The Diehard by Jon A. Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

shot at Noell. That was a mistake.
    Noell squeezed the trigger on the Stoner. The automatic rifle had a 30-shot clip of 5.56-millimeter cartridges in it. In just over two seconds the clip was empty. A hail of very high-speed, unstable bullets flew down the alley and cut the gunman to pieces.
    The young man lost his pursuers, returned to Livernois and escaped in the Corvette. No one got the license number. The truck-driver was not so lucky. Several officers were waiting for him at his rig. Fortunately, he had a valid permit for his .32 automatic. He was cited for blocking traffic and menacing the public safety.
    Officer Duncan was trying to explain to Noell what had happened. “Who is this one?” Noell asked, pointing with the Stoner in one large hand at the crumpled corpse.
    “I don't know,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “I never saw him before.”
    Mulheisen was sitting in McClain's office at Headquarters. Headquarters was busy. The broad hallways smelled of wet wool. Few people looked happy, including the cops. The police asked parents and sons to step into their offices for a minute; they leaned over counters and asked questions; they walked down the hallways with files in hand, carrying plastic-foam cups of coffee; they said “Hiya, Irv,” and Irv said, “ ‘Lo, Bob, Jim.”
    McClain had his giant feet on his desk. The desk was covered with memos and files and letters. The In-Out baskets were jammed. He was listening to Mulheisen tell about his interview with Lou Spencer. “Jesus,” he said, when Mulheisen had finished, “she sounds like a cross between a saint and a nympho.”
    “I didn't get that impression,” Mulheisen said. “You're just old-fashioned.”
    “Bullshit! Any broad who goes into strange bars cruising is a tramp.”
    Mulheisen shook his head. “The Spencer gal seemed to think it was more of a youthful fling, maybe like a young stud who discovers he can score with women so he goes wild for a while. An ego thing. It's like Lou said, she enjoyed her power over men.”
    “Lou, is it? Better watch yourself, Fang.” He laughed and sat up, dropping his feet to the floor with a crash. “Okay,” he said, “I'll leave that up to you. I got everything else straightened out. Don't worry about Buchanan. He doesn't know anything and doesn't need to know anything. I'm fronting the whole investigation. Just like always. I talk to the press, I talk to the prosecutor, I talk to the commissioner, the mayor, whoever. You go do your job, but let me know how things are going.
    “Now, about this sainted tramp, despite what you say I think I'll have my boys check out her neighbors on strange men coming at odd hours, that sort of thing. And we'll ask around in the bars, see if she was up to her old tricks. I'll let you know how that comes out. You didn't find out what bars she might hang out in, did you?”
    Mulheisen shook his head. “Lad, that's a waste of time.”
    “So? We'll try it anyway. Listen, Mul, it's important that wescore an early bust on this. Clippert is big stuff. And a lot of strange people are interested in what's going on.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I got calls today from the U.S. Attorney's office, from the FBI, from the SEC, from the Michigan Insurance Commission—”
    “What? What's all this?”
    “Mul, you ever heard of Arthur Clippert before?”
    Mulheisen shook his head.
    “I'm disappointed,” McClain said. “I thought you were an intelligent man, the kind of guy who reads the paper from front to back every day. At least you read the sports pages, don't you? You ever hear of the Flying Clipper?”
    “Oh, sure,” Mulheisen said. “So that's him. Yeah, halfback for Michigan. All-American.”
    “Right,” McClain said. “But you know who else he is? Here, read this.” He handed Mulheisen the morning Free Press folded open to the story on the Fidelity Funding scandal. Mulheisen read the article.
    “Very complicated swindle they pulled over there,” McClain said.