JК
The Colorado Kid :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 50 из 81“Had no desire to move on?”
“She saidnot. Said he loved their place up in the mountains, even had a sign over the front door that said hernando’s hideaway. And she talked to one of the artists he worked with on the Sunset Chevrolet account, a fellow Cogan had worked with for years, Dave, do you recall that name—?”
“George Rankin or George Franklin,” Dave said. “Cannot recall which, right off the top of my head.”
“Don’t let it get you down, oldtimer,” Vince said. “Even Willie Mays dropped a popup from time to time, I guess, especially toward the end of his career.”
Dave stuck out his tongue.
Vince nodded as if such childishness was exactly what he’d come to expect of his managing editor, then took up the thread of his story once more. “George the Artist, be he Rankin or Franklin, told Arla that Jim had pretty much reached the top end of that which his talent was capable, and he was one of the fortunate people who not only knew his limitations but was content with them. He said Jim’s remaining ambition was to someday head Mountain Outlook’s art department. And, given that ambition, cutting and running for the New England coast on the spur of the moment is just about the last thing he would have done.”
“But she thought that’s what hedid do,” Stephanie said. “Isn’t it?”
Vince put his coffee cup down and ran his hands through his fluff of white hair, which was already fairly crazy. “Arla Cogan’s like all of us,” he said, “a prisoner of the evidence.
“James Cogan left his home at 6:45 AM on that Wednesday to make the drive to Denver by way of the Boulder Turnpike. The only luggage he had was that portfolio I mentioned. He was wearing a gray suit, a white shirt, a red tie, and a gray overcoat. Oh, and black loafers on his feet.”
“No green jacket?” Stephanie asked.
“No green jacket,” Dave agreed, “but the gray slacks, white shirt, and black loafers was almost certainly what he was wearing when Johnny and Nancy found him sittin dead on the beach with his back against that litter basket.”
“His suitcoat?”
“Never found,” Dave said. “The tie, neither—but accourse if a man takes off his tie, nine times out of ten he’ll stuff it into the pocket of his suitcoat, and I’d be willin to bet that if that gray suitcoat everdid turn up, the tie’d be in the pocket.”
“He was at his office drawing board by 8:45 AM,” Vince said, “working on a newspaper ad for King Sooper’s.”
“What—?”
“Supermarket chain, dear,” Dave said.
“She saidnot. Said he loved their place up in the mountains, even had a sign over the front door that said hernando’s hideaway. And she talked to one of the artists he worked with on the Sunset Chevrolet account, a fellow Cogan had worked with for years, Dave, do you recall that name—?”
“George Rankin or George Franklin,” Dave said. “Cannot recall which, right off the top of my head.”
“Don’t let it get you down, oldtimer,” Vince said. “Even Willie Mays dropped a popup from time to time, I guess, especially toward the end of his career.”
Dave stuck out his tongue.
Vince nodded as if such childishness was exactly what he’d come to expect of his managing editor, then took up the thread of his story once more. “George the Artist, be he Rankin or Franklin, told Arla that Jim had pretty much reached the top end of that which his talent was capable, and he was one of the fortunate people who not only knew his limitations but was content with them. He said Jim’s remaining ambition was to someday head Mountain Outlook’s art department. And, given that ambition, cutting and running for the New England coast on the spur of the moment is just about the last thing he would have done.”
“But she thought that’s what hedid do,” Stephanie said. “Isn’t it?”
Vince put his coffee cup down and ran his hands through his fluff of white hair, which was already fairly crazy. “Arla Cogan’s like all of us,” he said, “a prisoner of the evidence.
“James Cogan left his home at 6:45 AM on that Wednesday to make the drive to Denver by way of the Boulder Turnpike. The only luggage he had was that portfolio I mentioned. He was wearing a gray suit, a white shirt, a red tie, and a gray overcoat. Oh, and black loafers on his feet.”
“No green jacket?” Stephanie asked.
“No green jacket,” Dave agreed, “but the gray slacks, white shirt, and black loafers was almost certainly what he was wearing when Johnny and Nancy found him sittin dead on the beach with his back against that litter basket.”
“His suitcoat?”
“Never found,” Dave said. “The tie, neither—but accourse if a man takes off his tie, nine times out of ten he’ll stuff it into the pocket of his suitcoat, and I’d be willin to bet that if that gray suitcoat everdid turn up, the tie’d be in the pocket.”
“He was at his office drawing board by 8:45 AM,” Vince said, “working on a newspaper ad for King Sooper’s.”
“What—?”
“Supermarket chain, dear,” Dave said.