wondered what had happened since their brief encounter, to shake up Fran Traynor any more than the appearance of three gunmen bent on murder in the small hours of the morning. Finally, unable to divine the answer, he quit trying.
If the lady came through with the information he needed, it might just be Bolan's turn to do some shaking in the Twin Cities. And he was ready to shake somebody at that moment, shake them hard.
Right down to the ground.
* * *
Assistant Police Commissioner Roger Smalley was awake earlier than usual, and he was disgruntled by the call from Detective Lieutenant Jack Fawcett.
Fawcett had sounded nervous on the phone, hardly making sense, in fact, so Smalley had reluctantly told him to come on over and relate his problem in person. Now, with his wife sleeping upstairs, Smalley sat in his rather luxurious study, smoking his first cigar of the new day.
Commissioner Smalley was not unfamiliar with wake-up calls, both from his superiors and, less often, from his subordinates. But now, at age fifty-two, one step removed from the pinnacle of power in St. Paul's police establishment, the superiors were fewer in number, and subordinates were well advised to hold their calls until office hours.
It would have to be something special, really extraordinary, for Jack Fawcett to call and wake him at sunrise, demanding a face-to-face meeting. And because it would be something special, something extraordinary, Roger Smalley was not only feeling disgruntled. He was feeling nervous.
The assistant commissioner would humor Jack Fawcett — to a point. But he hoped for the lieutenant's sake that Fawcett wasn't letting the strain of his job get the better of him.
Yeah, it had damned well better be something extraordinary.
Smalley heard the soft knock on the side door and padded through the house to greet Fawcett in the kitchen. In the pale morning light, the detective looked calmer than he had sounded on the phone — but only just.
"Good morning, sir," Fawcett began hastily. "I am sorry about the time."
Smalley forced a smile before turning his back. "This way," he said curtly. "And catch the door, will you?"
Fawcett followed his superior into the study, and they sat down facing each other in leather upholstered chairs. Smalley pushed a humidor toward his nervous guest.
"Cigar?"
Fawcett shook his head.
"No, thanks. I'm trying to quit... again."
"What's so urgent at..." Smalley paused to consult a wall clock. "...Five-forty in the morning?"
"I think we got trouble," Fawcett said.
Smalley arched an iron-gray eyebrow.
"So you said on the phone, Jack. Can we have some specifics?"
"I don't know where to start, sir," the detective said. "Well... I mean, I don't even know what it means."
Smalley sighed resignedly, expelling a blue cloud of fragrant cigar smoke.
"Take your time, Jack. Try starting at the beginning."
Fawcett took a deep breath, held it an instant to steady his nerves, then let it go in a long, whistling sigh. The ritual complete, he began telling Smalley about the predawn shooting, his meeting and cryptic discussion with a man named La Mancha, and the subsequent discovery of three more leaking stiffs, exactly where the big stranger said they would be found. When he had finished, the two men regarded each other in silence for several moments through the haze from Smalley's cigar.
At last it was the commissioner who broke the silence.
"You believe there may be some connection between these killings and our other problem?"
Fawcett shrugged. "This guy, La Mancha, seems to think so, and he sure called it right on the second carload of meat. Frankly, I don't know what the hell to think."
"He's chasing the wind," Smalley said confidently. "What tie-in could there be, Jack?"
The lieutenant shook his head, obviously confused.
"I don't know, unless... There has to be an angle, Chief. The feds wouldn't touch a sex crime case unless they thought they were onto something bigger."
"Bigger, Jack? What
If the lady came through with the information he needed, it might just be Bolan's turn to do some shaking in the Twin Cities. And he was ready to shake somebody at that moment, shake them hard.
Right down to the ground.
* * *
Assistant Police Commissioner Roger Smalley was awake earlier than usual, and he was disgruntled by the call from Detective Lieutenant Jack Fawcett.
Fawcett had sounded nervous on the phone, hardly making sense, in fact, so Smalley had reluctantly told him to come on over and relate his problem in person. Now, with his wife sleeping upstairs, Smalley sat in his rather luxurious study, smoking his first cigar of the new day.
Commissioner Smalley was not unfamiliar with wake-up calls, both from his superiors and, less often, from his subordinates. But now, at age fifty-two, one step removed from the pinnacle of power in St. Paul's police establishment, the superiors were fewer in number, and subordinates were well advised to hold their calls until office hours.
It would have to be something special, really extraordinary, for Jack Fawcett to call and wake him at sunrise, demanding a face-to-face meeting. And because it would be something special, something extraordinary, Roger Smalley was not only feeling disgruntled. He was feeling nervous.
The assistant commissioner would humor Jack Fawcett — to a point. But he hoped for the lieutenant's sake that Fawcett wasn't letting the strain of his job get the better of him.
Yeah, it had damned well better be something extraordinary.
Smalley heard the soft knock on the side door and padded through the house to greet Fawcett in the kitchen. In the pale morning light, the detective looked calmer than he had sounded on the phone — but only just.
"Good morning, sir," Fawcett began hastily. "I am sorry about the time."
Smalley forced a smile before turning his back. "This way," he said curtly. "And catch the door, will you?"
Fawcett followed his superior into the study, and they sat down facing each other in leather upholstered chairs. Smalley pushed a humidor toward his nervous guest.
"Cigar?"
Fawcett shook his head.
"No, thanks. I'm trying to quit... again."
"What's so urgent at..." Smalley paused to consult a wall clock. "...Five-forty in the morning?"
"I think we got trouble," Fawcett said.
Smalley arched an iron-gray eyebrow.
"So you said on the phone, Jack. Can we have some specifics?"
"I don't know where to start, sir," the detective said. "Well... I mean, I don't even know what it means."
Smalley sighed resignedly, expelling a blue cloud of fragrant cigar smoke.
"Take your time, Jack. Try starting at the beginning."
Fawcett took a deep breath, held it an instant to steady his nerves, then let it go in a long, whistling sigh. The ritual complete, he began telling Smalley about the predawn shooting, his meeting and cryptic discussion with a man named La Mancha, and the subsequent discovery of three more leaking stiffs, exactly where the big stranger said they would be found. When he had finished, the two men regarded each other in silence for several moments through the haze from Smalley's cigar.
At last it was the commissioner who broke the silence.
"You believe there may be some connection between these killings and our other problem?"
Fawcett shrugged. "This guy, La Mancha, seems to think so, and he sure called it right on the second carload of meat. Frankly, I don't know what the hell to think."
"He's chasing the wind," Smalley said confidently. "What tie-in could there be, Jack?"
The lieutenant shook his head, obviously confused.
"I don't know, unless... There has to be an angle, Chief. The feds wouldn't touch a sex crime case unless they thought they were onto something bigger."
"Bigger, Jack? What
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