Detroit Combat (6 page)

Hawker couldn't deny that it was real. He also couldn't deny that McCarthy had been absolutely correct in his judgment of The Three Sisters restaurant. He, McCarthy, and Riddock all ordered steaks. Hawker got the sixteen-ounce porterhouse. It was served on a wooden platter. On the outside, the steak was dry and scorched almost black—not particularly appetizing. But when Hawker cut into it, it was like no piece of beef he had ever eaten. The interior was beautifully rare, tender and moist beyond belief.

They ate in silence for a while. Hawker could tell there was something on McCarthy's mind. The vigilante had said nothing about the Queen Faith case, leaving it all up to the Detroit detective.

For all Claramae Riddock knew, Hawker was a reporter for a crime magazine.

As it turned out, that's exactly what McCarthy should have told her. But he didn't.

Finally, when they had all finished their steaks and were lingering over coffee and dessert, McCarthy said, “Hawk, Detective Riddock is one of the few cops around you'll find who is also a lawyer.”

Trying to be as pleasant as he could, Hawker nodded as if impressed.

McCarthy continued, “Yesterday she expressed some interest in the Brenda Paulie case—”

“More accurately,” the woman interrupted, “I had some serious questions about what actually happened at that porno studio. For instance, I find Brenda Paulie's story very difficult to accept. She apparently claims that some mysterious stranger interrupted the filming, fought with her captors, then spirited her away. After calling for medical help, this phantom disappeared. Furthermore, Ms. Paulie insists she cannot describe her rescuer, yet she insists that her rescuer did not shoot the dead man, Mr. Solomon Goldblatz.” She looked closely at Hawker, then at McCarthy. “But frankly, Paul, I'm very uncomfortable continuing with this line of discussion unless I find out exactly how your friend figures into this investigation.”

To Hawker she said, “Are you a policeman?”

“No. No, I'm not.”

“Are you a journalist somehow interested in how these cases are handled?”

Hawker looked meaningfully at McCarthy. He couldn't believe the Detroit cop had brought an outsider onto the case. It put Hawker into one hell of an uncomfortable spot. McCarthy seemed to be enjoying Hawker's discomfort, so Hawker decided to turn the tables.

He decided to tell her the truth. He decided to put it to her so frankly that she would refuse to believe it.

He said, “Actually, Ms. Riddock, what I am may surprise you.” (McCarthy waggled his eyebrows at that.) “I'm a vigilante.” (McCarthy's smile vanished.) “I hunt down criminals and kill them.” (McCarthy's expression became one of incredulity—then horror.) “My reason for being a vigilante is simple: Local law enforcement agencies are handcuffed by the restraints placed upon them by courts that serve only to protect the criminal. They're the same courts that leave the victim helpless. I go in and, in effect, wage covert war against criminal elements.” Hawker glanced at McCarthy to see if he was squirming. He was. It was exactly what he wanted. McCarthy had had his little joke, now Hawker was having his. He continued, “It's violent work. Exceedingly violent. I don't waste time reading rights or worrying about what the press or the courts are going to say about me. On the streets, it's kill or be killed.” Hawker smiled at the way McCarthy's eyes widened when he added, “So far I've been lucky. I've been wounded a few times, but nothing that kept me in the hospital for more than a month or so.” He nodded at the woman. “That's what I do, Detective Riddock, and I hope that explains why Paul invited me to dinner tonight.”

For the moment, the woman seemed too shocked to say a word. But McCarthy managed. “Ha-ha.” He chortled. “Ha-ha-ha.” Now that he wanted to laugh, he couldn't. “What a kidder this guy is! Boy, James, that was a good one—a vigilante. God, what an imagination.” He nudged the woman. “Didn't I tell you he was a million laughs?”

“No,” the woman said, “you told me no such thing. In fact, you didn't really tell me anything about your friend at all.” She looked closely at Hawker, her eyes like lasers. “And obviously Paul didn't tell you much about me either, did he? You see, Mr. Hawker, I'm detective sergeant in the legal division of the D.P.D.—I'm an attorney, as Paul said. When I heard about the strange circumstances surrounding the escape of Ms. Brenda Paulie, I immediately decided an investigation was in order.” She looked sharply at McCarthy. “A
separate
investigation. You see, I didn't like anything about that rescue operation. The whole thing stinks. A private citizen breaks into a porno ring without due process, without proper warrants, without even apprising the office inhabitants of their rights? Come on, give some of us credit. We're not
dumb
, for God's sake. I knew what happened from the first moment I heard the story.”

“Yeah?” said Hawker, amused.

“Yes,” said Claramae Riddock. “I knew rogue cops were involved.”

“Or a vigilante?”

McCarthy slapped his hand on the table a little too hard. “Come on, Claramae, you don't really believe he's a vigilante?”

“I believe every word he just said.” She looked at Hawker. “You didn't expect me to believe you, did you? You thought the truth would be too bizarre for me to accept.”

Hawker shrugged. “So now that you know, what are you going to do?”

“This morning I told Detective McCarthy I was going to ask for an internal investigation and press charges if I found any evidence of vigilante behavior on the part of members of our force. And that's still what I plan to do—only now it will be easier. Much easier.”

“Come on,
Detective,”
McCarthy snapped. “Get off your white horse. When you told me you planned an investigation, I thought James might be able to talk a little sense into you—that's why I invited you here. I thought you might change your mind when you saw what kind of guy he is.”

“Change my mind? From what I've seen, Paul, your friend is rude, egotistical, ruthless, and a complete boor. Why should that change my mind?”

McCarthy's face was getting red. “He saved Brenda Paulie's life, for one thing,” he said. “That doesn't mean anything to you? He's provided us with our first lead on one hell of a tough case. And he's willing to keep working with us. Now why would you want to spoil that?”

“He also violated the human rights of everyone involved with that porno ring,” Claramae Riddock shot back. “He killed Solomon Goldblatz in cold blood—a man who had never been found guilty of a crime—”

“Goldblatz was a kink, for Christ's sake! He raped children.”

“He was never found guilty in a court of law.” She glared at McCarthy. “In this country, you're still innocent until proven guilty.”

“The kids' parents wouldn't let them testify.”

“Then that's the parents' problem, not the problem of the Detroit Police Department. In the eyes of the law, Mr. Goldblatz was innocent. And for Mr. Hawker to kill him is murder, plain and simple.”

“I didn't kill him,” Hawker interrupted coolly. “But I wish I had.” He gave the woman a look of appraisal. “Tell me, Detective Riddock, have you done much work in the field?”

“I'm not on trial here, Mr. Hawker.”

“Sidestepping the question?”

“Not at all. My job is strictly internal affairs. I'm not ashamed of it.”

“You've never been shot at, or had to shoot someone?”

“Of course not.”

“You've never worked the streets—the streets where any one of a hundred people would love to slit your throat just for the fun of it? You've never been in the pits with the crooks and killers and the rapists? I'd love to take you out some evening and introduce you to some of these fine, decent law-abiding folks you're so hellbent on protecting.”

“Now who's lecturing, Hawker? I've met plenty of criminals. I work with them every day. That's why I know that they're usually just people a little more unfortunate than you and I, just people who have had some bad breaks. They're not animals and they're not freaks. They've made mistakes, but they still have rights—rights that must be protected.”

“And what about the victims?”

“Once the law has been broken, there's not much a cop can do for the victim. It's unfortunate, but that's the way it is.”

Hawker finished his beer and prepared to leave. He looked at McCarthy. “Paul, it has been a
lovely
evening. But I think I'd better go now before I lose my temper and tell Detective Riddock what a naive little airhead she really is.”

Hastily the woman put her purse on the table and unzipped it. Hawker couldn't quite believe it when she pulled out a nickel-plated .38 police special. She pointed it at Hawker. “You're not going anywhere, mister. I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of Solomon Goldblatz.”

Hawker smiled his disbelief. “Because of what we said here tonight? Come on, lady, it's your word against the two of us.”

Just as calmly, she reached into her purse and produced a tiny tape recorder. The reels were turning. Detective Sergeant Claramae Riddock smiled. “Say what you want about me, Mr. Hawker, but I am no airhead.” She switched off the recorder. “Properly introduced, I think I have enough here to put you and McCarthy behind bars for a long, long while.…”

NINE

Hawker found himself paying the bill for a woman who fully intended to send him to prison. It made him feel even more ridiculous.

She put the gun away when McCarthy solemnly promised the two of them would accompany her peacefully to the station house. One by one they filed through the restaurant door. McCarthy looked at the vigilante and rolled his eyes as if to apologize. Hawker smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, Paul, that was the best steak I've ever had in my life.”

He chuckled grimly. “If Annie Oakley there gets you sentenced to the electric chair, we'll know just what to bring you for your last meal.”

“That's a happy thought,” said Hawker. “I feel better already.”

“And maybe we can share a cell!”

“Gee, what fun.”

“I've always wanted to learn how to play the harmonica.”

“I just changed my mind. I think I'm going to ask for a private cell.”

“How about the accordion?”

“I'll ask for a cell in a different time zone.”

Behind them, Claramae Riddock said with sarcasm that held no humor, “You two men are a real credit to law enforcement. Keep on joking. Is there anything important enough for you to be serious about?”

“I have a theory,” said McCarthy, ignoring the question. “I think one of the unacknowledged side effects of birth control pills is habitual nastiness. How else can the behavior of the modern woman be explained?”

“Watch it,” said Hawker wryly. “She has a gun and doesn't know how to use it.”

“So?”

“The warning shot could be fatal.”

A northwest wind had blown the smog away, and the December sky was clear and black and misty with stars. In the parking lot, fresh snow creaked beneath their feet, and their breath vaporized in gray plumes as they talked in the cold night. It was late; only a few cars remained in the lot.

When they got to his Corvette, Hawker faced the woman. “So what's the plan, Detective? Do you want Paul and me to follow you in, or are you going to radio for reinforcements?”

Riddock didn't smile. “Paul can drive himself. I'll ride with you.”

“You trust him but you don't trust me? Keep it up, Detective, and you're really going to hurt my feelings.”

“Paul grew up in Detroit; he has family here. There's not much chance he'll bolt. And if he does, we know where to find him. You're a different story, Hawker. I'll have a uniform give me a ride back to my car.”

“And, once we're alone, what's to stop me from knocking you on the head and dumping you in a ditch?”

The woman reached into her purse and produced the .38. “Hawker, don't think for one minute I won't use this if you make me. Get it through your head: You're under arrest. I've taken your gun, I've read you your rights, and you're in one hell of a lot of trouble. Instead of thinking up wisecracks, I'd be concentrating on which lawyer to call.”

Hawker said nothing. McCarthy jingled the car keys in his hand. “Sorry, James. This is my fault. I was dumb as hell to think we could talk some sense into Joan of Arc there.”

“Don't worry about it, Paul. Maybe it's time to spread some facts before the public. And a court is the best place to do that.”

As McCarthy trudged toward his car, the woman opened the passenger door of Hawker's car. When the courtesy light flashed on, Hawker had the impression that several things happened at once:

The figure of a man inside the Corvette lunged toward the woman. In that microsecond, Hawker realized he had seen the ink-black hair and pockmarked face before. It was the man with Brenda Paulie—one of Queen Faith's people.

The woman screamed, but before she had the presence of mind to fire, the man hit her hard in the face. His fist against her flesh made an ugly cracking sound, and she sprawled heavily into the slush.

The man turned immediately toward Hawker, a heavy-caliber revolver in his hand. “I'm going to make sure you don't poke your nose into business it don't belong no more,” he said with a growl.

Before Hawker could react, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind him. Paul McCarthy called out, “Freeze! Police!” He had both hands pressed together as if he held a weapon—but he didn't. It was a bluff. The woman had taken their guns.

It was a bluff Queen Faith's man didn't fall for. Without a moment's hesitation, the man swung and fired. McCarthy's hands flew up as his legs skated out from under him. The impact of the .357 slug slammed his body into a grotesque somersault and he landed with a thud on his shoulders and neck. McCarthy groaned once and lay still. The white snow steamed and melted as blood seeped into it.