Реклама. ООО «ЛитРес», ИНН: 7719571260.
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FIRST THERE WAS A HILL, AND WADE PARIS, COMING OVER the crest of it, stopped the State Police car and sniffed the salt tang of the air. Below him, the road fell away sharply and dipped to where the Atlantic shimmered blue in the July morning sun. To his left lay White Sands Beach, a half-mile stretch of crescent, cream-colored sand. Slightly to the right of him, Sunset Point jutted out into the sea, dotted sparsely with stunted scrub pines, the lone white two-and-a-half-story house on the very end, standing like a beacon.
Paris took a last drag from his cigarette, crushed it into the dashboard ashtray, and started the car. He drove down the hill, passing the small cove of Sunset Harbor and the half-dozen cabin cruisers anchored behind the tiny breakwater. He entered Sunset Point Road and drove along the barren bluff. A mile down the road he came upon an assortment of cars, with people gathered around them, their heads turned in the direction of the big white house, now turning again to watch his car. Directly ahead of him was the sign reading CHARLES ENDICOTT—PRIVATE ROAD. Behind it, two massive square stone posts flanked the macadam, and alongside stood a pale-blue State Police sedan. A heavy chain hung between the posts and standing there, straddle-legged, was a State Police trooper.
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“No, sir.”
“All right,” Paris said. “Thank you, Mrs. Davis. Would you know if Mrs. Endicott is available?”
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