Detroit Combat (5 page)

“And the donations were usually much bigger when the deceased died of the Big C.”

“Right.”

“Charming guy.”

“Yeah. Another one of his characters was a paternal IRS man. He would accuse people of tax fraud—everyone thinks they're guilty of tax fraud—and then he would pretend to be sympathetic about their circumstances. For a cash contribution to his favorite charity—himself—Goldblatz would agree to overlook their offense. It was a good racket, because he made the people he conned believe that, by bribing him, they had become accessories to a crime. And they sure as hell weren't going to turn themselves in.”

“Pretty smart.”

“Oh, yeah, he was shrewd. But, like I said, he was real slime.”

“There are a lot of con men around, Paul.”

“Not like Goldblatz. He was not only a con man, he was a kink. One of the real sickos.”

“You're telling me? I saw the bastard in action.”

“But you didn't see him in high gear. Goldblatz had been directing porno movies for years. He liked rough stuff. It helped him get his rocks off. But he liked something a lot more than violence.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Goldblatz was a child molester, Hawk. Calling him a rapist would be more accurate. He was never sent up for it, but he was arrested three times. Twice the parents of the children refused to allow their kids to testify. The third time, the kid went into a catatonic retreat, like a zombie, and there were no other witnesses. Goldblatz's defense attorney tore the case to shreds in the chambers. Goldblatz never even spent a day in court, let alone jail.”

“I'm suddenly real sorry I wasn't the one who blew him away. I had the chance. I decided to give him a break. And I'm real sorry I didn't take care of his friends too. I've met a lot of twisted folks in my time, but these people were beyond belief. We're talking certifiable. Did you get a make on any of them?”

“No. Wish we had. They had cleared out by the time we got our people there. They took everything that might have given us some clue to their identity. All they left was a couple of empty beds, some movie lights, and Goldblatz's corpse. We've had the place dusted for prints. But so far Goldblatz is the only one we have on record. I'm surprised they had time to get the cameras out. We got there quick.”

“They seemed to be pretty well organized. But then, most big-profit crime is well organized. Did your people find out anything about this woman called Queen Faith?”

McCarthy swirled his glass of scotch; the amber liquid became a violent whirlpool. “First of all, I'd heard her name before you mentioned it to me. As you know, Detective White and I and some others have been working on this case for the last six months in our spare time. All we knew was that women from the suburb of Marlow West were disappearing—we had no idea where they were being taken or why. For all we knew, a serial murderer was at work. So, to give ourselves an efficient modus operandi, we came up with a variety of motives for why someone would want to undertake a fairly large-scale kidnapping operation. By narrowing down those motives, we could make our investigation more efficient …” McCarthy chuckled and sipped his drink. “… and that's real important when you're doing that investigating on your days off.”

“It sounds to me like Detroit has its share of very smart and very dedicated cops, Detective McCarthy.”

“There's no amount of flattery that's going to make me pick up the check tonight.”

“I had to try.”

Both men laughed. “Okay,” McCarthy continued, “where was I? Oh, yeah: how I heard about this creature known as Queen Faith. One of the motives we came up with was kidnapping for the purposes of forced participation in pornography. Of course, until you stumbled on Brenda Paulie, Hawk, we had no idea that that is what they were doing. Anyway, Detective White and I checked out the porno angle. We made the rounds of the sleazy joints and didn't come up with much. I heard the name Queen Faith mentioned a couple of times, but I got the impression she ran some kind of second-class whorehouse. A small-timer. But then I heard about her again—when I was checking the late Sol Goldblatz's record.”

“Yeah?”

McCarthy looked troubled. “Yeah. One of the kids Goldblatz assaulted gave the police a fair amount of detailed information before the parents decided the kid should have nothing to do with prosecuting the bastard. In the text of the statement, the kid mentioned a woman … a woman called ‘Queenie.' According to the kid, Queenie was worse than just sick. She was a real freak. She got her hands on the kid before Goldblatz did. And what Queenie did really hits the nausea button.” He looked at Hawker carefully. “Maybe I should wait until after dinner to tell you.”

Hawker shook his head. “No. Let's hear it now.”

As McCarthy described the sexual proclivities of Queen Faith, Hawker stared coldly into his beer. When McCarthy was done, Hawker drained the bottle and set it down harder than he had planned. “And you think Queenie and Queen Faith are the same woman?”

“That would be my guess,” McCarthy said. “The chances of there being two women named Queen in the porno business, both of whom know Goldblatz, are pretty damn slim.”

“Yeah,” said Hawker thoughtfully. After a long silence, he finally asked, “Paul, that kid you told me about. The one Queen Faith got her hands on. Was the kid a—”

“The kid was a seven-year-old girl, Hawk. And what was done to that baby would be enough to put a female adult into the loonie bin for a year. And to have it done to her by a woman …” He let his voice trail off.

All traces of emotion had left James Hawker's face. McCarthy observed with a chill the degree of coldness in the searing blue eyes, and he realized with some surprise that they were the eyes of a killer, a perfect, machinelike killer.

Upon reflection, McCarthy wondered why he had been surprised.

James Hawker said softly, “When I find Queen Faith, I will mention that little girl to her. It will be the last thing the bitch hears before she dies.…”

SEVEN

Peering at their menus, the two men were about to order when Hawker noticed a woman talking to the hostess. She was pointing at them.

“Expecting a date to join you?” Hawker asked.

McCarthy chuckled. “Nope. Not a date.”

The woman nodded and walked toward their table. Hawker couldn't help watching her. She was medium height, about five six, maybe a little taller. She had long golden-blond hair, a stern Germanic face that softened somewhat around the eyes and lips—the effect of which was to make her look like a very pretty teenager concerned with the world situation. Hawker guessed her to be about twenty-seven. She wore a pale tweed skirt that came to her knees, a sweater over a white blouse, and a handsome Irish woven suit jacket. Her purse was tucked under her arm like a briefcase, and she walked purposefully, as if trying to subdue the natural roll and sway of her hips. Her body was an intriguing combination of long legs, graceful arms, slim hips, wide shoulders, and full breasts. Hawker couldn't remember when he had seen a woman for whom he felt a stronger and more immediate physical wanting.

“You're sure you're not expecting anyone but Detective Riddock?”

McCarthy was watching the blond now. “Absolutely sure.”

Hawker returned to his menu. “Too bad. But you'd hardly expect a cop to attract a woman like that. She's strictly Learjets and Mediterranean vacations.”

McCarthy smiled. “Yeah. And she's probably a bitch anyway.”

Hawker chuckled. It was the old bull-session version of sour grapes. Whenever a group of guys saw a beautiful woman who was obviously out of their reach, they comforted themselves by saying she was no doubt a bitch—something no one, of course, really believed. It was, in fact, a spoof of their own feelings of inadequacy; a joke on themselves that no one tired of laughing at because they were all in the same boat and, worse, it was true. McCarthy was obviously a veteran of the jock bull sessions, and Hawker felt more comfortable with him because of it.

Still grinning into his menu, Hawker played his part. “Yep, a bitch. No doubt about it: The blonde is probably a first-class bitch.”

A shadow darkened his menu: The waitress had arrived to take their orders. Hawker looked up. Just as quickly, he looked back down.

It wasn't the waitress. It was the blonde. She stood behind him, a strained expression on her face. Her lips were tight and her eyes glittered. She had obviously overheard him.

Hawker cleared his throat. He could hear Paul McCarthy laughing heavily behind his menu. Hawker shook his head and said to no one in particular, “What in the world could this be in my mouth?…. Why … it's my very own shoe. Wait, I'll get it out—”

“Don't trouble yourself,” the woman said.

McCarthy's face was scarlet, and he was waging a tremendous inner battle against the hysteria of laughter. Laughter, unfortunately, was winning. His whole body shook. “James Hawker,” he managed to say, “allow me to introduce Detective Sergeant Claramae Riddock.”

Hawker was stunned.
“What?”

McCarthy found the question hysterical. He buried his head in his arms and sobbed.

“What?” Hawker repeated.

“I'm Detective Sergeant Claramae Riddock,” the woman said tersely. “I'm with the legal department of the Detroit Police Department.” She cast a look of disapproval at McCarthy. “I thought I was invited to discuss police matters. Instead I arrive just in time to hear a stranger discussing me in the basest and most offensive terms.”

Hawker was still backpedaling. “Clara
mae?”
he asked, not sure anyone could possibly be named such a thing.

“That's right,” the woman said in the same cold tone, “but I think you'd better call me Detective Riddock.”

“Claramae!”
McCarthy roared, settling into new spasms. “Oh, God.” He gasped. “Why isn't someone writing this stuff down?”

People at other tables were beginning to stare.

Hawker stood. “Claramae—Detective Riddock, I'm very sorry. I mean that. I won't try to explain what I said—”

“Please don't.”

“Look, my name is James Hawker. I'm a friend of Paul's. Why don't you sit down and we can talk?”

“I really don't see much sense in that, Mr. Hawker.” The look of being unsettled was quickly leaving her face, replaced by an attitude of disdain. “Frankly, I find such chauvinistic attitudes beyond my understanding and far beyond my bounds of sympathy. That you find it funny, Paul, I find particularly offensive.”

Through streaming eyes, McCarthy looked up long enough to say, “Don't blame me—he's the one … he's the one who called you a
bitch.”
The young detective was immediately swamped again by his own laughter. He was now holding his sides painfully.

“Thanks a lot, Paul,” Hawker said dryly. He drew out a chair for the woman, adding, “Look, I don't know why Paul wanted you here, but I'm sure it was important. You caught us in the middle of a private joke—a joke that was in bad taste, I agree. But if your ego is so delicate that you can't even be joked about, then maybe you have no business being a cop. Believe me, if you're that sensitive, the case Paul has been talking about is way out of your league.”

“Don't try to manipulate me,” the woman snapped. “Spare me the inane psychological tactics. I'll stay for dinner because I told Paul I would. Whatever else Detective McCarthy may be, he's a good cop. If he wants to talk to me, then I will happily listen. If, for some reason, he wants me to discuss something with you, I'll discuss it.” Her voice grew sharper. “But it will not be because of any cleverness on your part, and it will not be because you somehow ‘handled' me.” She put her hands on her hips. “Do you understand me?”

The look of embarrassment had slowly drained from Hawker's face. His blue eyes were now cold orbs. He said softly, “Lady, I wouldn't give a micro-ounce of spittle for the privilege of understanding you. If you want to stay—stay. But if you plan to lecture me, then you'd better leave and leave quickly. I may be one of the few men you've ever met who really does believe in equality—and if you talk to me again the way you just did, I'll treat you the way I'd treat a man. Do you understand?”

Hawker and the woman were still glowering at each other when McCarthy came up for another breath of air. Rubbing his eyes, he said gaily, “Something told me you two would get along. I don't know why. Maybe it's because you remind me of each other.” The laughter began to heave in him once again. “God, I ought to be a matchmaker.”

“Yeah,” said the woman. In unison, she and Hawker added, “At Madison Square Garden.”

EIGHT

At first, there was little doubt in Hawker's mind he could win the woman over to his side.

He was mistaken.

Detective Claramae Riddock sat at the table next to Hawker, yet she insisted on staying stern, aloof, and businesslike, a million miles away.

Hawker found it all the more troubling because the physical attraction he felt for her had increased rather than lessened. Sitting so close to her, Hawker could see that her skin had a healthy, coppery quality, as if her flesh had been sun-browned, then sprinkled with metallic flakes. Her breasts pushed heavily against the material of her blouse and sweater, and her gray eyes, framed by the long golden hair, gave the woman a haunting, ethereal beauty. The physical impact she produced was almost primal. It made him want to possess her, to dominate her, to do anything he had to do to bed her.

That, he realized wryly, was not very likely considering the circumstances.

He tried small talk while they ate, but it amounted to nothing. McCarthy had regained control of himself and seemed in an unusually good mood. He seemed to be enjoying the effect Claramae Riddock was having on Hawker.