Читать книгу The Black Sun - James Twining - Страница 29

FBI Headquarters, Salt Lake City Division, Utah

6th January – 8.17 a.m.

Paul Viggiano poured himself another cup of filter coffee from the machine. There was a tidemark in the glass jug where the coffee had evaporated since the last fresh pot had been made that morning. The remaining liquid looked dark and thick, like treacle. With scientific precision, he measured out one and a half servings of creamer, added one level teaspoon of sugar, then stirred it three times.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he turned to face Sheriff Hennessy and his attorney, Jeremiah Walton. A wiry, aggressive man with a thin face, hornbill nose and sunken cheeks, Walton seemed unable to sit still on the moulded plastic seats, forever shifting his weight from one bony buttock to the other. Bailey was sitting on the opposite side of a flimsy-looking table that had been screwed to the floor. A tape recorder was humming gently to his right. He was staring at Hennessy with a hostile intensity, his pen suspended motionlessly over a notepad.

‘Face it, Hennessy, it’s over,’ Viggiano said, trying to sound calm but struggling to contain the excitement in his voice. Less than forty-eight hours ago he’d been wondering what he was doing with his life. Now here he was running a multiple homicide investigation. Funny how someone else’s bad luck could be just the break you’ve been praying for. ‘Whatever little scam you’ve been running up there is finished now. So you might as well tell us what you know and make this a whole lot easier on yourself.’