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  “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. “Claramae?” 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.

  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?”