scoonts.theminotaur-第43部分

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ng　evening；　still　a　nip　in　the　air；　but　almost　no　wind。　The　foliage　was　budding。　Summer　was　ing　and　the　earth　was　ready。
　As　he　walked　down　the　street　Camacho　glanced　at　the　crack　house。　Someone　was　peering　though　a　curtain　on　the　second　floor；　he　saw　it　move。　No　one　on　the　sidewalk。　Mrs。　Jackson's　gate　was　ajar；　but　not　a　light　showed　through　the　curtains。
　He　mounted　the　stoop　and　rapped　on　the　door。　As　he　waited　he　glanced　around。　Street　still　empty。　Such　a　beautiful　evening。　He　knocked　some　more。　Perhaps　she　had　gone　to　the　store；　or　to　a　neighbor's？
　Suddenly　he　knew。　He　tried　the　knob。　It　turned。　He　pushed　the　door　open　several　inches　and　called　into　the　darkness；　〃Mrs。　Jackson？　Mrs。　Jackson；　are　you　here？〃　He　gingerly　pushed　the　door　open　wider　and　reached　under　his　jacket　for　the　butt　of　the　。357　magnum　on　his　right　hip。
　All　the　lights　were　off。　Camacho　closed　the　door　behind　him　and　stood　in　the　darkness　listening　with　the　revolver　in　his　hand。
　Nothing。　Not　a　sound。　Not　a　squeak；　not　a　creak；　nothing。
　He　waited；　flexing　his　fingers　on　the　butt　of　the　gun。　All　he　could　hear　was　the　thud　of　his　own　heart…
　Slowly；　carefully；　he　groped　for　the　light　switch　on　the　wall。
　She　was　lying　near　the　kitchen　door　with　her　right　leg　twisted　under　her；　staring　fixedly　at　the　ceiling。　In　the　center　of　her　forehead　was　a　small　red　circle。　No　blood。　She　had　died　instantly。
　With　the　revolver　ready　he　went　from　room　to　room；　turning　on　lights　and　glancing　into　closets。　Everything　was　neat；　clean；　tidy。　Satisfied　that　the　killer　was　gone；　he　came　back　to　the　living　room　and　stood　looking　at　Mrs。　Jackson。　He　stooped　and　touched　her　cheek。　She　had　been　dead　for　hours。　Around　the　bullet　hole　in　her　forehead　was　a　black　substance。　A　powder　burn。
　The　phone　was　in　the　kitchen。　Her　purse　sat　beside　it；　the　catch　still　latched。　Camacho　wrapped　his　handkerchief　loosely　around　the　telephone　receiver　before　he　picked　it　up。　He　dialed　with　a　pen　from　his　shirt　pocket。　As　he　waited　for　the　duty　officer　to　answer；　he　idly　noticed　that　the　fire　under　the　coffeepot　had　been　turned　off。　A　professional　hit。　With　any　luck　the　body　would　not　have　been　discovered　for　days　and　the　time　of　death　would　have　been　problematic。
　〃This　is　Special　Agent　Camacho。〃　He　gave　them　the　address。　〃I've　discovered　a　corpse。　Better　send　the　forensic　team　and　the　D。C。　police　liaison　officer。　And　call　Dreyfus　at　home　and　ask　him　to　e　over。〃
　Back　in　the　living　room　he　tried　to　avoid　looking　at　Mrs。　Jackson。　Something　shiny　in　a　candy　dish　on　the　sideboard　caught　his　eye。　He　stepped　carefully　over　the　body　and　bent　to　look。　A　spent　。22　caliber　Long　Rifle　cartridge。　The　killer　hadn't　bothered　to　retrieve　the　spent　casing！　And　why　should　he？　Twenty…two　caliber　fire　ammunition　was　sold　everywhere　and　was　virtually　untraceable。　But　how　had　this　shell　got　here？
　He　went　back　to　the　corpse　and　stood　near　it。　Then　he　stooped　down　and　felt　her　head　carefully。　Another　bullet　hole　in　the　back　of　her　head。　Okay；　where　is　the　second　shell？
　The　FBI　agent　got　down　on　his　hands　and　knees　and　looked　under　everything。　He　found　it　in　a　corner；　half　hidden　by　the　edge　of　the　carpet；　bearing　the　Remington　〃U〃。　Camacho　didn't　touch　it。
　So　Mrs。　Jackson　had　opened　the　door　and　admitted　her　killer。　Locks　not　forced　or　scratched　up。　She　had　started　back　toward　the　kitchen；　the　killer　behind；　and　he　had　shot　her　in　the　back　of　the　head。　She　had　died　on　her　feet　and　collapsed　where　she　stood。　He　had　walked　over　to　her　and　fired　a　second　shot　into　her　brain　with　the　pistol　held　inches　from　her　face。　That　shell　casing　was　ejected　by　the　pistol　into　the　candy　dish。　The　killer　had　then　proceeded　on　through　the　house；　checking　for　other　people；　turning　off　lights；　turning　off　the　stove；　making　sure　nothing　would　cause　a　fire　or　call　attention　to　the　house。　Then　he　had　left　and　closed　the　door　carefully　behind　him。　He　hadn't　bothered　to　lock　it。　Even　that　was　smart。　No　doubt　the　assassin　had　worn　gloves；　so　he　left　no　fingerprints。　If　the　local　punks　tried　the　knob　and　came　in　to　see　what　they　could　steal；　they　would　probably　not　be　so　sophisticated；　and　they　would　automatically　bee　the　prime　suspects　in　Mrs。　Jackson's　murder。　All　very　slick。
　The　bastard！
　Camacho　was　standing　by　the　front　window　looking　at　the　crack　house　when　the　lab　van　pulled　up；　followed　immediately　by　a　sedan　with　city　plates　and　two　sedans　with　U。S。　government　tags。　Two　hours　later　the　forensic　team　and　the　other　people　departed　with　the　body。　Dreyfus　and　a　lieutenant　from　the　D。C。　force　remained　with　Luis　Camacho。
　〃When　are　you　going　to　raid　that　crack　house；　shut　it　down？〃　Camacho　asked　the　question　of　the　plainclothes　lieutenant　as　he　jerked　his　head　at　the　building　across　the　street。
　〃Who　says　it's　a　crack　house？〃
　〃What're　you　afraid　of？　Think　the　mayor　might　be　in　there？〃
　〃Listen；　asshole！　If　you've　got　any　evidence　that　dwelling　is　being　used　for　illegal　purposes；　I'd　like　to　see　it。　We'll　do　some　affidavits；　find　a　judge　and　get　a　warrant。　Then　we'll　raid　the　place。　Now　are　you　all　hot　air　or　do　you　have　some　evidence？〃
　〃We　have　a　statement　from　a　woman　now　dead。　We　sent　a　copy　over　to　you　guys　three　days　ago。〃
　〃I　saw　that　statement；　then　routed　it　to　the　narcs。　All　it　said　was　that　there　was　suspicious　activity　over　there。　A　little　old　woman　thought　something　nasty　was　going　on　in　her　neighborhood。　Big　fucking　deal！　No　judge　in　this　country　would　have　called　that　probable　cause　and　issued　a　warrant；　even　if　that　statement　had　been　sworn；　which　it　wasn't。　Now　where's　the　goddamn　evidence？〃
　〃Whatever　happened　to　'usually　reliable　sources'？〃
　The　lieutenant　didn't　reply。
　〃All　you　guys　roust　belong　to　the　ACLU。〃　Camacho　stood　looking　at　the　house；　the　peeling　paint；　the　mortar　missing　from　the　brick　joints；　the　trash　in　front　of　the　place；　the　light　leaking　around　drawn　blinds。　Just　then　a　large　old　Cadillac　hardtop　came　around　the　corner　and　drifted　slowly　to　a　stop　at　the　curb。　Four　young　black　men　got　out。　One　went　up　the　steps　toward　the　door　of　the　house；　which　opened　before　he　reached　it　and　closed　behind　him。
　〃Just　follow　me；〃　Camacho　said。　〃I'll　get　you　some　evidence。〃　Even　before　he　finished　speaking　he　was　out　the　door　and　going　down　the　stairs　to　the　sidewalk　two　at　a　time。
　He　went　across　the　street　toward　the　Cad　at　a　brisk　walk。　The　three　men　were　staring。
　〃Hi。〃　He　reached　into　his　jacket　pocket　with　his　left　hand　and　pulled　out　his　credentials。　〃FBI…〃
　One　of　the　men　was　moving；　going　sideways　and　reaching　under　his　shirt。　Camacho　rammed　his　left　shoulder　into　the　nearest　man　and　fell　on　top　of　him　as　he　drew　his　revolver。　He　heard　a　shot；　then　two　more　in　quick　succession。　The　man　who　had　gone　for　his　gun　fell　backward　against　the　car；　then　slid　to　the　sidewalk　as　Camacho　jammed　his　revolver　against　the　teeth　of　the　struggling　man　under　him。
　〃Don't！〃　The　man　opened　his　mouth　and　Camacho　jammed　the　gun　in　up　to　the　trigger　guard。　〃Freeze；　shithead！〃
　On　the　other　side　of　the　car　someone　was　pleading；　〃Don't　shoot；　don't　shoot。〃
　〃You　even　hiccup；　I'm　gonna　blow　your　brains　out。〃　Camacho　felt　the　man　for　a　weapon　as　he　stared　into　his　wide　eyes。　There　was　an　automatic　in　his　waistband。　The　agent　extracted　it　and　turned　the　man　so　he　could　look　over　his　shoulder　at　the　house。
　Dreyfus　was　checking　the　man　on　the　sidewalk　and　the　police　lieutenant　was　cuffing　the　third　one。
　Camacho　pulled　the　barrel　of　the　revolver　clear　of　his　man's　lips。　〃Is　there　a　back　way　outta　there？〃
　The　lips　contorted。　Camacho　cocked　the　revolver　and　placed　the　barrel　right　between　his　eyes。　〃Answer　me；　or　so　help　me　God。。。〃
　〃Yeah。　The　alley。〃
　Camacho　pulled　the　man　from　the　sidewalk　and　shoved　him　behind　the　Cad。　〃Quick；　on　your　belly；　hands　behind　your　back。　Assume　the　position；　nicker；　right　now。〃　As　the　man　obeyed；　Camacho　tossed　his　cuffs　to　the　lieutenant；　then　began　to　run　for　the　corner。
　He　rounded　the　corner　at　a　run　just　as　a　car　was　ing　out　of　the　alley　in　the　middle　of　the　block；　its　engine　howling。　He　dived　onto　his　face。　An　automatic　weapon　roared　as　the　rear　of　the　car　slewed　and　smoke　poured　from　the　tires。　Scrambling　behind　a　parked　car；