal seizure—on camera—because there’s a fifty percent chance of rain tomorrow. Was this latest dead guy another Chicano dope dealer?”

      “Not with a name like Lloyd Andrews, he wasn’t,” she replied. “He seems to have had a fairly extensive police record, though, and drugs were involved in a few of his arrests—along with the usual low crimes and misdemeanors.”

      “He was a small-timer,” Charlie added. “He might have sold a bag of crack once in a while, but he bought more than he sold. It looks to me as if he was one of those poor bastards who never did anything right. If he tried to steal a car, the tires would all go flat. If he thought some chickie had the hots for him, he’d get busted for attempted rape. If he planned a burglary, he’d pick the one house on the block with an alarm system. He was the sort of guy who gives crime a bad name. He definitely wasn’t in the same class with Muñoz—which pretty much shoots old Lieutenant Burpee’s theory full of holes. Cheetah doesn’t dirty his hands on small-timers. He goes after the big boys.”

      Trish glanced over at the kitchen clock. “Oops,” she said, “we’re starting to run behind, girls. We’d better whip up some breakfast, or our boys will start wasting away.”

      The three of them bustled around, getting things ready. “Go watch the set in the living room,” Erika commanded, pointing toward the front of the house. “Get out from underfoot while we’re working.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” James rumbled. “Shall we adjourn to the parlor, gentlemen?”

      The three of us went through the dining room to the silent front of the house. James turned on the smeary old television set, and we all sat down to watch.

      “—murders are only the latest in a long string СКАЧАТЬ