could they have?"
There was another long pause as the detective mulled that one over.
"If somebody's running his mouth overtime..." he began.
Roger Smalley leaned forward, elbows on knees, jabbing his cigar toward Fawcett's face.
"Nobody knows, dammit," he said. "Nobody who's going to spill his guts, anyway. Everyone has too much to lose at this point."
"I suppose you're right, but..."
Fawcett left the statement unfinished. He plainly was unconvinced.
"Go on," Smalley prodded.
"Well, Traynor suspects something," Fawcett said. "I know it."
The commissioner smiled patiently. "She's out of it, Jack. How many times must I tell you? Forget her."
"She could still hurt us," Fawcett countered.
"Relax, Lieutenant," Smalley said, making it sound like an order. "You're borrowing trouble. Leave the lady to me."
"What about the fed, this La Mancha character?"
Smalley shrugged.
"I'll ask around. In the meantime, play it cool and let me know if he contacts you again."
Fawcett nodded. "Sure, Chief. Okay."
"Is that other matter under control now?" Smalley asked.
"Huh? Oh, that. Yeah, I think so."
"You think so, Jack?"
Fawcett stiffened, hastening to make amends.
"Well, uh, I mean, the girl is still being stubborn, but the freeze is on. Anyway, what does she know?"
Smalley shrugged.
"She's a witness, right? She could get lucky."
Fawcett shook his head in a firm negative.
"No chance. I've had the identikit sketches recalled, and her verbal description could fit a couple thousand punks here in St. Paul alone."
"I hope you're right, Lieutenant."
The ice was back in Smalley's voice, unmistakable.
"I hold up my end," Fawcett countered. "You know that."
Smalley looked hard at him for a long moment, then visibly relaxed.
"Okay, I'll leave you to it. I have several calls to make."
"Are you going to bring the Man in on it?" Fawcett asked.
Smalley offered a thin smile to his subordinate.
"Why not? It's his mess, after all. If somebody has to sweat, who better?"
They shared a brief chuckle at that, and then Jack Fawcett rose to leave.
"Don't get up, Chief," he said quickly, when Smalley made no move to do so. "I can let myself out."
"Goodbye, Jack. And remember — stay cool."
When Fawcett had gone, the commissioner snared the ornate telephone receiver from its cradle at his elbow. He listened to the droning dial tone for a long moment, thinking.
Fawcett was in a sweat, no doubt about that. Smalley didn't know yet whether his concern was justified, but he had every intention of playing it safe. The federal angle was a puzzler, and coming on top of the shootings that morning, it could mean trouble, but Roger Smalley was not about to panic before he had exhausted all logical possibilities.
He would make some calls. You didn't get to be the assistant P.C. in a city the size of St. Paul without making some high-level contacts at Justice. And if La Mancha — or whoever the hell he was — was working in Smalley's backyard, someone would know about it.
And finally, saving the best for last, he would call the Man.
Roger Smalley smiled at the thought, his first open, genuine smile of the day as he began dialing the telephone.
Hell yes, he told himself, there was already plenty of sweat to go around on that warm summer morning. And who better to do the sweating than the man who had started the whole frigging mess in the first place?
Roger Smalley's face froze in the smile. It was the grin of a predatory animal, carved in stone.
9
The scheduled meeting place was one of those plasticized restaurants, part of a chain, that always look and smell the same no matter where you find them. Bolan took a corner booth away from the broad front window and sat facing the doors. He was working on his first cup of mediocre coffee when Fran Traynor entered.
She glanced around the cafe, then spotted Bolan and crossed quickly to his booth. She slid in opposite him, and they sat quietly until a waitress delivered Fran's coffee.
She
There was another long pause as the detective mulled that one over.
"If somebody's running his mouth overtime..." he began.
Roger Smalley leaned forward, elbows on knees, jabbing his cigar toward Fawcett's face.
"Nobody knows, dammit," he said. "Nobody who's going to spill his guts, anyway. Everyone has too much to lose at this point."
"I suppose you're right, but..."
Fawcett left the statement unfinished. He plainly was unconvinced.
"Go on," Smalley prodded.
"Well, Traynor suspects something," Fawcett said. "I know it."
The commissioner smiled patiently. "She's out of it, Jack. How many times must I tell you? Forget her."
"She could still hurt us," Fawcett countered.
"Relax, Lieutenant," Smalley said, making it sound like an order. "You're borrowing trouble. Leave the lady to me."
"What about the fed, this La Mancha character?"
Smalley shrugged.
"I'll ask around. In the meantime, play it cool and let me know if he contacts you again."
Fawcett nodded. "Sure, Chief. Okay."
"Is that other matter under control now?" Smalley asked.
"Huh? Oh, that. Yeah, I think so."
"You think so, Jack?"
Fawcett stiffened, hastening to make amends.
"Well, uh, I mean, the girl is still being stubborn, but the freeze is on. Anyway, what does she know?"
Smalley shrugged.
"She's a witness, right? She could get lucky."
Fawcett shook his head in a firm negative.
"No chance. I've had the identikit sketches recalled, and her verbal description could fit a couple thousand punks here in St. Paul alone."
"I hope you're right, Lieutenant."
The ice was back in Smalley's voice, unmistakable.
"I hold up my end," Fawcett countered. "You know that."
Smalley looked hard at him for a long moment, then visibly relaxed.
"Okay, I'll leave you to it. I have several calls to make."
"Are you going to bring the Man in on it?" Fawcett asked.
Smalley offered a thin smile to his subordinate.
"Why not? It's his mess, after all. If somebody has to sweat, who better?"
They shared a brief chuckle at that, and then Jack Fawcett rose to leave.
"Don't get up, Chief," he said quickly, when Smalley made no move to do so. "I can let myself out."
"Goodbye, Jack. And remember — stay cool."
When Fawcett had gone, the commissioner snared the ornate telephone receiver from its cradle at his elbow. He listened to the droning dial tone for a long moment, thinking.
Fawcett was in a sweat, no doubt about that. Smalley didn't know yet whether his concern was justified, but he had every intention of playing it safe. The federal angle was a puzzler, and coming on top of the shootings that morning, it could mean trouble, but Roger Smalley was not about to panic before he had exhausted all logical possibilities.
He would make some calls. You didn't get to be the assistant P.C. in a city the size of St. Paul without making some high-level contacts at Justice. And if La Mancha — or whoever the hell he was — was working in Smalley's backyard, someone would know about it.
And finally, saving the best for last, he would call the Man.
Roger Smalley smiled at the thought, his first open, genuine smile of the day as he began dialing the telephone.
Hell yes, he told himself, there was already plenty of sweat to go around on that warm summer morning. And who better to do the sweating than the man who had started the whole frigging mess in the first place?
Roger Smalley's face froze in the smile. It was the grin of a predatory animal, carved in stone.
9
The scheduled meeting place was one of those plasticized restaurants, part of a chain, that always look and smell the same no matter where you find them. Bolan took a corner booth away from the broad front window and sat facing the doors. He was working on his first cup of mediocre coffee when Fran Traynor entered.
She glanced around the cafe, then spotted Bolan and crossed quickly to his booth. She slid in opposite him, and they sat quietly until a waitress delivered Fran's coffee.
She
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