Detroit Combat (9 page)

Amused by his own bleak thoughts, Hawker found his way through the downtown streets, then caught Lake Shore Drive to Jefferson Beach where the narrow asphalt drive twisted through snowbanks and bare trees to his rented bachelor's cottage on Lake St. Clair.

His Corvette creaked with the cold as he got out. A northwest wind made the lake roar. In an endless procession, waves lunged at the beach, spread themselves on the sand, then lunged again from the darkness.

Hawker went inside, flicking on lights. Electric heaters were built into the floorboards—but they didn't work very well. Hawker could see his breath. It was cold as hell.

He got a Tuborg from the refrigerator, reconsidered, then poured himself two fingers of Johnnie Walker Black in a heavy glass, no ice. Then he built a fire in the fireplace. There was plenty of kindling and split oak, and soon he had the whole living room illuminated by flickering, saffron light.

There was an ancient stereo system. The Fort Wayne station was giving hog and grain reports, so Hawker found a jazz station piping out heavy bass and slow, New Orleans sax. He turned it up loud and carried his drink to the bathroom where he stripped off his clothes. There was a moment of indecision then. He had yet to do his daily calisthenics and run. He looked at the drink in his hand and silently made a long and heartfelt argument for putting it all off until tomorrow. He had already had a long day. Yes, and his face and head and legs and neck and the very roots of his hair still hurt from the car wreck and his fight with the goon.

So why in the hell shouldn't he take a break? Huh? Why?

Hawker looked at the drink, thinking: You are either disciplined or you have no discipline. There is no middle ground.

That did it. He put the drink down on the counter with exaggerated calm.
Shit
.

Quickly he changed into sweat pants, heavy shirt, gloves, and running shoes. He did fifty pushups, fifty situps, then fifty more pushups. Not giving himself time to think about it, he plunged outside and ran through the darkness to the beach, punishing himself with a seven-minute-mile pace.

Surf spray soaked him, he tripped three times in the darkness (fell twice), and was chased by a Rottweiler that could have been a descendant of the Hound of the Baskervilles. After a very long life-or-death sprint, his pace slowed to a wobble.

The run was not fun.

Twenty minutes out, his lungs burned and the tears were freezing on his cheek. He had had enough.

Hawker turned and headed back—by a different route.

Clomping and stomping and blowing on his hands, he entered the bungalow and slammed the door against the wind.

From behind him, a woman's voice called out, “I was just starting to worry about you.”

“What!” Startled, Hawker whirled around.

Detective Claramae Riddock sat in a chair by the fire. She wore a white turtleneck sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. Her hair was bound back in a long ponytail. In the light of the fire, her hair glowed like molten gold, the drink in her hand was brilliant amber. Standing, she became a flickering silhouette of hips and breasts and firm jaw. Hawker could see that her face was still swollen from the assault. “They let me out of the hospital,” she said, her tone businesslike. But then her manner became increasingly unsure. “I went home but I … I just felt restless. I wanted to talk to you about some things. I called, but there was no answer and … I don't live far from here, so I decided to stop by.”

Hawker pulled the towel from around his neck and wiped the sweat/ice off his face. “I'm glad you're feeling better.”

She held up the glass. “I hope you don't mind my helping myself? The door was unlocked, so I just came in—” She seemed to see him for the first time, and her eyes grew wide. “What in the world happened to you?”

Hawker looked down. His sweat pants were not only soaking wet but ripped, and his knee was bleeding. He realized his face must be flecked with sand. “I was out running.”

“You looked better the other night after almost being killed. Maybe it's because your eye wasn't so black.”

“It was an exciting run.” Hawker went into the kitchen and opened a beer. “I must have just missed you.”

“What?”

He returned to the living room, half the beer gone. “Your call—I must have just missed it.”

“Oh.” She shrugged, now visibly embarrassed at having tracked him down.

Hawker smiled and gave her an understanding pat. “I'm glad you're here. I mean it.” She looked at the floor when he touched her, but didn't pull away. Once again Hawker felt the stomach wrench of physical wanting for her—the desire to see the lithe, woman's body stripped naked; to wrap his hands in her soft hair and kiss the full lips. He touched her arm again, but this time she flinched ever so slightly. Hawker motioned toward the chair. “Have a seat, finish your drink while I take a shower—” And because that small bit of body language told him the visit was business, he added, “—Detective Riddock.”

Hawker got another beer, then steamed himself longer than good manners allow. As he dressed himself in soft jeans and a sweater, the woman called out, “Can I make you something to eat?”

“Naw, that's okay. I'll make a sandwich later.”

“Can any of this wood go on the fire?”

“I'll take care of the fire. Just relax.”

Her tone was humorous. “Well, let me do something, damn it. I feel like I'm spoiling your whole evening.”

“Then fix the fire.”

When he came out of the bathroom, she was. Hawker sat on the throwrug beside her, his third beer in hand. “You're a great little firetender.”

She sighed, laughing. “I feel like an absolute ass.”

“You mean I'm not the only one who feels that way?”

“Now you're being patronizing. You don't have to try to make me feel better. You've already saved my life. Leave me with some dignity.”

“I didn't know you'd lost your dignity. If you did, it isn't because you came into my house uninvited. And it sure as hell isn't because that guy had you in the backseat. You handled yourself pretty well. You don't have anything to feel ashamed about.”

She put a final log on the fire and slapped the soot off her hands. “It's not that—it's what I said to you and Paul in the restaurant that night. I was so damn sure I was right. That grand little speech I made about protecting the rights of the accused. About how criminals are just plain, simple folks who've made mistakes—God, what a naive idiot I was.”

Hawker smiled. “A little naive, maybe, but not an idiot. You were right. The rights of the accused do have to be protected. If they weren't, this country would be in one hell of a mess—just ask the people in Cuba or Poland. But protecting the rights of criminals while disregarding the rights of citizens is even worse. Unfortunately, Claramae, there are people on the streets who should be chained to a wall and fed with a stick.”

The woman shuddered. “I know that now. That man who tried to kill us … I can still smell the stink of him on me. I feel
dirty
. He was nothing but an animal. Did you see the way he acted after he shot Paul? He thought it was funny. A big joke. He felt absolutely no regret.” She leaned her shoulder against Hawker briefly, then looked up at him. “How do people get to be like that?”

Hawker shook his head. “Who knows? Maybe his parents beat him. Maybe his grandfather was a drunk. Maybe he was born on a full moon with Venus rising. Who cares? People have to be accountable for their own actions. Period. Judges who try to atone for a killer's unhappy childhood through leniency do nothing but give the killer easy excuses—and usually another chance to kill.” Hawker laughed. “Why is it I always end up making speeches when I'm around you, Claramae?”

“It was a nice speech.” She smiled. “And for God's sake, don't call me Claramae anymore. I hate that name. Call me Clare. That's what all my friends call me.”

“No more
Ms
. Riddock?”

She laughed and sipped her drink. “Riddock isn't even my name—my real name, anyway. It's—are you ready for this?—Jones. Claramae Jones. Riddock was my husband's name. I just never got around to changing it all back after the divorce, and that's been almost a year.”

Hawker held up his beer. “Here's to you, Detective Sergeant Clare Jones.”

She tinked her empty glass against his bottle. “So now that we're officially friends, Hawk, I want to ask a favor.”

“Sure. Name it.”

When she leaned toward him, her gray eyes reflected the fire. “I want to help you on this case, Hawk. I'll take time off if I have to, but I want to help you break the people who sent that man after us. You're obviously very good at what you do, but I know my way around this town. I have some pull, and I might have access to information you might need.” Her smile was almost shy. “And if you're interested and want to hear it, I even have a plan—a way to break into their slavery ring.”

Hawker looked at her empty glass. “Do you want another drink?”

“Sure.”

“Then I want to hear your plan.”

TWELVE

When Hawker returned from the kitchen with another glass of Johnnie Walker Black, the woman was stretched out in front of the fire. The flickering light danced over the curves of her body, and there was a dreamy expression on her face. She looked like the ultimate in bachelors' bear rugs.

“Ice?”

She sat up quickly, straightening the sweater. “What? Oh, no—no ice, thank you. It's too cold out for ice.”

Hawker handed her the drink and she nodded her appreciation. “So let's hear this plan of yours,” he said. “I'm for anything that will put me on Queen Faith's doorstep.”

Clare sipped the scotch as Hawker took a seat on the floor beside her. “Before I go into it in any depth, let me ask you what you had planned. If your idea is better, there's no sense in even discussing mine.”

“My plan?” Hawker smiled. “I've been here for two and a half weeks, and my plan is still the same: Find someone involved with the organization who is willing to talk. I hope to interview Brenda Paulie again tomorrow, but they kept her so drugged up she doesn't remember much—only that Queen Faith's stronghold is a great big house someplace north of Detroit.”

“That doesn't narrow it down much, does it?”

“Well,” said Hawker wryly, “even if you eliminate the Arctic, you still end up with Canada and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. If the whole investigation hinges on my searching every big house between here and Alberta, then I think we're in real trouble.”

The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully. “That's not much of a plan, James. In fact, when you come right down to it, it's no plan at all.”

“Hey, I didn't say it was a great plan—it just happens to be the only plan I have.”

She laughed. “That male ego of yours sure does bruise easily.”

Hawker didn't smile. “I guess that's the effect beautiful women have on me.”

Clare looked into her glass and didn't speak for several seconds. Finally she looked up. “Thanks. That's nice to hear. After a divorce, you feel like an old and ugly … failure? … yeah, a failure. You don't see yourself as very attractive, and don't expect other people to find you attractive.” She touched the left side of her face, which was still badly swollen. “And after what that guy did to me, I really feel like a blob.”

“The prettiest blob in Detroit.” Hawker smiled. “That swollen jaw gives you a nice, worldly look.”

“Hah. You're just saying that because you have two black eyes.”

“One black eye, lady.”

She took his chin in her hand and turned his face into the light. Her touch was electric, and her gray eyes burned into Hawker's. Her voice was husky as she replied, “You're right, Mr. Hawker. One black eye, not two. Forgive me?”

She released his chin, and immediately the spell was broken. She moved away from him slightly, refusing to meet his eyes.

It was an awkward moment that needed covering. He tried: “So if your plan's so great, why don't you share it?”

“Well, it can't be any worse than yours.”

Hawker held his hands out toward the fire, warming them. “Go ahead. I could use some advice.”

It took her about fifteen minutes to outline the plan. Then she began to go into detail, answering Hawker's questions with an authority that told him she had put a lot of thought into it. Hawker had feared it would be too complicated—a deadly mistake in any kind of urban investigation. It wasn't. Hawker was impressed.

“That's it?” he asked when she was finished. “You think if we go into the pornography business, we can just sit back and wait for Queen Faith's people to get in touch with us?”

“It's worth a shot. We'll set up a real corporation—I can file the papers and make it all official. That way, if someone checks on us, it will all seem legitimate. Then we'll get a studio, cameras, the works—we have a bunch of film gear in the police warehouse; stolen stuff. I can sign a receipt for it. It doesn't even matter if it works. Then we put out the word we need actors. We'll run some ads in the local undergrounds. Sooner or later, Queen Faith is going to try to push her people our way.”

“And when she does, we'll tail them right to her front door,” Hawker finished.

“Right.” Clare beamed at him. “What do you think?”

“I think you must be one hell of a lawyer, Detective Riddock. You've got a first-class mind. And I pity anyone in the Detroit P.D. who falls under the shadow of your internal affairs division.”

“Really? You really think it will work?”

Hawker nodded. “Yeah, I really do. The only thing I don't like about it, Clare, is that you'll be putting your neck on the line again. Like I said, I'm sure you're great at what you do. But this is a different line of work altogether. You've put together a plan for a good offensive—and now that you've planned it, I think you ought to stay away from the front.”