Detroit Combat by Randy Wayne White Read Free Book Online Page A

league.”
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œYeah,” 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,