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

“Yesterday she expressed some interest in the Brenda Paulie case—”
    â€œMore 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?”
    â€œNo. No, I’m not.”
    â€œAre 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?”
    â€œNo,” 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