twelve

Lieutenant Detective Walter Flaherty, as Hawker soon learned, wasn’t the kind of man easily twisted around anyone’s finger.

He pulled up in an unmarked Ford behind the two squad cars, all three skidding to a halt on the sandy side street.

Flaherty was the last to get out. He wore a summer-weight tweed jacket and wrinkled slacks. He had the plain, benign face of a country priest. Thin brown, curly hair was visible beneath the woven Sussex hat that was pulled low—as if he expected rain. Flaherty had the overall appearance of a peaceful man on a European fishing vacation. He looked like a dull little clerk who wanted nothing more than to sit in some anonymous house and watch his children grow.

Except for his eyes. Hawker took one look at the man’s eyes and knew he would have to tread carefully. They were gray-green prisms that reflected shrewdness and wit and bulldog tenacity. Hawker felt the eyes survey him as the uniformed cops brushed by them to check the corpse. Flaherty nodded, studied Melanie St. John until he seemed satisfied that he recognized her, then followed the cops into the bedroom.

Hawker stayed on the porch with the woman. She seemed nervous. Hawker caught her eye. “Just tell the truth,” he said.

“And what else would I tell them?”

“I have a feeling you’ve seen the guy who broke in here before, Melanie. No, don’t argue, now. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But if you did lie to me—for whatever reason—don’t lie to Flaherty. I’ve seen his kind before. He’ll give you all kinds of rope—then come back a few days later and use it to choke you. Think about it.”

Flaherty had returned to the porch so quietly that he surprised even Hawker. He had both hands stuffed into his pants pockets, and he rocked calmly back and forth on the balls of his feet as he talked.

“Yes, the man is indeed quite dead. Nasty case of bullet in the head,” he said. “You’re James Hawker? The gentleman who called?”

“That’s right.”

“This is your house?”

“I’m leasing it.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Less than a week. I’m from Chicago. I’m thinking of moving to California.”

“The man broke in and you shot him?”

“I did. He opened fire on me first. I was very lucky. I still can’t quite believe it really happened.”

Flaherty rocked forward on his toes, and pursed his lips as if about to whistle. “Yes,” he said. “A great shock to the average peace-loving vacationer, I suppose.” He looked at Hawker and smiled. “And to you, too, Miss Melanie St. John. Yes, I recognize you. And who wouldn’t? I must admit to being a great fan of yours. Yes, it’s true. In fact my dear wife, Irene, becomes quite jealous when I go to one of your movies—can you imagine? And me the father of four lovely daughters. Not a son to my name, but I couldn’t be happier. I sometimes chide my daughters by referring to them as ‘my four misses.’

Immediately put at ease by Flaherty, Melanie’s laughter was genuine. Hawker wanted to warn her once again to be careful. He didn’t get the chance. “Mr. Hawker, would you mind if I questioned Miss St. John alone? I’d ask her to sit in the car with me, but the impropriety of that—what with Irene being already a bit jealous …”

Hawker stood. “I can go for a walk outside.”

Flaherty disapproved—but diplomatically. “It might be better if you waited in the cottage. Wouldn’t want an accomplice to get you—ha ha. Oh, and close the door behind you, Mr. Hawker.”

Hawker found a book and read as the cops worked in the bedroom. They traced the outline of the corpse on the floor in blue chalk. They measured the distance between the dead man and the bullet holes in the bed and wall. The lab truck arrived, and they lifted a selection of fingerprints. Hawker’s Walther and the dead man’s revolver were dutifully placed in plastic sacks and labeled. They gave Hawker a receipt.

A coroner’s wagon pulled up and they carted the body away. Hawker followed the gurney onto the porch and was surprised to find that Flaherty was alone, going over his notes.

“Ah, Mr. Hawker.” He smiled. “I was just about to call you. Miss St. John was very tired, so I suggested she go home and go to bed.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Lieutenant,” Hawker said wryly.

“Uh, oh. Something in your voice, Mr. Hawker, tells me I may have stood in the way of romance.”

“Not at all—”

One of the policemen interrupted, asking for instructions. Flaherty dismissed him with perfunctory orders about reports in the afternoon.

Hawker recognized it as a premeditated move to leave the two of them alone.

“Drink, Lieutenant?”

“Drink as in ‘alcohol’?”

“I’ve got some herb tea.”

“Ah, that would be very nice. One week out of every four I have to work the late shift, and I’ve always had trouble sleeping during the day. My wife says it’s because of the coffee I drink. Irene would approve of herb tea. With honey, if you have it.”

Hawker put water on. He changed into a shirt and pants while it heated. He steeped the tea in mugs, and carried the mugs onto the porch.

Flaherty took it appreciatively. “So tell me, Mr. Hawker, how long were you a policeman? Or perhaps you still are?”

Hawker sat opposite him, trying not to look surprised. “Did Melanie tell you to ask that?”

“Not at all, not at all.” Flaherty sipped at his tea. “I get so bored when I work the late shift that I make myself play little games of deduction—to keep my mind alert, you see. I wasn’t blessed with the quick wit some of my fellow officers have, so I must work at it.”

“I’ll bet,” Hawker said dryly.

“No, it’s true. But, all modesty aside, I really am getting quite good at it. I’ll let you be the judge.” Flaherty straightened himself in the chair, as if about to recite in school. “Let’s see if I can get it all straight. Yes. A stranger breaks into your house. He tries to kill you, but you kill him instead. Like a good citizen, you immediately notify the police. But do you call the emergency number? No.”

“Why tie up the emergency line?” Hawker asked in defense. “Someone really in trouble could have been trying to call. The man was dead. It was no longer an emergency.”

Flaherty held up one finger in exclamation. “Exactly. You called the main desk and asked to be transferred to homicide. Your statement to me was a model of clarity. Just the right amount of information in just the right order. No gasping and crying, no confused rhetoric about the horror of killing, and no feverish plea to believe that you had absolutely no choice—all of which one might expect from the common citizen.” Flaherty put his tea down and smiled. “Don’t you see the many opportunities for deduction here?”

Hawker did. He said nothing.

The detective continued. “After our brief conversation on the telephone, I already knew you were familiar with police procedure—and that you were experienced enough not to be upset by the use of deadly force. Deduction: you were either a cop, a crook, or a police reporter. I took the liberty of running an NCIC check on you on the trip out. Results, I am happy to say, were negative—if you gave me your proper name. And if you didn’t, we will find out soon enough. That left cop or reporter. I noticed your complicated-looking computer inside and, for a short time, I decided you were a reporter. But it’s the rare reporter who can react quickly to armed assault. And I’ve yet to meet the reporter, thank God, who can make three perfect shots while under fire. Two in the kneecap, one through the brain. Final deduction: you, Mr. Hawker, are a cop. Or an ex-cop.”

“Ex-cop,” said Hawker. “Chicago.”

“Chicago, is it? There’s a fine city. Why did you quit?”

“Personal reasons.” Hawker smiled. “But why ask? Tomorrow, when you get into the office, you’ll make a phone call and have the Chicago department feed you a complete dossier.”

Flaherty chuckled. “Why wait until tomorrow?” He checked his watch. “I don’t go off duty for another two hours. Dreadful schedule, eh? Anyway, I suspect I’ll have the information before sunrise.” He flipped his notebook shut and stood as if to go.

“No questions about what happened?” asked Hawker, amused.

Flaherty shrugged. “Miss St. John gave me a very clear statement. If she was telling the truth, I have no doubt your story would only be repetitious. If she was lying, you two had sufficient time to make sure you both told the same story. That, too, would be repetitious. So, until we get some data on the dead man, there’s little more to know. But you may be sure, Mr. Hawker, that I will be back if I have even the slightest suspicion that you killed the man for any reason other than self-defense.”

“Never doubted it for a moment,” said Hawker.

“Fine. Well, I’ll be leaving, then, Mr. Hawker.” Flaherty stopped to yawn in the doorway of the porch. “It’s been a busy night for both of us.”

“It has been that,” said Hawker, suddenly alert. He sensed a trap.

Flaherty flashed a disarming smile. “Of course, you were more delightfully employed than I—spending the whole of the evening with the beautiful Miss St. John.”

“I wish that were true. Unfortunately, Melanie didn’t come by until very late.”

“No? I could have sworn she told me she’d been with you all evening.” He held up one finger again, nodding. “Well, now I remember—I guess I just assumed you had been together. It’s the romantic in me. I pictured the sunset walk, the late dinner. My dear Irene wouldn’t like it, of course, if I allowed myself to speculate further.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Lieutenant,” Hawker said easily. “I spent most of the evening alone. I unplugged the phone and buried myself in computer books. It’s a hobby of mine.”

“Is that so? And not a single soul stopped by to bother you, I suppose?”

“Not until Melanie showed up. Of course, I was in bed by then.”

“Of course, of course.” Hawker felt the detective’s prism eyes lock onto his. “Well, I am envious, Mr. Hawker. Quite envious. You could never guess how I spent the evening. Investigating more killings. Oh, it’s an ugly business, police-work. You were smart to get out of it. Yes, there’s been a terrible rash of killings in the Starnsdale slums. Street gangs, you know. Like a pack of animals. They’d cut your throat for a dime. But lately only the gang members themselves have been getting themselves killed. Strange, eh?”

“We had a few street gangs in Chicago, Lieutenant. Nothing they did would surprise me.”

“Oh? Well, you’re right. I suppose. They’re absolutely without scruples. The strange thing is, though, they usually blame the killings on another gang. But lately—you may find this interesting, Mr. Hawker—lately they’ve been blaming them on some mysterious red-haired man. Can you imagine? They seem absolutely terrified of him. After every killing he leaves his mark: the outline of a big bird of prey. An eagle, maybe”—Flaherty’s eyes bore into his—“or a hawk. Of course, they’re probably making it all up—consummate liars that they are. Even so, imagine my surprise when I arrived to investigate the fourth killing of the evening and found myself greeted by a red-haired ex-policeman named Hawker.”

“Quite a coincidence,” said Hawker.

Flaherty nodded. He walked down the steps into the yard before stopping. “Do you know what the hardest thing about investigating those killings is, Mr. Hawker?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me, Lieutenant.”

“The toughest thing is making myself care. I’m sure, as an ex-policeman, you will understand. Every street-gang member killed had a record as long as your arm. They roam those slums like rabid dogs. No human being in the area is safe as long as they are allowed to go free. So I just don’t care if someone takes the risk of killing them. In fact I’m rather glad because—as I’m sure you found out—the courts are all too willing to see our hard-earned arrests go free.”

“It’s frustrating,” Hawker agreed mildly.

“Isn’t it, though? Yes, I’ve often thought the country would be much better off if the police were allowed to punish certain criminals right at the scene of the crime. Save the taxpayers so much money. Yes, like all cops, I suppose, I occasionally daydream about how nice it would be … how just it would be … to occasionally take the law into our own hands.”

“Police work can push even honest cops to the far right.”

“Worse than that,” said Lieutenant Detective Flaherty. “Now I’ve got to hunt this mysterious red-haired man down—this benefactor of citizen and policeman alike—and see to it that he goes to prison. Not a pleasant task, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t envy you,” said Hawker.

Flaherty pulled the hat down low over his ears and studied the dark morning sky, as if looking for rain. “Take care of yourself, Mr. James Hawker. Walking a tightrope is a dangerous business at best.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hawker. “And I will.”