 
The Thrill of the Hunt

A Joan Gilbert, Undercover Cop, Novel

by Darryl Matter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 by Darryl Matter

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The Thrill of the Hunt

A Joan Gilbert, Undercover Cop, Novel

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

* * * * *

Prologue

There aren't many female cops working undercover as gunrunners. In most people's eyes, gunrunning is a man's game. It just doesn't seem right for a female to be running guns, but that's what I do—or did. I went from uniformed cop to detective to undercover assignments in less than two years after graduating from the police academy, and stepped into my role posing as a gunrunner about six months ago.

Guns have always fascinated me, maybe because I grew up around them. My father was a small arms instructor in the United States Army, and he taught me how to shoot when I was twelve years old. Before then, actually. By the time I was in college, I could hold my own with anyone, male or female, on the rifle or pistol range.

Not only did my father teach me to shoot, he taught me how to reload my own ammunition using his equipment. Shotguns, rifles, handguns, I could reload any ammo made. Maybe it was that interest in guns that led me to a career as a policewoman, and more specifically, to an undercover role as a gunrunner.

Seems there are more women involved in serious crime today than ever before. That's why some of my supervisors, who thought that my being female might make potential gun buyers less likely to think that I was a cop than one of my male counterparts, believed I could get away with passing myself off as a gunrunner. I thought their reasoning was seriously flawed, but it was their call, not mine. I'd give it a try.

One thing that was in my favor, though, was that posing as a gunrunner was not my first undercover assignment. While I was training for that stellar role, I spent six months undercover in a sting operation as a buyer of stolen luxury cars. Before that operation was over, we'd shut down three chop shops and broken up two major auto theft rings. And I'd enjoyed every minute of it.

Next, I spent a few months posing as a fence buying stolen art. That role proved to be an eye-opener for me because I'd had no idea how much stolen art was on the market. At any rate, it was after that operation shut down that I became a gunrunner.

Of course, even with those two undercover assignments successfully completed, I didn't just step into the role of gunrunner without plenty of additional training. I made sure that nobody, and I mean nobody, knew more about guns than I did. That means I studied makes and calibers, wholesale and retail prices, and street values. I also consulted with anyone and everyone I could find who knew anything about the gun trade to learn which guns were most in demand and, most importantly, the ever-changing dynamics of the gun trade.

The men in charge of the police armory taught me how to disassemble all of the guns I'd be likely to encounter. When I'd finished with those armory instructors, I felt confident in tearing down and reassembling most makes and models of guns, both of foreign and domestic manufacture.

It wasn't enough for me just to learn about guns. I needed to know how to use them as efficiently as possible. That's why I took all the classes offered by the police department to improve my marksmanship. Some of the instructors were ex-servicemen who were well versed in the art of using guns, and in addition to marksmanship, they taught me about speed and control. Being able to get a gun into action fast was something I needed to learn, and I practiced drawing and dry-firing my own guns every chance I got.

Not only did I learn about guns and how to use them, but I learned about carrying them as well. When I was in uniform, I carried my 9mm Smith & Wesson in a holster on my duty belt. That didn't work so well out of uniform or as an undercover cop, so I tried several other methods of carrying—shoulder holsters, fanny-pack holsters, ankle holsters, the works.

Most of the policemen I knew who wear plain clothes carried their guns in shoulder holsters. That doesn't work very well for a gal who's built like me with large breasts, so what I finally settled on for my own use was a holster that allowed me to carry my gun behind my back. Of course, I had to wear a fairly heavy leather belt to support it, but the gun nested nicely in the small of my back and was virtually undetectable under a jacket.

The only problem with this method of carrying was that there was no way I could carry the big Smith & Wesson behind my back. Even though I liked the firepower of that gun, I finally had to settle on a smaller .380 auto for everyday carry. It was light and inconspicuous under a jacket, and with practice, I could get it into action fast. Of course, it didn't have the power of the big 9mm, but I figured any self-defense shooting I would have to do would take place at close range anyway. The .380 probably would do. It would have to do.

When I thought I might run into trouble, I carried more than that one gun. In addition to the .380 holstered in the small of my back, I sometimes carried a second .380 in an ankle holster or in my purse, depending on what I was wearing.

It wasn't long before the other cops began to take me seriously when it came to my knowledge of guns. Several of the Assistant District Attorneys began to call me regularly with questions regarding guns, and the Federal Justice Department even called me with a question!

Obviously, it's not enough just to know about guns or even to know how to use them. Hesitation will get you killed. If you're going to have to shoot at somebody, you better be able to do it without any hesitation whatsoever, and that involves a lot more than just having the right guns in the right holsters. You have to be mentally tough and prepared to shoot. I worked hard on that aspect of being a cop.

Chapter One

Early on in my role as an undercover gunrunner, I set my sights on a guy named Alan Hall. He supplied guns to several of the larger motorcycle gangs operating in the Midwest and on the West Coast. These gangs typically were involved in smuggling drugs into the United States.

To my knowledge, Hall didn't deal directly in drugs. What he did was supply guns to the drug dealers and launder a tremendous amount of money for them. He also was rumored to be a hit man who, for a price, would kill anyone. Some of his men would burn down buildings, too, for a price. In fact, there didn't seem to be anything Hall and his thugs wouldn't do if the price was right.

Part of my interest in bringing down Hall was personal. He'd killed a young cop named Ron Whitney who'd been at the police academy with me. My friend had been working undercover when a money-laundering deal with Hall's men went bad.

Alan Hall supplied guns to several other criminal organizations and, according to the drug enforcement officers, was beginning to export guns to drug and paramilitary groups in South America and Europe. I wanted to bring that guy d-o-w-n, the sooner the better.

About the same time I went undercover as a gunrunner, the cops shut down two operations that were importing guns from outside the United States and selling them illegally. Guys like Hall have to get their guns somewhere, so with his major regular sources shut down, I figured he'd get around to doing business with me sooner or later once I caught his attention.

While I waited for him to notice me, I bated a trap for Alan Hall. I built my reputation by selling a variety of guns to the local riffraff, including fifty 9mm Beretta autos to members of a local motorcycle gang. I knew that by making that sale I was taking business away from Hall. That would get me noticed.

It was after I'd come up with another fifty 9mm Beretta autos and one hundred boxes of 9mm ammo for a drug smuggler that I got a call from a man who identified himself as Kevin Applie, a self-styled "friend of Alan Hall's."

"Wanta talk ta ya, babe," he began, his voice a kind of sing-song.

"Fine," I said, "but we gotta get somethin' straight first. I ain't your babe. Now, whatdaya wanta talk about?"

"Nothin' on the phone."

"Where, then?"

"What if I pick ya up? We'll go have a drink."

"Is it worth it to me?"

"You can bet on it, b . . . ." He started to say "babe," then apparently thought better of it. "Where da I pick ya up?"

I gave him the address where I was staying. "Corner of Hastings Avenue and 23rd Street. Do you know where that is?"

"We'll find it. My driver knows this town like the backa his hand. Watch fer a black Caddie with mirrored windows."

"I'll be standing on the street. I'm wearing blue jeans, a white blouse, a blue denim jacket, Western boots."

"Ten minutes." There was a click as the phone went dead.

Blue jeans, a white blouse, a blue denim jacket, and Western boots, a cowgirl outfit some call it, had become my usual "uniform." Sometimes I wore a leather jacket instead of the denim one. The heavy leather belt that held the holster at my back wasn't conspicuous with such outfits, and I just plain liked the large Western-style buckles, especially when they matched my earrings. Sometimes, I also carried a small two-shot derringer in one of my boots, the ultimate fashion statement for me.

The address I gave this friend of Alan Hall's wasn't the address of my own apartment. I wasn't living at the apartment I call home, hadn't been for some time. Instead, the police had moved me into a small apartment on the corner of Hastings Avenue and 23rd Street, and I hadn't brought anything there that would connect me with my job or my real life. Moreover, the police had my telephone tapped, and somebody should have heard that conversation. And they should be able to tail a black Cadillac anywhere. Even though I didn't think anything was going to happen with this particular meeting, I hoped the hell I had reliable backup.

No sooner had I reached the sidewalk in front of the apartment building than a black Cadillac, its windows mirrored against viewers, pulled smoothly to the curb in front of me. The back door swung open. From inside the car, a young man wearing a gray business suit, white shirt, and red tie, his eyes hidden behind wrap-around sunglasses, leaned toward me. His teeth glistened in a full-mouth smile against his swarthy complexion. "Miss Gilbert, I presume?"

"Yes." At times like that, I figure the less I say, the better.

"I'm Kevin Applie. Won't you join us, please?"

I looked up and down the street but didn't see anyone I knew. Of course, if my backup cops were doing their job, I wouldn't see them. What the hell, I thought, here goes! Without another thought, I climbed into the back seat of that Cadillac.

Kevin Applie looked me up and down appreciatively it seemed, then extended his hand. "Thank you for joining me."

"Thank you for inviting me." I shook his hand. Yuk! His was a damp, limp handshake.

Our driver swung the Cadillac into traffic. I sank back into its leather seat cushions and waited.

I studied the man across from me as I continued waiting for him to start the conversation. He was a big guy, maybe 6'-2" and stocky, barrel-chested, the kind of guy who might once have been a biker himself.

"We've been hearing good things about you, Miss Gilbert," he began.

"Have you now, Mr. Applie?"

"Oh, please. Call me Kevin."

I'd go with that. "Alright, Kevin. Call me Joan."

"Good. I like being on a first name basis with my friends. Maybe we can help each other now that we're friends. At least, I hope so."

I ignored his comment about our being friends. "I hope so, too. I'm in business to help people like you."

I did not refer to the specific nature of my business. I'd wait for him to bring up the subject of guns.

Kevin Applie leaned forward and gave instructions to our driver. As he did so, his jacket stretched tighter across his chest, and I saw the unmistakable outline of a large semiautomatic pistol riding in a shoulder holster.

We rode in silence for perhaps ten more minutes. Then, our driver eased the Cadillac into an off-street parking lot and pulled the car into a parking space near the entrance to the Cheetah, a bar I'd heard about but never visited, never wanted to visit.

Applie turned his attention back to me. "Here we are, Joan. Let's go have that drink," he murmured.

Both the driver and Applie climbed out of the car fast. The driver opened my door for me and held it. Applie beamed down at me as he took my hand and helped me out of the car.

Inside, the Cheetah was one big room that had been divided into cozy little seating areas. Colored lights played over the tables. Applie released my hand, took my arm, and led me through the room, guiding me around several occupied tables to a table in a corner of the very back.

"Care for something to drink now, Joan?" he asked. His voice had become very polished, almost seductive.

"Sure. I'll have whatever you're having."

Applie summoned a waitress and asked for a rum and Coke for each of us. He paid for the drinks, peeling off a hundred dollar bill from what looked like a whole roll of hundred dollar bills, then turned back to me.

"So, how long you been in business, Joan?"

"Two years. How about you?"

"Off and on. I spend some time in Miami. You ever been in Miami?"

Before I could answer, I detected motion behind me, and a shadow fell across our table. Apple looked up, and I turned to follow his gaze. A tall, thin man wearing a gray suit similar to the one Applie was wearing stood directly behind me.

Applie pushed back his chair and stood up. "Excuse me, Joan." He spoke to the man behind me: "Hello Frank."

"Hello Kevin."

"Frank, this is Joan Gilbert. Joan, this is Frank Crowell."

I started to get up, but the man standing over me put his hand lightly on my shoulder. "Don't get up, Joan."

I thought Frank Crowell was going to join us. Instead, he motioned for Applie to go with him. The men moved away from me and began a whispered conversation that I could not hear. That made me decidedly uncomfortable.

Moments later, Crowell came back alone to where I was seated. "Kevin has been unexpectedly called away. Mr. Hall needs him for something urgent. Kevin asked if I'd see you home."

"That'll be fine."

"I'm afraid we'll have to leave now. Sorry we can't have those drinks, bu we'll have an opportunity to do that later." Crowell was already moving toward the exit.

"It's okay."

I followed Crowell outside. In the daylight, he didn't appear nearly as tall as he had in the Cheeta. He put his hand lightly on my arm and guided me to another black Cadillac, similar to the one Applie had used, then opened the back door and held it for me. Once I was seated, he closed the door, walked around the car, and climbed in beside me.

"Where do you live? Or perhaps I should ask, 'Where do you wish to go?'" he inquired.

"Hastings Avenue and 23rd Street."

Crowell relayed the address to our driver. We headed back the way I'd come with Applie.

"Both Mr. Hall and I are sorry about Kevin being called away. Kevin will call you again as soon as he can," Crowell assured me, his voice polished and smooth, almost sultry, the way Applie's had become once we were face-to-face.

"I hope so. I'd like to do some business with Mr. Hall."

Crowell smiled knowingly. "I know that. I also know that Mr. Hall would like to do some business with you."

We rode the rest of the way back to my temporary apartment in silence.

Chapter Two

I hadn't been inside my apartment over ten minutes when the telephone rang. Even though I wasn't sure what kind of a game Alan Hall and his two men had just been playing with me, I did expect to hear from them. Not so soon, though.

My "Hello" was answered by a voice that I recognized but couldn't place immediately.

"Max McCormick. You remember me?"

"Yes." Max McCormick was the man who bought the fifty 9mm Smith & Wesson automatics and the ammo from me for the drug smuggler.

"Need to talk to you, sweet thing. Might have some more business for you."

"Okay. I'm all ears when it comes to business. Where do you wanta talk? And when?"

"Crazylegs. We can get a drink. My treat."

"Okay. When?"

"Pick you up in twenty minutes. Be drivin' my Porsche."

"I'll be waiting." Somehow this sounded like a rerun of the previous scene in my day's activities!

Max McCormick knew where I lived. He'd picked me up at the entrance to my apartment building before. Twenty minutes later, I saw his blue Porsche arrive, and I walked outside to meet him.

The moment I got into McCormick's sleek, shiny Porsche, I knew something was different by the way he looked me over. His cold, dark eyes swept me up and down, pausing to focus on my neckline. I did my best to ignore his gaze.

"Your contacts like the Berettas?"

"Love 'em."

"Good. You come to me when you need more. I'll treat you right."

"Love 'em," he repeated. Although his reference apparently was to the guns, the way he continued looking at me made me wonder just what it was that he loved.

"Love doin' business with you, sweet thing. Mm-mm. Gonna get you more business than you know how to handle," he cuckled, then went silent as he concentrated on his driving.

I sank back into the Porsche's luxurious leather seat, keeping a wary eye on McCormick. Something was amiss. "Got some new business for me, huh?" I prompted.

"Maybe. We'll talk it over at Crazylegs."

We rode the rest of the way in silence.

Crazylegs is a sleazy bar, a real dump. It's where McCormick likes to conduct business, though, and I go where the business is. That's the way this game is played.

Inside the run-down old factory building that housed Crazylegs, two men were playing cards at a table near the front door. The bulges in their jackets told me they were carrying. Several scruffy-looking men were seated at the bar. Each of them looked me up and down as as though I was stark naked when we walked in. They turned their attention back to their drinks as McCormick escorted me through the room and to a table near the back. It was the same table where He and I had arranged for his purchase of the Berettas a few weeks earlier. I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table without the courtesy of his help.

"What'll you have to drink, sweet thing?" he asked.

"Rum and Coke."

"Awright. I'll be right back." McCormick rose from the seat that he had taken and sauntered to the bar, lingering to exchange a few whispered words with one of the men seated there. This was feeling more and more like a rerun of my earlier experience with Applie and Crowell.

A little later McCormick returned with our drinks. He pulled a chair from under the table and shoved it close to mine. Sitting next to me, just like he had before, he leaned my way until his shoulder was against mine. After taking a sip of his drink, he turned to speak directly into my ear.

"Can you get more 9mm Berettas?"

"More 9mm Beretta autos, no sweat. Take maybe a week. How many?"

"A hundred."

"Fifty in a week, another fifty the following week. No sweat."

"How much?"

"Thirteen hundred dollars each. More if you want ammo, same price as before. Your contacts got that kind of money?"

"No problem. My man's got the money. He'll want ammo, too. Lots and lots of ammo."

"How much ammo?"

McCormick sat and thought for several minutes. When he spoke, he ignored my question. "Two weeks is a long time," he muttered.

"Maybe I can get 'em faster, but they'll cost more. It ain't cheap to get that many guns that fast."

"The price ain't important. Getting' the guns fast is what's important."

"I can get 9mm Smith & Wessons faster."

"My man don't want Smiths. He wants Berettas. This ain't a man to mess with neither. He wants Berettas, he gets Berettas. He wants Berettas, . . . ." McCormick was rambling.

This deal was going nowhere so I jumped on McCormick fast. "What's all this shit about, anyway? You afraid of this man you're dealing with or somethin'?"

"Ain't just an ordinary man wants these guns. This here's Alan Hall we're talkin' about. He's got buyers for these guns and he ain't gonna wanta wait two weeks for 'em."

"Shit! I'm tired of playing games with Hall," I told him. "His men drove me all over town earlier this afternoon, all for nothin'. They didn't even talk business."

"That's 'cause I'm the one who does the business with Hall."

"Really? Well, you tell Alan Hall that when he's ready to do business with me, we'll do business eye-to-eye. Tell him I'm tired of playing games with his men who don't do nothin' but drive me around town in their Caddies. I've got other people who wanta talk serious business. In fact, I passed up another appointment to talk to you. So you tell Alan Hall—"

"Awright. Awright. Take it easy." McCormick interrupted. "I'll put you in touch with Hall himself. How'll that be?"

"That's what I'm tellin' you to do. When you gonna do it?"

McCormick put his hand on my knee. I turned fast to face him. Our eyes locked.

"First you and me go upstairs and make a little love, sweet thing. Then I'll call him. Call him right away."

"No way."

McCormick ran his hand along my leg. "I could force you, you know, sweet thing."

"You could, but if you do, we won't do any more business. Where you gonna get the guns your contacts want? Ya gonna go to Wall Mart? Hall gonna go to Wall Mart?"

"Awright. Awright." He lifted his hand from my thigh. "I'll call Hall. He ain't gonna be happy, but I'll set you up an appointment with the man himself. How's that?"

"Now we're getting somewhere. You tell him what I said about the Berettas. He wants 'em, I'll get 'em for him. Thirteen hundred apiece. More if he wants 'em faster. More if he wants ammo."

"I'll tell him."

"Might cut him a deal. Can he use two hundred 9mm Berettas? Thirteen hundred for the first hundred guns. Twelve hundred for the next hundred."

"I'll ask him."

"You do that. Now, how am I gonna get home? Are you gonna take me or do I call a cab?"

"I'll take you." McCormick was already striding toward the door.

He drove me straight to my apartment without saying another word until I was getting out of his Porsche.

"You stay home this evening, sweet thing. Somebody'll call you."

Chapter Three

My phone rang at eight-thirty that night. I answered with my usual "Hello."

"Max McCormick. We're gonna pick you up in twenty minutes."

Before I could respond, the line went dead. Exactly eighteen minutes later, I was in the lobby, waiting, wondering who in the hell would be picking me up this time. That night I not only had my .380 auto snugged into its holster at my back, but I had a second .380 auto in my purse and my derringer in my boot.

Twenty minutes almost to the second from when I'd received that phone call, one of the black Cadillacs I'd ridden in earlier that day or a similar one pulled up in front of my apartment building. As I approached, McCormick got out of the back seat and held the car door for me. He smelled of sweet, cheap cologne.

"Hello, sweet thing. Good to see you again so soon," he said in a jovial voice, bowing slightly as he did so.

"Hello, Max."

Inside the car were the two men I'd met earlier that day, Kevin Applie and Frank Crowell. Crowell was in the front seat with the driver. Applie grinned broadly at me as I positioned myself between him and McCormick in the back.

Once we were seated, McCormick turned to me. "You see, I am a man of my word, sweet thing," he said.

"We'll see. I haven't seen Mr. Hall yet."

"Ah, but you will. We're going to see him now."

Both Applie and Crowell were still carrying their big autos in shoulder holsters under their jackets, neither man now making any effort to conceal his. McCormick had an auto tucked in a holster inside his waist band, too. From the looks of the grips, it was a 9mm Smith & Wesson.

"Indeed, Joan," Applie continued McCormick's line, his voice cheerful, "Mr. Hall is looking forward to meeting you in person."

I was almost certain that I'd walked into a setup. There was nothing to do now, though, but play their game.

"I'm looking forward to meeting Alan Hall. I hope we can do some business. In fact, I hope we can do a lot of business."

Crowell turned in his seat to look directly at me. "Oh, yes," he said, "Mr. Hall is ready to do business with you. A whole lot of business!" He, too, sounded as jovial as Applie.

We rode in silence for maybe ten more minutes. It was hard for me to see exactly where we were going because of my position in the back seat, but I knew we were in a section of town where a number of luxurious high-rise apartment buildings were located. Once we reached that part of town, it wasn't long before our driver turned off the street and entered an underground parking garage.

McCormick held the car door open and reached for my hand. I let him help me out of the Cadillac. We walked to the elevator in a group, McCormick in front of me, Applie and Crowell to either side.

The moment we were inside the elevator with the door closed, McCormick held his hand out to me. "Let me have your purse," he commanded.

"No way."

"Don't make me take it." McCormick's voice was cold as ice. Applie and Crowell crowded me on either side, menacingly near.

"Well, then. Here it is." I handed McCormick my purse.

While the other men watched in silence, McCormick opened my purse and withdrew my gun. He dropped the clip out of it into his hand, thumbed the cartridges from the clip, and dropped both the gun and the empty clip back in my purse. He rattled the cartridges inside his fist for a moment and then dropped them in his pocket. That done, he handed my purse back and stood staring at me, eyes now focused on my neckline, just like he'd done earlier that afternoon.

I started back at him. "What's this all about, Max?"

"I'll tell you what it's all about, babe," Applie spoke up. "Mr. Hall thinks you're a cop."

"Yeah, right. I'm a cop. Max is a cop, too." I tried to keep my voice hard. "We're all cops. How do you think I do the business I do if I'm a cop?"

Nobody spoke. One of the men chuckled.

It had been a setup, all right. These men weren't taking me to meet Alan Hall to talk business. I didn't know how they'd learned that I was a cop. It didn't matter at that point. As I saw McCormick punch the elevator button for the sixteenth floor, what mattered was that I had about five minutes at most to figure out how to save my life.

"If you're not a cop, babe, everything's cool," Applie was saying. I barely heard him.

"Yeah, babe, but if you are a cop, we all are gonna have some sweet fun," Crowell joined in.

"Ah, hell. Makes no difference. Cop or not, we're all gonna have some fun with you," McCormick added.

The elevator was inching upward. I looked up at the numbers above the door. Four. Five. Six. Seven! Up! Up! Up! The men were quiet now. They were watching those numbers, too.

Even though I still had the holstered gun in the small of my back and the derringer in my boot, I knew I wouldn't have a chance once we reached Hall's apartment. There was only one place I stood a chance, and that was there in the elevator.

When McCormick had handed me back my purse, I'd taken it with my left hand and, at the same time, slipped my right hand into the front pocket on my jeans. McCormick had slapped at that pocket, making sure there was no gun there, but he wasn't paying attention when I withdrew my hand and cocked my right arm so it was under my jacket. Ever so slowly, I inched my right hand up until I could feel the grips of the gun.

Eight! Nine! Ten! Up! Up! Up! It was now or never.

The men were preoccupied, watching the floor numbers change. I took a deep breath, dropped my purse as an added distraction, and slid the .380 out of its holster.

CRACK!

My first shot caught McCormick in the back of the head, spattering his blood and brains all over the elevator door.

CRACK!

My second shot took out the light in the top of the elevator, leaving us in nearly total darkness.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

By this time, both Applie and Crowell had their big guns out and were blazing away at me.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I was shooting back. The noise in that little elevator room was deafening.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Flashes from the muzzles of the blazing guns lit up the darkness.

I heard myself screaming as slugs ripped into me. I also heard Applie and Crowell cursing and screaming. My legs gave out as slugs tore into them and I crumpled to the floor, landing on my butt against a corner of the elevator. One of the men fell on top of me. My gun was empty and I couldn't reach my derringer in my boot because of the dead weight lying across my legs.

The shooting had ended before we reached the sixteenth floor. When the door slid open, light spilled into the elevator. Blood was spattered all over. McCormick fell partially out of the elevator door as it opened, effectively blocking the door in an open position. The top of his head was a bloody mass. Applie was sprawled on the floor, his arms and legs askew. He wasn't moving either. It was Frank Crowell's body that was the dead weight across me. His spurting blood was running down my legs.

I couldn't move. As I looked down at myself, I saw that my blouse was soaked with blood. Blood was pouring down my right arm. I knew that at least one of my legs if not both of them had been hit. Then I realized that blood also was running down the side of my face.

Down the hallway, I heard a door open. A man looked out, directly at me. "Oh, my God!" he gasped loudly, and then spun back inside his apartment.

I tried to shout "Call 911!" but I couldn't be sure if anyone heard me because my voice came out as a whisper. If I didn't get help soon, I'd bleed to death, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Just as I leaned my head back against the elevator wall and closed my eyes, I heard heavy running footsteps in the hall coming toward the elevator. Someone shouted "Police!" and I was dimly aware that the officers who'd backed me in this undercover operation were there. I learned later that they'd tailed me to the apartment building and come up the stairs, keeping pace with the elevator all the way.

One of the officers was talking on his cell phone, calling for an ambulance. Another of them lifted Frank Crowell's body off me and shoved it aside. Still another one knelt beside me, holding me and trying his best to stop the bleeding, all the time telling me to hang in there because help was on the way. That's all I remember about the worst day of my life.

Chapter Four

I spent six months in hospitals. Then, because I didn't have anyone at home to take care of me, I spent another month in a nursing home. It took that long for my wounds to heal enough that I could be on my own.

Though I've never wasted much time feeling sorry for myself, at times like that, I have to envy people who have close, loving families. I probably know the value of what they have better than they do because I used to have one myself. That was a long time ago, though, and my chosen profession just isn't conducive to close, lasting friendships. Nowadays, I don't even see enough of my neighbors to recognize them when I pass them in my apartment building. As for pets, my lifestyle most likely would be the death of them—literally. So I really was on my own.

All in all, the police determined that there were about twenty-five shots, including mine, fired in that elevator shoot-out. I'd taken seven hits to my body and another bullet had creased my head. The doctors had removed about half of my internal organs. In addition, I'd lost part of my hearing from the horrific noise of the gunfire in that little elevator room and had been fitted with a hearing aid. It's an unobtrusive little thing. Once I let my hair grow a little longer, someone will have to be really close to me to know I have one. Still, a hearing aid is something I've always associated with old people so having to rely on one wasn't doing much for my ego.

Even so, I was alive, more than could be said for three of Alan Hall's "friends." According to the police and my doctors, that in itself was a major miracle. All my training with guns had paid off when the chips were down. That was the good news. The bad news was that I was no longer a cop. I'd been given a permanent disability retirement and, fortunately, would receive a check each month for the rest of my life. I couldn't help but think that what with the shape I was in, that monthly check might be the best thing I'd ever get.

Even though I wasn't officially a cop anymore, I had an all-consuming desire to get the man responsible for my being shot up—Alan Hall. While I was hospitalized, as soon as I could think, that was all I thought about: In one way or another, I was gonna get that sonofabitch!

Much as I had wanted to go home from the hospital—almost any place seems better than a hospital when you're in a hospital—my apartment proved to be a terribly lonely place. When I'd been an active police officer, I'd never been at home long enough to notice just how small and empty my apartment was. No way was I just going to hang around that place, not even that first night after I came home from the nursing home. Not then, not ever! It would be just too easy for me to start feeling really sorry for myself.

I was, as I said, on permanent disability, and that meant that I wouldn't be going back to work as a police officer. Be that as it may, I knew I wasn't going to just sit around, but I hadn't yet given much thought to what I did want to do. That night, my first night home from the nursing home, was not the time to think about my future, though. That night, more than anything else, I needed some human companionship.

I didn't trust myself to drive very far yet, for sure not at night, so I called a cab. When I saw the cab pull up out front a few minutes later, I managed to navigate the stairs down to the lobby, holding tightly onto the stair railing with both hands all the way, and limp outside, using my cane for support. The cabbie saw me limping toward him, got out of the cab, and held the back door open for me.

"I think it might be easier on me if I could ride up front with you," I suggested.

"'kay." He opened the front door on the passenger's side and made a sweeping gesture with his hand that sent what looked like a month's supply of paper trash flying off the seat and onto the floor.

I eased myself inside, painfully aware with every movement that my wounds had not yet completely healed. The cabbie waited patiently, then slammed the door behind me.

He was a wizened little brown man—not black but brown, like maybe he'd spent his whole, long life working in the noonday sun—with what looked like a permanent scowl on his face. "Whereyawantago?"

"You know where Archie's Bar is located, over on 51st and Walnut?" I asked.

"Uh huh," he grunted.

"That's where I wanta go."

"'kay." This was one cabbie who wouldn't win any awards as a conversationalist, but at least we seemed to speak the same language, and he seemed genuinely concerned about my comfort and well-being.

Archie's Bar may not be the classiest place, but it sure beats both the Cheetah and Crazylegs, and I have a few casual friends who frequent the place. I used to have, anyway. It had been a long time since I'd last been there. At any rate, I knew I'd find some of that good old human companionship that I needed there. Any place was better than being alone in my apartment, any place except a hospital, that is. Heck, even riding along with my really strange little cabbie was perking me up.

The cabbie let me out as close as he could to the front door of Archie's Bar. He even came around the front of the cab and took my hand to steady me as I climbed out of the passenger seat and asked if I could make it inside okay. When I assured him I could, he didn't act convinced. He said he'd wait and watch to make sure I got inside. Cabbies aren't usually so considerate, and I thanked him profusely and gave him a generous tip. Maybe I'd be lucky enough to get him again if I had to keep on taking cabs for a while.

Archie's Bar is a typical if run-down neighborhood bar. It's lighted inside with neon advertising signs that cast silver and red shadows over the seating area. To the back are a dozen or so pool tables, game tables of one kind or another, and an area marked off for darts. There's a popcorn machine and a variety of good sandwiches on the menu if a person wants something more substantial. Even though I hadn't been there for maybe eight or nine months, Archie's Bar isn't the kind of place that changes much.

Once inside the swinging front doors, I made my way to a table near the wall and eased my aching body slowly down into a chair. Archie Holloway, for whom the bar is named, waved to me from behind the counter—at least one person recognized me—and it wasn't long before Kelli Drake, one of several waitresses who'd been there as long as I'd been coming in, was heading my way. Soon as she reached me, she said she'd missed me and asked how I'd been.

Before I could think what the best answer to her question would be, she looked me over more closely, then threw back her head and laughed loudly.

"Oh, boy, what a boo-boo! One look at you and nobody has to ask that question! Girl, you are a mess!"

That was all it took for both of us to break into gales of laughter. The laughing hurt like hell, but I knew it was probably the best medicine I'd been given so far.

We chitchatted awhile. I filled Kelli in a little on my recent adventures, and then I ordered a beer.

No sooner had Kelli left to get my beer than I felt somebody lay a huge hand on my shoulder. I tried not to flinch as that somebody squeezed my shoulder, but to be honest, it hurt more than the laughing had. Twisting my head around and trying to look to see who was behind me, I was rewarded with the smiling face of Wes Hammit.

"Hi, Wes! Take it easy on the shoulder, huh?"

"Sorry, Joan! Didn't realize I'd hurt you. Jeez, you okay? You look like hell!"

"I'm okay as I can ever hope to be, I guess. I'm just hurtin' all over, that's all. Sit down, Wes. Damn, it's good to see you."

Wes pulled up a chair beside mine and dropped his beefy but muscular frame onto it. He was wearing his usual blue denim shirt, jeans, and black boots, the "standard uniform" of most of the working guys and gals who frequent Archie's.

"It sure is good to see ya, too, Joan! Where've you been hiding, anyway?" Wes exclaimed as he sat down.

"Hospitals."

"Hospital? You've been in the hospital? What happened?"

"I got shot up pretty bad. They thought I was gonna die for awhile, but I made it despite their dire predictions."

"Yaw wanta tell me about it?" Wes pulled his chair a little closer to mine and cocked his head.

Kelli came back with my beer just then. Wes asked her to bring him a beer, too, then turned back to me and announced, "I'm gonna eat somethin'. Are you hungry, Joan? It'll be on me."

"No, I'm not hungry, but I know I've gotta eat. What you havin'?"

Wes studied the menu posted on a chalkboard inside the front door. "They've got beef barbeque sandwiches tonight. They're big, and I love 'em, and I'm gonna have one. Might have two. You want a couple, too?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Just one, though. Trouble is, the doctors took out half my stomach so I can't eat much at one time. Are you up to eating half of mine?"

"Sure. I can eat three of them just as easy as two."

Kelli brought Wes's beer, and we ordered sandwiches. As soon as she left, Wes turned his attention to me again. "A shoot-out, huh? Damn! So tell me what happened?"

I told him a little about the incident in the elevator and how it came about. He studied the scar that was forming on my face, then tipped his head toward the scar. "Is that part of the damage?"

"Yeah, a minor part. The other seven hits I took tore the hell outta my insides. Trouble is, that nasty one on my face makes me look like some damn freak!"

"Oh, bullshit!"

I was taken aback a little by Wes's comment. "Wh . . . What you mean, bullshit?" I blurted out.

Wes grabbed my hand and leaned close to my ear. "Joan, honey, you're a pretty girl. That little ol' scar, if it shows at all, is gonna make you look, well . . . ," Wes searched his mind for the word he wanted. ". . . Well, exotic!"

"Exotic?"

"Sure. Mysterious! Alluring! Exotic!"

"Oh, go on, Wes. I'm not in the mood to be made fun of."

"Fun, hell! I'm tellin' it to you straight, Joan. Pretty girls are a dime a dozen, well, maybe not quite that cheap nowadays, but a pretty girl like you with a scar—she's exotic!"

Wes reached over and squeezed my other hand, and I couldn't help but squeeze his in return. Leaning my head against his shoulder, I whispered, "You say the nicest things, Wes! That's just what I needed to hear."

Wes patted me gently, very gently, on my shoulder. "You goin' back to work as a cop?"

"No. I'm officially retired with a disability pension."

"You musta really got shot up bad!"

"I sure as hell did, Wes. You oughta see me. I'm gonna have terrible scars all over my body—my chest, my gut, my legs. I'm a mass of scars. Even my left breast took a couple of hits!"

Wes was grinning widely now, even though I didn't see anything to smile about. "Got an idea, Joan. As soon as we finish eating, we can go somewhere an' you can show me your scars. Whatdayasay to that?" Wes arched his eyebrows wickedly and laughed as he asked.

I couldn't help but laugh with him. "I don't think so, Wes. Not tonight, anyway."

"I'll settle for a raincheck," he pleaded. This time, I wasn't sure but what he was serious.

Kelli brought our sandwiches, and we ordered refills on our beers. Talking with Wes had given me more appetite than I'd had in days, and I really appreciated the sandwich. I'd almost forgotten just how good the sandwiches in Archie's Bar really were. Oh, I couldn't eat all of mine, much as I wanted to, but Wes didn't seem to mind finishing it for me.

"Can you drive yet?" Wes asked.

"A little. I drove myself to the grocery store this afternoon, but I'm still a little too shaky to be comfortable about it. Every day I'm getting better, I know, but I've been saying that for about two months now. It's been slow goin'."

"How'd you like to help me out tomorrow night? I need somebody to drive me somewhere not too far from here and then pick me up a little later. We'd take my car, and I'd pay you good for your time. Whatdayasay, Joan? Could you do that for me?"

"Maybe. What's goin' on?"

"Tell ya what. I'd rather not explain it here. Let's go for a little drive. I'll tell you what's goin' on, and I'll show you where we'll be goin'. Okay?" Wes started to get up.

I motioned for Wes to stay seated. "Wait a minute, Wes. Let's get one thing clear first. We aren't going somewhere to look at my scars, not now, not tonight anyway."

"No-no-no-no-no! Well, not tonight, anyway. I just wanta show you where we're goin' tomorrow night. Come on, Joan. you can trust me never to mix pleasure with business."

I stayed put. "No scar review tomorrow night either."

Wes got up and reached for my hand. "No, especially not tomorrow night. Come on, Joan. You don't need that cane," he told me. "You can hold onto me."

Like I said earlier, Wes is a beefy, muscular guy. He's 6'-2" and weighs around 200 pounds—and that's 200 pounds of solid, work-hardened muscle, not flab. He wrapped his arm around me in a way that I'd usually appreciate his doing—and all I could do that night was gasp in pain!

"No-o-o, Wes, no! Not so tight! You're about to smash my ribs! What's left of me will spill out if that happens."

"Sorry." Wes eased up but still held me close to him. No way did I need that cane, not with him holding me!

Wes's car, a metallic red Chevy Camero with high-performance everything, was parked near the side entrance to Archie's Bar. I looked it over. Then I looked it over again.

"Nice car, Wes! I really like it."

"Thanks, Joan. I like it, too."

Wes unlocked the passenger door and held it open for me. Once I was seated in the passenger seat, he helped me fasten my seat belt, then gave me a quick, firm kiss that sent shivers up and down my spine. Soon we were speeding down Anderson Avenue toward the sleazy part of town.

"What we're gonna do tomorrow night, Joan," Wes began, "Is this: I'll drive most of the way where we're goin' so you won't get too tired, then we'll trade seats and you can drive the rest of the way. I'll show you where we're goin' right now. Let's see, that's Forth Street, there's Fifth, here we are, Sixth. See that old hotel there?" Wes turned down Sixth Street and pointed to a shabby hotel that loomed six stories tall across its broad parking lot from us.

I recognized the hotel as the Bryant. Fifty years ago, the Bryant Hotel was a modern, fashionable hotel. Many famous people have stayed there—or so the city's tourist literature says. Now, however, despite the fact that some local historical group is trying to get the hotel listed as some sort of a historic site, the Bryant is a typical dilapidated residential hotel, occupied mostly by the less fortunate citizens of our city. I wondered if they were impressed by the faded, painted letters on the side of the building that boasted it was fireproof.

"I see it, and I'm familiar with it."

"You're gonna let me off right about there." Wes pointed down the street. He slowed the car to a crawl as we passed the hotel parking lot, then continued, "See that big ol' Buick over there? Third row. The fourth car. Up next to the shrubs." Wes pointed again. "The red Park Avenue? Big car?"

"Yeah, there, I see it."

"Okay. After you let me out, I'm gonna be pickin' up that pretty red Buick. It'll take me about thirty seconds, sixty seconds at most, and . . . ."

"Wes!" I interrupted. "You say you're 'picking up' that Buick? I'll bet its owner doesn't know anything about what you're doin', right?"

"Hey, that Buick's owner oughta know what's gonna happen to his car. He oughta know it's gonna disappear sooner or later 'cause he ain't made payments on it for months. I'm just repossessing it for the dealer that sold it to him."

"So, I'll let you out, and you're gonna pick up the Buick. What then?"

"I'm gonna run with it, gonna run like hell. Then you're gonna meet me at my garage." Wes swung the car around and headed back up Anderson Avenue. Twenty minutes later, he turned off on Chestnut Street and went down an alley.

"There it is." Wes pointed to a garage that appeared to be even more dilapidated than the Bryant Hotel. Paint was peeling from the siding and door, and the building itself was badly overgrown with brush. In short, it was a perfect hiding place to leave a car overnight.

"I'm gonna bring the Buick here for the night. The next morning, I'll take it back to the dealer. When I hand him the keys, he's gonna hand me six fifties. Two of those are yours."

"You've done this before, Wes?" I asked.

"Yeah. I've been pickin' up cars for dealers for about three years now. I've got three garages around town where I can leave the cars."

"Three-hundred dollars. Is that the going rate for repossessing a car?"

"No. Rates vary quite a bit. Usually, I charge more. How much I get depends on how hard I have to work. Sometimes, I have to track the car down, maybe through several different addresses. Sometimes, I have to find out where the guy is keepin' the car. It just depends. The Buick we're gonna get is an easy one. I found it fast, even though the guy who bought it gave the dealer a false address. Then, too, the dealer just happened to have a spare set of keys for it."

"What if the guy's changed locks?"

"It won't make any difference. With the tools I carry, I can take any car, locked or not, in about 30 seconds. Sixty seconds at most. Having the keys is a plus, though, makes it a piece of cake."

"So, who's your regular driver?"

"You."

"Come on, Wes, who's been helping you the past three years?"

"Kid by the name of Todd Myers."

"And?"

"And he wiped himself out day before yesterday. Either he got run off the road or he was drunk or stoned 'cause he rode his Harley into a concrete bridge abutment doin' about 120 miles per hour."

"Oh, oh. I see why you're in the market for a new driver. What time are we going to pick up the Buick, Wes?"

"'Bout two o'clock in the mornin'. 'Tween two and two-thirty. I've had my eye on the parking lot there for a couple of nights, and things quiet down real good 'bout then. That work for you?"

"I'll get some sleep tomorrow. When are you going to pick me up?"

"What say I pick you up 'bout ten. We can go to Archie's an' get a beer or two and maybe a sandwich 'fore we go out."

"Okay. I'll count on that. You don't know how good you've been for me tonight, Wes."

"It's been mutual, Joan. You're damn good for me."

"Thanks, Wes."

"You feeling okay now? Wanta go back to Archie's? I'll treat ya to another beer before I take you home."

"Sure. I'm hurtin' like hell 'cause the painkillers are wearin' off, but I'm okay, and I sure do like being with you."

"I feel the same way about you." Wes drove in silence for a few minutes, then looked over at me. "You still gota gun, Joan?" he asked.

"Yeah. Three of 'em. Ever since I made Detective, I've owned my own guns. Well, actually, I've always owned guns. My dad bought my first one when I was just a kid."

"Bring one along tomorrow night."

"You expecting trouble, Wes?"

"You never know," Wes answered, then added. "Me, I'm always packin' a gun when I go out on these repo runs. Oh, and have you got a cell phone?"

"Yeah. I carry it in my purse."

"I figured you did. Be sure you bring it along. I'll have mine, and you can call me if there's any trouble. If you see somebody tryin' to tail me, you can call me, and I'l lose him before I put the car in a garage. If I have to take it to another garage, I'll let you know where I am."

"Another garage? How many did you say you've got?"

"Three. See, they're in different parts of the city, so I can take a repo car to the closest one."

"Um-hmm."

"There's another advantage to the way I repo cars, Joan. Having my own garages, I can stash a car when I pick it up and then have time to look it over good before I take it back to the dealer."

"Look it over good? You ever find anything of interest in these cars you repo?"

"Yeah. Sometimes. Usually, I leave any personal property in the car, though. That way, the dealer can return it to its owner if he wants to. At least, the dealer can call the owner about whatever he left in the car. Of course, sometimes the owner doesn't bother to show up to claim his stuff. Sometimes, the owner doesn't wanta show up to claim his stuff."

Wes looked over at me. He had a grin on his face that told me there was a lot more to his story than he was telling me. He'd found something in at least one of the cars he'd repo'd.

"Tell me what you found, Wes," I prompted.

"Okay. Guess it's okay to tell you, but it's gotta be our secret. I found a big black garbage bag stuffed full of cash in the trunk of one of the cars."

"A big garbage bag stuffed full of cash? Whoo-eeee!"

"Yep, I was really lucky. This big ol' garbage bag was full of hundred dollar bills plus a few fifties and twenties mixed in."

"Lucky? Shit! You probably got somebody's drug money. That kinda luck'll get ya killed, Wes. What did ya do with the cash?"

"I've been puttin' it into circulation, very, very slowly. Changing the hundreds and fiftys into smaller bills. One or two a week."

"What did ya do with the car? You didn't take that one back to the dealer right away, did you?"

"Nope. After I found that cash, I wiped the car down real good to get rid of any fingerprints I mighta left. Then I left it sit in my garage for a day or two before I parked it out in the airport parking lot 'bout three one morning. Took its tag with me and threw it in a dumpster. Told the dealer that I just couldn't locate that car."

"Did the dealer ever get the car back?"

"Yeah, he did. About a month later, I saw that car back on the dealer's lot. I didn't ask about it, but the dealer told me on his own that the cops had found it abandoned at the airport and traced it back to him through the serial number. Said it must have been stolen."

"Wes, did anybody see you take that car?"

"Not that I know of, but that reminds me of something I meant to ask you. Do you have a wig?"

"Yeah. You want me to wear a wig tomorrow night when we pick up this car?"

"Wouldn't hurt. Wear one that covers up your natural blonde hair, maybe one that makes you into a brunette? Oh, and by the way, we won't be using this car. We'll be driving an ol' Ford I own. Not to worry, it's very reliable. It looks like junk, but it's got a souped-up engine and high-performance tires. It'll outrun about anything on the streets except for the highest-dollar sports cars. Anyway, the junker-look helps to keep our identity secret."

Chapter Five

When Wes brought me home late that night, the red light was flashing on my answering machine. A good friend of mine, Pam Nickelsen, had left a message.

Pam had just graduated from the police academy when I first met her. About the time she was hired, the police department started what they called a mentoring program in which each new recruit was paired with an experienced cop. The latter was not necessarily a partner but a mentor. Even though I had only about two years of experience at the time, I'd already made detective grade, and Pam was assigned to me.

Pam and I had spent a lot of time together, talking over her experiences and mine, and I came to love that girl as if she was my own sister. She came to see me many times when I was in the hospital, and she now was calling to ask how I was and to say she hoped I'd continue to be her friend even though I wasn't officially a police officer anymore.

Hearing Pam's voice made me feel lonely all over again. I knew it was too late to call her back that night, but I vowed to do so as soon as I could the next day.

I slept the rest of that night and most of the following day, getting up only to eat or drink a little now and then when I downed more painkillers. Unfortunately, those painkillers make me sleepy, so I didn't get around to calling Pam until late in the afternoon of the next day.

Pam wasn't in so I left a message on her answering machine. Ten minutes later, just as I was returning to bed, she called back. As soon as I answered, she told me some great news: She had just passed her exams and been promoted. Pam now was "Detective Nickelsen."

I congratulated Pam, and told her that I was getting along just fine, missed her terribly, and wanted to get together with her soon. I added that I wanted her to meet some friends of mine.

These painkillers I'm taking not only make me sleepy, but they also make it a little hard to concentrate. "Pam, I need a minute to clear my head and think," I told her. "Can you hold?" Pam assured me she would.

I went over in my mind the events that Wes had lined up for me. He'd be picking me up around ten o'clock that evening, and we'd be out until he got that car parked in his garage, maybe three o'clock in the morning or so. Then I'd get what was left of the night and most of a day to rest.

That thinking done, I told Pam about my crazy schedule, leaving out the particulars, and concluded with an invitation: "Why don't you come over to my place tomorrow evening, Pam? We'll celebrate your promotion by going out for a drink. I'll buy."

"Great idea! I'll be there!" she exclaimed. We agreed that she'd be at my place about seven. We also agreed that she'd call me about an hour before she came over, just to be sure I was awake.

I went back to bed, feeling much better for having talked to Pam. When I got up and showered later that evening, I had to admit that not only was I feeling better but I actually was looking forward to driving Wes out to pick up that Buick. Maybe being a retired cop wouldn't be so bad after all. At least, not dull! Not with guys like Wes around.

True to his word, Wes tapped on my door at ten o'clock that night. He was wearing a dark gray shirt, dark gray slacks, and the familiar black boots. With that garb, he'd be inconspicuous, nothing more than a shadow in the shadows.

The moment he stepped inside my door, Wes threw his arms around me in a big bear hug. I hugged him back, then turned my face up for his kiss.

"I've really missed you, Joan," Wes whispered. I told him I'd missed him, too, and I meant it.

"Ready, Joan?" he asked.

"Ready when you are, Wes."

He wasn't quite ready, however. Instead of turning to leave, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a roll of bills. "Brought you an advance," he said, as he handed me a fifty dollar bill. "There'll be another one like this one after I get paid."

"That'll be fine. I wasn't expecting you to pay me in advance," I told him, as I slipped the bill into my purse. In fact, I hadn't even been very concerned about the money.

Wes just grinned. "Now that we've teamed up, there'll be a lot more where that one came from. A whole lot more."

I had to smile at Wes's enthusiasm even though I wasn't sure this shot-up ol' lady would be good for many of these late night adventures. Maybe later, maybe when more of me was healed.

Wes threw his beefy arm around my waist as we left my apartment. "I'll help you down the stairs," he offered.

I steadied myself by holding onto Wes's arm as we went down the stairs. Not only did I have my 9mm Smith & Wesson automatic in my purse but I'd brought along a wig that gave me shoulder-length brunette hair and disguised my features as well. It was one I'd worn before when I'd assisted with police sting operations. I also was wearing a gray blouse along with black jeans, an outfit that would make me less conspicuous in the darkness if I had reason to get out of the car while Wes was getting the Buick. Wes held the door and helped me ease into the front seat of his car.

Just as he'd said, Wes was driving his "ol' Ford," as he called it, a rusty, weatherbeaten blue sedan that didn't call attention to itself like his red Camero did. Unless, of course, someone paid enough attention to notice the Ford's fat, high-performance tires and listen to the rumble of an obviously souped-up engine.

On the way to Archie's Bar, I told Wes about Pam and how I'd invited her to go with us the following night. Wes said he'd pick us both up at my place.

"Any friend of yours is a sure 'nuf friend of mine," he commented. Then, after a short pause, he added, "By the way, I've got a friend who wants to meet you. He says it's important that he talk with you tomorrow night. I think it would be okay if Pam went with us. Would you mind doing that tomorrow evening, Joan?"

"Who is he, Wes?"

"His name's Bren Thompson. He's an ex-marine turned bounty hunter, among other things. Works with the cops quite a bit in a number of different ways. Interesting guy, really."

"What's he want with me?"

"I honestly don't know, Joan. Said he wanted you to help him, and that he had some information he was sure would interest you. Said I should mention the name Alan Hall to you. Said that'd get your attention. He wants to make a deal with you."

"That name sure as hell does get my attention," I told Wes. "Frankly, I'm a little turned off when it comes to making deals these days, though, especially deals that have to do with Hall. You say this guy's okay, Wes?"

"He's okay. Better'n okay."

"Good enough for me. If you say he's okay, he's okay. Can he meet us at Archie's tomorrow night?"

"I told him I'd call him later tonight after I talked to you. He's usually down at the Last Chance Bar, that little place down on the corner of 53rd and Wagner. Maybe he actually owns the Last Chance. I think so, but I don't know that for sure. At any rate, that's kinda like his office. If he'd rather talk there, I could take you. Take both of you. Whatdaya think?"

"Either place is okay, Wes. Whatever you work out with him is okay."

"I gotta warn ya, Joan, Bren's scary. Damn scary."

"Sounds interesting. What's scary about him?"

"His looks for one thing. Bren's not a great big guy. At least he's not as big as I am. But he's hard as steel, and he looks crazy as hell. I mean, you look into his eyes and they're like crazed marble. Then, too, his nose is crooked where it's been broken, and he's got a scar that starts under one eye and runs back across his cheek. He ain't the kinda guy ya wanta meet in some back alley. Know what I mean? He's the kinda guy ya want on your team."

"I hear ya, Wes. You say he's worked with the cops. Do you know which ones he worked with?"

"He's mentioned a cop named Chris Freeman several times. Know him?"

"Sure do. I can check him out with Freeman easy enough. I'll wait 'till I see what he wants with me before I call Chris, though."

By the time we finished talking, Wes was turning the ol' Ford into Archie's parking lot. We went inside, ordered beers, and Wes went to call Bren Thompson.

Wes said Bren wanted us to meet him at the Last Chance Bar the next night at eight. That would give us time to talk before the night got too active. I told Wes that would be just fine. Somehow, I was beginning to believe that life after the police department could be anything but dull.

I had been afraid I'd really miss being part of the action. Maybe there was enough of my kind of action around outside of the police department, though, so that at least a little would spill over onto me.

Chapter Six

Repossession of the red Buick Park Avenue went like clockwork. Less than a minute after Wes climbed out of the ol' Ford, which I was driving, he had the Buick and was outta there. In the meantime, I turned the Ford around and then drove slowly back past the Bryant Hotel. Nobody seemed to be around in the parking lot where the Buick had been located, and nobody appeared to have followed Wes.

He was grinning from ear to ear when I met him outside his garage. "Told ya it'd be a piece of cake," he chortled, once we were both back in his Ford and headed for my place.

I couldn't help but smile at his exuberance. "You're damn good at that, Wes."

"We'll do it again." Wes grinned, then turned to me, suddenly serious. "Your car's been sitting all the time you were in the hospital, right?"

"Yeah. Afraid so."

"Sometimes when a car sits that long somethin' deteriorates. Whatdayasay I take it over to the shop and check it over for you? Change the oil, look under the hood, check the tires, make sure everything's okay."

"That'd be great, Wes. Please do."

"Have you got your car keys with you?"

"Uh-huh. they're in my purse. Let me find 'em." I dug them out of the bottom of my purse and handed them to him.

"This way, I can come get it in the morning and won't have to wake you up. I'll have it back by mid-afternoon."

"Thanks, Wes. You're sure taking darned good care of me."

"I try. And, frankly, I enjoy doing it."

Wes dropped me off at my apartment building. "See you tonight about seven," he whispered, then kissed me twice before he let me go inside. My clock registered three-thirty. Less than fifteen minutes later, I'd downed two painkillers and fallen asleep, hurting all over and totally exhausted, but somehow exhilarated from the night's "work."

It was a good thing I had asked Pam to call me before she came over that evening because I'd slept for almost fourteen hours when her telephone call woke me at six o'clock. As it was, I was showered and dressed and looking my best when she arrived at seven. Of course, saying I was looking my best at that stage of my recovery didn't mean a damn thing.

Pam's about the same size I am. She's 5'-8" tall and slender with brown hair and big brown eyes, a rather gangly girl who walks tall and carries herself with a kind of old-fashioned dignity that you don't see much anymore. That night she was wearing a blue blouse, matching slacks, and low-heeled loafers.

Once inside my apartment, Pam threw her arms around me. "It's so good to see you out of the hospital, Joan!" she exclaimed. "I'd almost forgotten what you look like standing up!"

I hugged her back. "It's good to be out, and I want to thank you for all you did for me while I was in the hospital."

"Not much I could do, Joan, but you're more than welcome. It wasn't much of a chore." I hugged Pam all over again when she said that, and I wiped a few tears off my face. She had been so good to me, stopping by to visit, bringing me silly little gifts, running errands for me.

Pam showed me her shiny new badge. It officially titled her "Detective Pam Nickelsen."

"I'm so proud of you," I told her.

"Couldn't have done it so soon without you!" Once again, Pam threw her arms around me, and we hugged each other. "Thanks, Joan. I'll never be able to say that enough."

Just then there was a knock at the door. A glance through the peephole revealed Wes's smiling face.

I introduced Pam and Wes. She extended her small hand and he took it in his big paw. "Joan tells me you've just made Detective!" Wes exclaimed, as he held her hand and beamed at her.

Pam smiled. "Yes. Thanks in no small part to Joan here."

"Congratulations! I really like detectives!" Wes winked at me and grinned at Pam. "Especially good-lookin' lady detectives."

Pam giggled. "Thank you."

"Detective Pam Nickelsen! Sounds great. You girls ready to celebrate Pam's achievement?"

"We're ready," Pam and I assured him.

"Before we go, Joan, let me give you something." Wes produced a roll of bills from his pocket and stripped off another fifty. "Here ya go." He winked at Pam as I placed the fifty in my purse alongside the one he had given me the night before. "Now that she's off the force, Joan's my pardner in crime," he quipped.

Pam rolled her eyes at me. "Big time crime, now that you're out of the uniform, huh?"

We all laughed as we went downstairs to Wes's car. He was driving the red Chevy Camero. Pam complimented him on the car, just as I had the first time I saw it.

"It's my pride and joy. My favorite color, too," Wes beamed, then got serious. "Ya wanta go right on over and talk to Bren?" he asked me.

"Might as well," I said. "Find out what it's all about."

The Last Chance Bar is located in a shabby part of town, not sleazy like where the Crazylegs is located, just shabby. Most of the buildings in the area are empty shells, long since deserted by their owners. Some of the old buildings have been vandalized, and most of them are covered with graffiti. The buildings that still are occupied as businesses have heavy bars across their windows and doors. A few street people always cluster in the doorways of the vacant buildings. Especially at night.

Although it was early in the evening, the Last Chance Bar's parking lot was almost full, mostly with older, beat-up cars and pickups. Six or seven motorcycles were parked directly in front of the building. The motorcycles were parked facing the street, as if they were ready for a quick getaway.

Wes parked under a street light and as close to the front door of the Last Chance Bar as he could. We could hear rowdy laughter inside the building as we approached it.

The three of us pushed through the front door together. Flashing red and silver neon lights cut through the smoky haze that filled the dimly illuminated interior of the Last Chance. The front of the bar was packed with guys who all seemed to be drinking beer and shouting at one another.

Pam and I followed Wes to the bar. The bartender waved to us, then came over. Wes asked where we could find Bren Thompson. Before the bartender could respond, the group of men who'd been whooping it up suddenly quieted down. A tall, commanding presence, Bren Thompson, made his way through the group and toward us. Wes had given me a good description of him.

"Hi, Wes." Bren Thompson extended his hand.

"Hi, Bren." The two men shook hands.

The man turned to me. What might have passed for a smile crossed his face as he once again extended his hand. "I'm Bren Thompson."

"Joan Gilbert." We quickly shook hands.

Bren turned his attention to Pam. "And this is Pam Nickelsen?"

I introduced Pam: "Pam Nickelsen." Bren and Pam shook hands a bit more slowly.

"Let's go outside, take a little walk, get a little fresh air." Bren beckoned us to follow him with a toss of his head in the direction of the door.

The four of us walked back outside. Bren turned to Wes. "Can we sit in your car to talk?"

"Sure." Wes led us to his car. We got inside, Bren and I shoehorned together in the small back seat, Pam and Wes in front.

Bren faced me, his eyes cool. "Wes told me about you, Joan, and I've checked you out with Chris Freeman. You know him?"

"Yes. Slightly."

"Well, Chris Freeman sure seems to know you. Tells me you're one helluva cop and a damn good shooter to boot. Said you had no choice but to take on three guys with guns and you did it. Said you iced all three of 'em."

"I did what I had to do, but let me tell you, they shot the hell outta me. By the way, just to keep things straight, I'm not a cop anymore."

Bren ignored my last comment. "Chris tells me this isn't the first time you've used your gun."

"He's right. So are you going to tell me what you're getting at?"

"All right, I'll tell you. A lot of people who know how to use a gun can't use it right when they have to, even in their own defense. I knew guys like that in the service, and you know it's true of a lotta cops as well. You gotta be tough-minded to use a gun. Joan, I need help, but I don't need help from somebody who can't pull the trigger. That's why I want and need your help. And let me tell ya, Joan, you do come highly recommended."

"Thanks. I hear you. Go on."

"What's the name Alan Hall mean to you?"

"You know what it means to me. it was Hall's goons who tried to kill me. They were gonna rape me one at a time and then kill me. Who knows what else they had planned for me? I want that sonofabitch, and one way or another, I'm gonna get him."

"I want him, too. I want him every bit as bad as you do."

"You know where he is now?"

"Yeah. He's in Miami."

"Is he gonna stay there?"

"No. Here's what I'm gonna tempt you with. Hall makes regular trips to our city. I know someone who knows when he's here and where he's staying, and I've got a plan to get him."

"What do you want him for?"

"He killed my sister."

"So, when's he gonna show up here?"

"I don't know, but I'll know when he does."

"Your sister--"

"I don't want to talk about Hall right now. There's something else I need your help with first. Then we'll go after Alan Hall," Bren interrupted.

"Fair enough. So what do you want to talk about?"

"Jeremy Womack. That name mean anything to you?"

"Womack. Jeremy Womack? Is that the one they call Slim Womack?"

"The very same. Only Slim ain't really slim. He's fat as a toad. That's why they call him 'Slim'."

"Yeah, I know who he is, the worthless bastard. What about him?"

"He's jumped bail."

"On the bank robbery?"

"Yeah."

"Go on."

"This isn't Womack's first offence. He's spent over 12 years in prison for eight armed robberies, aggravated assault, and two second-degree murder convictions."

"So he's jumped bail?" I prodded.

"The Fugitive Detail can't find him. They asked me to take a look-see. Here's what I found out. Womack's motorcycle gang put up over $200,000 and some property worth maybe $100,000 as collateral to guarantee his appearance in court."

"Doesn't the motorcycle gang know where he is?"

"Nope. And that's a real problem to them. Three more days and they forfeit the money. They ain't happy about that, and that's puttin' it mildly."

"So how does this involve me?"

"The bikers are willing to go $50,000 to me if I bring Womack in alive. I know where he is, but I need your help. Not just anybody's help. I said I need your help."

"Why me?"

"'Cause you're a shooter. 'Cause Chris Freeman says you're good. 'Cause if I try to bring Womack in by myself, I'll probably bring him in dead. Not that anybody would mind that, but $50,000 is $50,000. With your help, we'll get him alive.

I studied Bren as he talked. His eyes told me that he was dead serious.

"I've got a plan worked out," Bren continued. "Just like I said, with your help, we'll bring him in alive. I'll split the $50,000 with you, plus I'll split any other reward money that happens to be out there. Whatdaya say?"

"Bren, I'm just getting out of the hospital. Ya gotta know I still hurt all over. Physically, I don't know if I can do it. Exactly what's involved?"

"I know where Womack is. He's on a ranch outside of town about twenty miles. We're gonna drive out there, and you're gonna be a distraction for Womack while I nail him. Oh, yes, Chris Freeman says he'll fix you up with a bullet-resistant vest. I don't think you'll need it, but it wouldn't hurt for you to wear it."

"When we gonna do this?"

"You gonna be ready tomorrow night?"

"I'll try to be. Now, if we're still alive after we bring Womack in, you're gonna help me get Alan Hall, right?"

"Damn right, I am."

"Wait a minute, Bren." Pam spoke up. She shifted around in her seat to face Bren. He turned to face her. "I am very fond of Joan," Pam continued. "She's just been through hell, and I don't want her getting hurt again. Not for $25,000, not for any amount of money." Pam's voice was hard as she spoke.

Bren and Pam eyed each other in silence for several moments. "I appreciate what you've just said, and I wish to hell I had friends who felt that way about me," Bren replied, his voice now soft. He didn't say anything else for several moments. "In this business," he continued, "there ain't any guarantees. But I'll promise you this, Pam. I value Joan's life more than I value my own, and I'll take the best care of her I know how."

"I have your word that you'll take good care of her?"

"You got it. I'll take the best care of her that I possibly can."

"Thanks, Bren. I needed to hear you say that, but I'm not sure how much your promise is really worth under the circumstances."

Pam shifted her gaze to me. "I mean it, Joan. I'm very fond of you. I don't want you getting hurt. Especially not after all you've just gone through."

I leaned forward and reached up to Pam, put my hand on her shoulder, and gave her a squeeze. "Thanks, Pam." Then I turned back to Bren. "All right, Bren. Talk to me about Alan Hall."

"All right. Let me begin by telling you about my sister."

"Okay. Wherever you want to start. All I ask is that you level with me."

"Sis was a call girl. Okay? I'm not proud of that. I'm not asking you to excuse what she did. I'm just stating the facts, alright?"

"Sure."

"Okay. As a call girl, Sis had a specialty. See, a lot of guys who want a girl want a fantasy for the night. They want a girl dressed like a nurse or a Santa Clause or a maid or a cheerleader or a cowgirl or whatever. You know how that works."

"Yes."

"Well, Sis had several different uniforms. If some guy wanted a nurse for the night, she'd put on her nurse's uniform and be a nurse. Give him what he wanted."

"Okay. Lots of the girls do that. I follow you."

"Sis didn't have a pimp like the street girls do. She worked through an agency. Say a guy wanted a nurse for the night. He'd call this agency, and the woman who ran this operation would arrange things. You know how these things work, too, right?"

"Right."

"Okay. Alan Hall uses this service regularly. He's been using this service for maybe two or three years. Maybe longer. Every time he's here in town, he gets right in touch with this particular agency. Sometimes he wants just one girl for himself, sometimes he wants several of them for his bodyguards as well. Well, one day he called and asked for a nurse. This is maybe two years ago. Sis did her thing for him in a nurse's outfit. Then it got so Hall would ask for her every time he was in town.

"Now, I don't know exactly what happened. Chris Freeman could tell you, if he would, but all he'll tell me is that Alan Hall killed Sis. What he won't tell me is why Sis was killed, so I suspect maybe she was workin' for the cops and gathering information on Hall, and he found out. Also, to judge from what Chris won't tell me, I think Hall tortured her before he killed her." There was complete silence because none of us could think of a good response to Bren's last words.

"Bren," I began, but he interrupted before I could say more.

"I told you I can find Hall for us," Bren continued. "Here's how."

He looked hard at each of us in turn. "This conversation stays with the four of us, okay?" Each of us nodded in agreement.

"I found this woman who runs the call girl organization Sis worked for. She wasn't very cooperative at first, but . . . ." Bren's voice trailed off. "I'll spare you the details about how I persuaded her to cooperate. Anyway, I found out what I told you earlier about Hall calling her to arrange for call girls. She finally agreed to call me the next time Hall calls her."

"Not very likely." Pam's voice was flat.

"I know that. That's why I've got a tap on her phone." What passed for a grin flickered across Bren's face.

I couldn't help but smile back at him in return even if my smile was stiffer than his and made my whole face hurt like hell. "Good show, Bren."

"Yeah, a real riot. I listen to the tapes of the calls every night, and then I pass the tapes on to Chris Freeman. He's the one having a real blast with 'em."

"What do you mean?" I knew what Chris was doing with those tapes, but I had to ask. Hear Bren say it.

"Well, so far we've identified a bunch of interesting people calling for the girls, people who might not appreciate that knowledge being made public. We've got the mayor, two councilmen, a state senator, the Police Commissioner, and at least three high-ranking cops. Nobody better mess with Chris Freeman or you guys or anybody else Chris or I like." Bren almost laughed. "These aren't just single calls, either. Hell, the mayor gets himself a call girl at least once a month. He likes cheerleaders, the younger the better!"

"Okay, I hear ya. Now, you're gonna know when Alan Hall arrives because he'll call for a girl. What then?"

"I talked to some of the other girls who knew Sis. They tell me Hall arranges for them to be picked up in a limo, usually by one of his hoods, and driven to wherever he's staying, usually one of two or three apartments he owns around town. Sometimes, though, Hall rides along. He and one of the girls get it on in the back seat."

"So you think we can tail the limo? Find out where he's staying?"

"I've got an even better idea, but I don't want to talk about it just yet."

"Does Chris Freeman know what you're planning?"

"Sure he does. Hell, I've got his blessing, along with his promise of any kind of backup we want. S.W.A.T. team, whatever. See, it was Chris who suggested that you might want in on getting Hall."

"Given what you know about Hall, when do you think he'll be back in town?"

"I've studied the pattern of his visits over the past two years, using the call girl office records. Off hand, I'd say he's due back here in maybe two weeks, maybe three. Might be sooner. You be ready in a couple of weeks, you think?"

"Damn right. I'll be ready."

Bren looked at his watch. "I've gotta be gettin' back to the bar. I'll call ya, Joan."

He turned to Pam and looked directly at her. It was a look that probably would have scared the hell out of most girls, what with Bren's messed-up face.

"I really like you, girl," Bren said to her. "Most people I meet act like they're afraid of me but not you. You looked me in the eye when we were introduced, and you talk straight to me. I like that. If there's every anything I can help you with, you just let me know. You can always get in touch with me here at the Last Chance. If I'm not in, whoever answers the phone can and will get a message to me."

"My turn," Pam spoke up. "Thanks, Bren. I like you, too, and I'm gonna make you the same offer. If there's ever anything I can help you with, let me know. Deal?"

"Done."

"You own the Last Chance, don't you, Bren?" I had to ask.

"I own it. I also own the tattoo parlor across the street." He motioned across the street as he climbed out of Wes's car. Turning to me, he said, "Call me tomorrow afternoon, Joan, after you've talked to Chris, okay?"

I said I would.

Bren leaned back into the car. "One thing more: Either of you girls like a complimentary tattoo, just let me know." This time, his grin was unmistakable.

Chapter Seven

"I can't believe it. I just cannot believe it," Wes mumbled over and over once the three of us were on our way to Archie's. "I've never in all my life known Bren to speak so openly with anyone about anything. He must really like you guys."

Wes shook his head, then inclined his head toward Pam, an ear-to-ear grin on his face. "Never n my whole life," he continued, "did I ever think I'd ever hear Bren tell somebody he liked 'em like he just told you."

Pam grinned back at Wes. "You know, I meant it when I said I like that guy. I really do. He's something . . . well, different, in a kind of nice way, if you know what I mean."

Wes shook his head again. "Well, I still just can't believe it, but, hey! Enough of Bren Thompson. You girls ready for some refreshments?"

"We sure are, right, Joan?" Pam exclaimed, adding that she was "starving."

"Right!" I added. "I'm more than ready for a cold one, too."

Wes pulled into the parking lot in front of Archie's Bar. When the three of us had gone inside and found a table, a waitress I didn't know came over, and we ordered beers.

"I'm gonna eat something, and I know Pam is ready for some grub. Aren't you hungry, Joan?" Wes twisted himself around so he could read the menu on the chalkboard. "They've got ham sandwiches tonight. I know they're good and I'm gonna have one. Maybe two. How about you girls? Ham sandwiches sound good? It's on me." He turned to me and promised me in a low voice. "I'll eat half of yours if you don't want it all, Joan."

Both Pam and I agreed to have a sandwich with him "just to be sociable." We had a good laugh over that because Pam already had worked her way half through the little bowl of peanuts on our table all by herself. I knew from past experience that Pam had a really good appetite. What I didn't know was how she could snack all the time and still keep such a trim, feminine figure. If I ate the way she does . . . !

We'd almost finished eating our sandwiches when I saw a familiar figure striding confidently our way. It was Harold Washington, a regular at Archie's I've known for years but hadn't seen for maybe a year or more. That night he seemed taller than I remembered him, taller and much more muscular. At least, he appeared that way in his sports coat and jeans. I stood up and he started to wrap his arms around me, then stopped abruptly when he saw me flinch and steady myself with my cane.

"Joan, what the hell happened to you?" he asked, as he backed away abruptly.

"Got shot up bad, Hal. I'm just out of the hospital."

Hal just stood there awkwardly and stared at me in apparent disbelief.

"Aw, come on, Hal. You can hug me if you're gentle. I could really use a good hug from an old friend at this point in my life." We hugged gently, and he even gave me a little kiss on my forehead.

"You know Wes?" I asked Hal, as I sank back onto my chair.

"Sure do! Known him for a long time. Hi, Wes, ol' buddy." The two men shook hands.

Hal beamed at Pam. "Now, this pretty lady I don't know—yet."

I introduced Pam and Hal, and they studied each other for a few seconds. "I know Wes is a great guy, but I just couldn't let him get away with having two pretty girls all to himself," Hal informed us. He was wearing the lopsided grin that was his trademark.

Just then somebody started the jukebox playing, and a few couples got up to dance. Hal turned to Pam. "Do you dance, Pam?"

"Sure do."

"Hope you won't mind, Joan. I'd dance with you any time, but under the circumstances . . . ." Hal made a sort of sweeping gesture that encompassed my general decrepit state, and added, "I'll ask you to dance some other time, okay?"

"Okay."

Pam stood up and Hal took her hand. As they started toward the small dance floor, I heard Hal's voice, "Didja hear the one about . . . ?"

Wes turned to me and whispered, "I hope Pam's not too easily offended by dirty jokes. Hal's a good enough guy, but that's the only kind of jokes he knows, and he sure loves to share 'em with the girls."

"She'll be okay," I whispered back. When we saw Pam throw her head back and burst into laughter a few minutes later, I knew that she and Hal were going to get along just fine.

"What's Hal doing these days, Wes? I haven't seen him since I can't remember when," I asked.

Wes looked at me and blinked his eyes affectedly. "You haven't heard? He finally passed his bar exams! He's a gen-u-ine a-torn-ee now. Can you believe he finally did it?"

When I first met Hal, he was just out of the service and trying to get his own private detective agency going. He'd always wanted to be a lawyer, though, and he started going to night school as soon as he could swing it financially. It must have taken him six or seven years to complete the program. While Wes might think that Hal would think he was too good for the rest of us now, I was damn proud of Hal for having the guts to stick it out and get the law degree he wanted.

"Yeah. He's doin' all right, too, from what I hear," Wes continued. "You remember that he worked for some law firm part time when he was goin' to school? Remember him comin' in here and tellin' us about some of the cases he was workin' on for those big-name attorneys?"

"Yes, now that you mention it, I do."

"Well, now he's a junior partner with that same law firm. They hired him full time just as soon as he got his license."

"It has been a long time since I saw him last! I've always liked Hal. Maybe we can throw some business his way one of these days."

The juke box music had stopped. I noticed that the two of them seemed really comfortable together, like they'd been ol' buddies for years.

"Hal," I said, "I hear you're now a practicing attorney. I think that's great! Congratulations."

Hal beamed down at me. "Thanks. Yeah, Joan, I finally made it, after all those years. You encouraged me a lotta times when I was really down at the mouth and didn't think I'd ever make it. You know that, so I'm here to say thanks to you for that."

Hal fumbled inside his shirt pocket for a minute and eventually produced two business cards, one for me and one for Pam. "Anything I can do for either of you, let me know, okay? You, too, Wes. Of course," he continued, "I know you'll all stay outta truoble." The lopsided grin crossed his face again. "And, by the way, Pam, that's my home number on the back of your card. Just in case you ever get lonely and need another good laugh."

I studied the card Hal had given me. His name and the name and address of Henry and Duncan, the law firm with which he now was associated, were engraved on the card. It was obvious that Hal was proud of his association with that firm, and we all congratulated him again.

"Thanks, guys. Wish I could stay and chat, but I've gotta run," Hal told us. He thanked Pam for the dance and started to walk away, then motioned with his head for Pam to follow him.

"Didja hear the one about . . . ," he began. Wes looked at me and rolled his eyes. Pam shared another laugh with Hal and then came back to our table, shaking her head and still laughing.

My watch registered eleven so I asked Wes if he'd mind driving Pam and me to my apartment. "Pam and I need a little time to catch up with a little girl talk before she goes home," I explained.

Wes declared that he knew when he was getting the brush-off, that this wasn't the first time it had happened to him, "But from two girls at the same time?" His laughter let us know that he was teasing us.

* * * * *

Once inside my apartment, Pam sighed and sank wearily down into my sofa. "It's been quite a night. I gotta catch my breath!" she exclaimed.

I assured her that I felt the same way. In addition, my broken old body had long ago passed the point of everyday tiredness.

"I've got a whole bunch of questions for you, Joan." Pam pulled off her shoes and put her feet up on my ottoman. "Some of 'em are kinda personal, and you don't have to answer 'em if you don't want to."

I kicked off my own shoes and leaned back into my recliner. "Ask away, Pam. I may not be able to answer some of 'em, but I don't have any secrets, not from you, anyway."

"Let me tell you something personal, first. I meant it when I told Bren that I liked him. I mean, I meet a lot of guys, but I've never met anybody quite like him. He rivets me with those eyes of his. Do you think he meant it when he said he likes me?"

"I'm sure he meant it. I don't get the impression that Bren ever says anything he doesn't mean."

Pam seemed to think that over for a minute, then, lowering her head and choosing her words carefully, she continued, "I'm not sure just how to put this, Joan, but Bren really liked you, too, and . . . well, if you like him as much as I do . . . I mean, you're a very special friend to me, and I wouldn't want to . . . ." Her voice trailed off. Then she looked up and saw that I was grinning and shaking my head "no."

Pam's face broke into a grin, too. "Think I'd dare give him a call? Just to be, well, friendly?"

"Why not? Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"I might just do that, then. I'd love to get to know that guy! In fact, . . . ." Pam's voice trailed off again. "Now, for another personal question for you, okay?"

"Okay."

"From the way Wes looks at you, I know he likes you a whole lot." Pam watched me closely for my reaction.

I nodded my agreement this time. "I know that. Wes and I have been good friends for a long time now."

"Well, Joan, my question to you is; Do you like him as much as he likes you?"

"I like Wes. I . . . ."

"Enough to marry him? That's my real question," Pam broke in, giggling.

"I don't know, Pam, but I . . . ." I hesitated.

"But what?" Pam prodded, then added, "It's none of my business, you know. You can tell me so if you don't want to talk about it. And I don't mean to pry. It's just that I feel so close to you and I'm interested in what you're—doing."

"Pam, it's not that I don't want to talk about it. And so far as Wes is concerned, I . . . we haven't been doing anything. We've just been good buddies for a long time. What I mean is, well, I can't really explain how I feel about Wes so let me tell you a story."

"Okay. If your story will help me understand why you haven't already reeled in a great guy like Wes, I'm all ears."

"When I was growing up, Pam, I had an uncle named Henry who was awfully good to me. He'd been a rodeo cowboy when he was younger and, by the time I knew him, had a small ranch where he raised and trained riding horses. He looked like a Hollywood cowboy, too, in his boots and jeans and ten-gallon hat. He was my hero! Rugged, weatherbeaten face, bronzed from the sun. Walked with a limp from getting hurt years before when a bronco threw him. I adored him!

"Well, when I was four years old, Hank, that's what we called him, sat me up on one of his gentle little ponies. He held my hand and walked beside me, and we went around and around the corral. I thought I was in heaven, and I was hooked on riding horses. From then on, I spent every Saturday I could at his ranch. He taught me how to ride, and those were the happiest years of my life. By the time I was ten, I could saddle a haorse all by myself. But, here I am rambling . . . . You have to pardon my ramblings, Pam."

"Hey, I like it when you talk about yourself. You don't do that much, and I am interested in you. Quit apologizing, okay?"

"Okay. Now, what I'm getting around to, Pam, is this: Hank was an ol' bachelor. Never married. One day I asked him why he'd never married, and I've never forgotten his reply. He said, 'I don't know how to answer that, Joanie'—that's what he called me back then—except to say I guess I'm just not the marryin' kind."

"That's about all I can think of to say in response to your question, Pam. I guess I'm just not the marryin' kind. Not right now, anyway. Do you understand what I mean?"

Pam looked thoughtful. Finally she said, "I think so. At least, I'll try to understand."

"Now, Pam. That doesn't mean I've got anything against marriage or that you shouldn't marry. I'd be real happy for you if you found a guy you loved and decided to marry. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess I understand. Back to Wes. To change the subject, what does he do for a living?"

"Wes is a mechanic. He's really good with cars, and I wouldn't have anyone else working on mine. He works part time at Allen's Speed Shop over on Spruce Street, somewhere around the 2100 block. I forget the exact address."

"Hey, great! I've been looking for a good, honest mechanic to work on my car. Do you think he would look at mine for me?"

"I don't see why not. He's been taking care of mine for me for years, and like I said, he's really good. He used to be into drag racing, but I don't think he does that much anymore. In addition to his working as a mechanic, he buys and sells a few used cars. Mostly, he deals with sporty models like the Camero he was driving tonight. Of course, he's got a few other things going on the side, too. Mostly legal, but some . . . well, questionable."

"Like what?"

"You saw him give me a fifty. Well, he gave me that because I helped him repossess a car. I drove him out to pick it up and met him after he'd stashed it in his garage. I don't really know what else he's got going right now."

It was late. We both knew it. After a little more talk and promises to get together again soon, we walked down to her car. I must be getting overly protective in my decrepit condition because I made her promise that she'd call me when she got home "just to let me know you got there okay."

I waited up until she did.

The chance to get Alan Hall in the near future was on my mind as I went to sleep--the chance, that is, if I lived that long. That 'if' weighed heavy on my mind.

Chapter Eight

I slept until noon, then got up and fixed a light lunch for myself before calling Chris Freeman. I've known Chris for about two years or maybe I should say I've known who he is because I've never had much direct contact with him.

Chris was a homicide detective when I first knew him. Later, he transferred to the Anti-Terrorism Unit. Today, he's second in command of that unit. He also has some sort of connection to the Internal Affairs Unit, exactly what or how I don't know. Anyway, his reputation is rock solid in my book although a few of his detractors claim he was too quick to use his gun when he was a homicide cop. Tough cookie! Some people think the same about me.

I identified myself to the young woman who answered the telephone and asked to speak to Chris Freeman. "One moment, Miss Gilbert," she replied, then added, "He's expecting your call." I had to chuckle at that.

"Hi, Joan." Chris's courtly voice came on the line.

"Hi, Chris."

We chitchatted for a few moments about when I'd gotten out of the hospital and how I was getting along, and then I got right to the point of my call. "Tell me about Bren Thompson."

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Bren said you'd be calling." Chris chuckled. "You couldn't ask for a better partner. I've known him for about fifteen years. We were both Marines, went through boot camp together, and served together most of our years in the service. We saw each other through some pretty rough situations.

"I wanted Bren to join the force when I did," Chris continued, "but he didn't want to do that. Said there was too much bullshit paperwork and bootlicking associated with being a cop to suit him. I'm using his exact words, too. As it is, he's doing about the same thing he might have been doing on the force, what with his bounty hunting and some other things I'll let him tell you about, but he says this way he can do things his way. Know what I mean?"

"I know. He's told me a little about what he's into."

"I don't want to say too much on the phone, Joan, but since you're getting mixed up with Bren, we really otta get together and talk about some of the stuff he's into that concerns you before you get in too deep. Of course, I've been wanting to talk to you about some other things, too. And Bren, well, he's--"

"Chris," I interrupted. "Should I be getting mixed up with Bren?"

"Oh, sure. Why not? Like I said, you couldn't ask for a better partner. He'll watch your back. Truth is, I'd rather see you back on the force in some capacity or another, and maybe one of these . . . ." Chris's voce trailed off, as if he didn't want to pursue that line of thinking, then continued. "Hell, in the meantime, Joan, Bren will get you involved in some real action if that's what you're looking for."

"Let me hear it straight. You're sayin' I can trust Bren?"

"Joan, I trust Bren Thompson with my life. You can too."

"Nuff said. Chris, I will take you up on your offer to get together one of these days soon, but right now I have two requests."

"Let's hear 'em."

"Bren, said you'd supply me with some body armor, at least a vest. Can you do that?"

"Sure. I'll have one waiting for you in my office. When do you want to pick it up?"

"I think I'll have someone pick it up for me, and that leads me to my second request."

"Okay."

"Do you know Pam Nickelsen?"

"Yes, I know who she is. Bren mentioned her. Actually, I think he was quite taken with her. It's rather unusual for Bren to be taken with anyone, you understand—especially a girl."

I think I do understand. I also think he was quite taken with Pam. I know she sure was taken with him! Now, here's my request. I was assigned to Pam as her mentor when she first came on board, and I love that girl like a sister. Now that I'm not around anymore, do you mind taking her under your wing?"

"I'll do it. I'll call her just as soon as we're off the phone. Do you want her to pick up the vest for you?"

"Yes. Be a good chance for her to meet you. Have her call me when she's got the vest, will you? Now, when are you and me gonna get together?"

"How about tomorrow for lunch? Let's say at Birey's? That work alright for you?"

"Twelve o'clock?"

"See you there."

The moment I hung up the phone, I dialed the Last Chance Bar. "Last Chance," a guttural voice mumbled.

"This is Joan Gilbert. I'd like to speak with Bren Thompson, please."

The voice came alive immediately. "Yes, ma'am. He said you might be calling. I'll get him on the phone right away."

"Joan. This is Bren Thompson." Bren's voice came on the phone so soon it startled me.

"Bren, I talked with Chris Freeman a little while ago. I don't know if this is a secure phone so I'm gonna be brief. When do ya wanta get together and talk?"

"How about tomorrow afternoon? I could pick you up about, say, two o'clock. We'll go have a beer and make plans then. Will that work for you?"

"I'm meeting Chris for lunch tomorrow at noon. He'll probably have to be back at his office by one or one-thirty at the latest, so two o'clock should work just fine.

"Shall I pick you up at your apartment about two, then?"

"That'd be great. You know where I live?"

"Sure do. Thanks for calling. See you tomorrow."

Bren was about to hang up, but I stopped him. "Bren, there's something else I want to talk with you about."

"Okay."

"Pam Nickelsen."

"Yes?"

"Pam really likes you, Bren. I thought you should know that."

"I like her, too, but . . . ."

"Bren, don't make her call you."

"You think she likes me enough to call me?"

"Sure she does, but she shouldn't have to. Why don't you call her first? Do it for me."

"Aw, Joan, I don't know what to say . . . ."

"Bren, you told her you liked her. She really likes you. She told me that. Now, I'm meddling and I know it, but I'm askin' you to call her. Just to be friendly. Ask her to have lunch or dinner with you. It doesn't have to be a fancy affair. Take her or meet her somewhere where it's quiet and the two of you can talk. tell her some war stories, let her tell you what she's doing, hold her hand, give her a hug, whatever seems right. She is a pretty girl, you know."

"You don't have to tell me she's pretty. I know she's pretty. She's one very pretty lady."

"She's very pretty and she likes you. The two of you would make a nice couple. Will you do it, Bren?"

"I'll do it. I'll call her."

"Bren?"

"Yes."

"The other night you said you wished you had friends who would stand up for you like Pam was standing up for me. Well, let me assure you, if you give her the chance, Pam will be the best friend you ever had. I can tell you she's the best friend I've ever had. You hear what I'm sayin'?"

"I hear you. I'll call her." Bren's voice was softer now.

"Thanks, Bren. See you tomorrow. Two o'clock."

Chapter Nine

One question had been gnawing at me ever since the night when I'd taken that fateful elevator ride with Hall's men. It wasn't a question I felt comfortable asking just anybody, but Chris Freeman would know the answer if anybody would, and I felt that I could ask him in total confidence. After we'd gotten to know each other a little better over lunch, I asked it straight: "Chris," I asked, "is it possible that Alan Hall has a mole on the force?"

Chris looked back at me for a long moment before he answered. "I knew you'd be asking that question sooner or later." He paused, and I waited. "I've been asking that question for about two years now, ever since Whitey was killed. You knew Whitney, didn't you, Joan?"

"I sure did. Ron Whitney was at the police academy with me. I liked him, and I considered him my friend."

"Yeah, me too." Chris sighed. "Everybody liked Ron." He hesitated. "Well, what the hell, Joan. You already suspect this. We think Hall found out that Ron Whitney was a cop and that's why he killed him."

"And then I come along and . . . ."

"And then you come along," Chris interrupted me, "and Hall's men say Hall figures you for a cop."

"What about Bren's sister? Was she working for the cops? Bren suspects she was, you know."

"I know that's what Bren thinks. He thinks Hall killed her because he found out she was working for us."

"Well?"

"Joan, I don't want to say."

"Okay, but doesn't it strike you as strange that Hall is able to identify two undercover cops and, I'm assuming here, to identify a confidential informer working for the cops? Now that sounds to me like somebody is passing on information to Hall that only a police officer would have."

"Joan, as you know, I hold rank in Internal Affairs. Believe me, we've been looking at that possibility for two years. Like I said, ever since Ron was killed."

"And?"

"I can't go so far as to say that I know who it is, but if I were to guess . . . ." Chris's voice trailed off, and he looked carefully around the room before continuing, his voice now a mere whisper. "If I were to guess, it would be Ken Warshawske. You know him?"

"I know who he is, that's about all."

"I don't have the evidence yet that will link Warshawske to Hall, but Warshawske's living well beyond his salary as a cop, and my friends in the Drug Enforcement Unit think he's feeding insider information to three major drug dealers in the city. You see, not only has Hall identified undercover cops, but he's apparently had advance information of other kinds that only a cop would know."

"You don't have enough evidence to arrest Warshawske then?"

"No yet. He's a smart sonofabitch. He never goes near any payoff money himself."

"How does he work that angle?"

"He uses his relatives, and he's got plenty of them. They take the payoffs, stash the cash in lockers, and move it around a little at a time. We've got a bunch of his relatives under surveillance."

"Slick, dirty cop."

"Very slick, and, yes, I'm sorry to say, probably very dirty. We found that the Porsche he drives when he's not on duty is titled to a sister. We also looked into the financing on the very expensive house where he lives out by the golf course. It's mortgaged to his cousin."

"So Warshawske gave Ron away, and me, and Bren's sister."

"I'd bet on it."

"Does Bren know who he is? What he's done?

"He knows."

"If Bren knows and I know, it's only a question of time."

"Yes. It's only a question of time." A deadly smile flickered across Chris's face as he affirmed my statement. He was silent for a moment while we looked at each other. "I'm gonna change the subject," he finally said.

"Okay."

"Are you and Bren ready to pick up Womack?"

"We're ready. In fact, we're meeting to make plans . . . ." I glanced at my watch. ". . . . in about twenty minutes. He's picking me up at my apartment, so I've gotta run."

"Good luck." Chris put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a little hug as we parted company.

Chapter Ten

"We're almost there. Ready, Joan?" Bren asked. There was excitement in his usually smooth voice. He was driving us in his black Chevrolet 4-door sedan. We were on our way to pick up Jeremy Womack.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I responded. "Let's get the fat sonofabitch."

The car reminded me a little of Wes's "ol' Ford" in that it didn't look like much from the outside, but it obviously was well maintained mechanically. In fact, Bren told me that Wes recently had worked on the car for him. At any rate, it was the car Bren usually used when he went bounty hunting.

It didn't look much better on the inside than it did on the outside, what with its faded and cracked plastic-covered seats. "Won't make any difference if one of 'em spills a little blood on the back seat or gets some dirt on the floor," he'd said, " 'cause the seats wipe right off."

We rode awhile in silence, then Breen asked, "You sure you're up to this, Joan?" I assured him I'd be all right. Actually, I felt totally alive for the first time since I'd gotten out of the hospital. Maybe I wasn't a real cop anymore, but the thrill of this hunt was enough to get the adrenaline pumping in the old, familiar way.

"Okay, then. Here we go." Bren pulled to the side of the highway and stopped. "About a mile ahead, just after a speed limit sign, you'll turn right off the highway and follow a rock road about a quarter of a mile. Turn left and you're on the drive that leads to the house. We've been over everything that'll follow. Any questions?"

"No questions. Let's just do it."

"Good. Give me twenty minutes on foot to get into position before you even start the car." We checked our watches. I settled into the Chevrolet's driver's seat and adjusted it forward so that I could more easily reach the controls. It was ten-thirty at night.

"Good luck." I gave Bren a thumbs-up and he returned the gesture.

Bren was wearing a black military shirt, trousers, and cap. He had blackened his face, and I couldn't see him in the darkness once he was twenty feet from the car.

My 9mm Smith & Wesson automatic was on the seat beside me. I kept a vigilant eye on my watch while I waited, at the same time keeping a wary eye out for any movement in the shadows outside the car.

Once Bren was out of the car, the time went quickly. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. I started the car and eased it back onto the highway. There was the turn-off, just where Bren said it would be. A quarter of a mile on down the rock road, I found the drive and turned left.

The entire area around a ramshackle ranch house was illuminated by a bright security light. The ranch house windows also were brightly lighted. With any luck, that meant that Womack was home. Of course, there was an old man living in that house with Womack so it might be him home alone. Time would tell.

The driveway led straight toward the house. In following that driveway, the car's headlights beamed directly across the windows. For anyone in the house, there should be no mistaking the fact that a car was coming down that driveway.

It seemed highly unlikely that Womack or the old man would shoot at a car without knowing who was driving it. After all, Womack probably thought that if they hadn't found him by now he was home free. Nobody had found him so far, so why would they be able to locate him now? At least, that's what Bren and I were counting on his thinking.

I pulled up close to the ranch house and parked, leaving the headlights aimed at the picture window to the right of the front door. Then I pushed open the car door and hesitantly put a foot on the ground. With the car door open, the interior light should let everyone know that I was alone in the car.

I was dressed to look like an old woman. I'd put on a gray wig, a somewhat old-fashioned dress, and spectacles, and made up my face to look old and drawn. Of course, my use of my cane added to the overall effect of age and infirmity. And, yes, I was wearing the bullet-resistant vest Chris Freeman had provided, although no one would be able to tell that by looking at me.

Leaving my gun on the seat out of sight under a folded map and the door wide open, I started limping slowly toward the house, keeping my hands in plain sight, one hand on the cane and the other in front of me as though for balance. I left the engine idling. If things went as we had planned them, this stop wouldn't take long.

Before I'd taken two steps toward the house, the front door flew wide open. Womack stood framed in the open doorway, a big gun in his beefy right hand.

"What the hell's goin' on out here?" he shouted.

"Oh, I'm so glad somebody's home! Oh! Oh, my! Please! Please, don't shoot me! Don't shoot!" I hoped my imitation of an old lady's voice was working.

"Whatdaya want, ol' lady?"

"I . . . I . . . well, I must have taken a wrong turn 'cause I'm lost. Oh! Oh, please, can you give me directions? I'm . . . I'm lost, and yours was the first light I saw."

"You're lost, you say? Where the hell ya wantin' ta go, lady?" Womack let his hand holding the gun drop to his side and waddled right out onto the concrete steps that led up to the front door. Obviously, he figured there wasn't anything to fear from this ol' lady, just as Bren and I had hoped. So far, so good.

"I want to go to . . . ." I began.

There was a blur of movement from behind the shrubs to the left of the ranch house door as Bren slithered silently out of the shadows, rammed his stun gun into Womack's big belly and pressed the trigger.

Two hundred thousand volts of sizzling electricity zapped its way into Womack. He threw back his head, snorting for air, and the gun fell from his hand as the stun gun did its thing. Any sound he'd wanted to make died in his throat as he crumpled to the ground like a big rag doll, twitching and jerking about as he did so.

The moment I saw Womack go down, I darted back to the protection of the open car door, grabbed my Smith & Wesson from the seat, and covered the doorway of the house, my gun hand resting steadily on top of the open car door frame. At the same time, I eye-swept the area behind Bren and Womack, watching for the slightest movement that might spell trouble.

Nothing was moving in the darkness beyond the area illuminated by the security light. Nothing that I could see, anyway. Keeping the doorway covered, I watched from the corner of my eye as Bren picked up Womack's gun, tucked it into his waistband, and then handcuffed the fugitive's arms behind his back. Leg-irons went onto Womack's ankles. Womack was ours.

There was a shadow of movement against the window curtains from inside the house. The figure of an older man suddenly appeared in the doorway. He had a gun in his hand. "Jeremy? Jeremy?" he called as he looked around. "What's goin' . . . ?"

"Drop the gun!" I shouted.

Te old man's eyes squinted my way, saw my Smith & Wesson aimed at him from over the open car door, and shrieked, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

"Drop the damn gun!" I shouted back.

He dropped the gun—fast.

"Step out here and keep your hands in sight!" I shouted.

The old man raised his hands in the air and stepped outside. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Please don't shoot!" he begged, over and over again.

"Stay right there. Don't move. Keep those hands in the air where I can see 'em!"

Keeping the old man covered with my gun, I reached behind me and opened the back door to Bren's car. He dragged Womack over to the car and managed to hoist him inside and onto the back seat, then padlocked a chain from Womack's leg-irons to a heavy eye-bolt in the floor near the back seat.

Bren went to the door of the house and looked around inside. He picked up the gun that had fallen from the old man's hand and shoved it alongside Womack's gun in his waistband, then turned to the old man. "Anybody else in there?" he asked.

"N . . . Nn . . . Nno . . . No!" the old man gasped. "Nn . . . Nobody's there. Nn . . . Nno . . . Nobody lives here but . . . but me 'n . . . 'n him." He tilted his head in the direction of Womack.

"You better be tellin' the truth," Bren said.

"I . . . I . . . It . . . It's true." The old man was visibly shaking.

"Awright. You just stand there and keep your hands in the air 'till we're outta here. We don't want to hurt you, but you come after us and we'll shoot. You hear me?"

"Y . . . Ye . . . Yes, Sir."

I kept my gun on the old man and an eye on the darkness that surrounded our circle of light while Bren came back to the car and slid under the steering wheel, pulling out the two guns he'd tucked into his waistband and placing them on the seat beside him as he did so. I got in the back seat across from Womack. Bren did a bootlegger's turn, and we roared off down the driveway. When I looked back, the old man still stood in the doorway with his hands in the air.

I sat with my gun aimed at Womack's chest, watching as he recovered from the jolt he'd taken from Bren's stun gun. When he started to swear at me, Bren spoke up harshly. "Womack, you got a choice to make. Either you shut the hell up and ride quietly or I'll zap you with the stun gun again 'till you do."

Womack shut up fast.

"One more thing, Womack," Bren growled. "You make one move toward the lady across from you and I'll guarantee that gun in her hand'll blow your guts all over the car. Now that would make me damned mad, seein's as how it's my car. You hear what I'm sayin'?"

Womack groaned.

"You hear me, Womack?"

"Yeah, I hear ya," Womack grunted. He sank back in his seat.

Fifteen minutes later, Bren dialed a number on his cell phone, then spoke into the mouthpiece. "We've got Jeremy Womack. He's alive. You can get his cell ready."

* * * * *

Wes's red Camero was parked in front of my apartment building when Bren took me home. My watch registered two o'clock.

Wes was sitting in the Camero, but he wasn't there alone. Pam was with him. They obviously were waiting for us.

Pam came bounding toward Bren and me as soon as we got out of his car and tried to hug both of us at the same time. Wes came up behind her and threw his arms around all three of us.

"It's so good to see you guys back safe and sound," Pam breathed.

"It sure is. Did everything go okay?" Wes asked.

"Perfectly, thanks to a couple of ol' warhorses! I can't praise Joan enough," Bren responded. He actually was grinning from ear to ear, the most I'd ever seen him smile.

When the two guys turned their attention to each other, Pam pulled me aside. "Gotta tell you something, Joan," she whispered excitedly. "You'll never guess what happened!"

"Tell me."

"Bren called me. We're gonna have lunch together tomorrow, and I'm . . . I'm so happy!" Pam whispered.

"That's wonderful!" I whispered back. "Good for you. Good for Bren."

As you can imagine, I was completely exhausted from all my exertions. Frankly, I ached all over. Even so, I felt pumped from the excitement of the night. No way was I going to drop off to sleep easily or quickly, not that night.

Even though the hour was extremely late, or early, depending on how you looked at it, I was about to invite everyone up to my apartment for a nightcap. Then, I noticed that Pam and Bren seemed to be edging away together. Bren thanked me once again for going with him and asked me to call him that afternoon. Said we'd get to work on another project. Then he said that he'd take Pam home. She looked happy as she climbed into his car. In fact, both Pam and Bren looked happy.

Wes climbed the stairs to my apartment with me, his strong, steadying arm around my waist all the way. I invited him to come in. "Get yourself a beer from the refrigerator and make yourself at home," I told him, as I tugged off my wig. "I'm gonna get outa this garb. It makes me feel as old as it makes me look!"

Wes was seated on my sofa, waiting for me with a bottle of beer in his hand, when I came out of my bedroom wearing my flowered flannel granny gown. Not the sexiest thing I owned, but I didn't want him to think I was on the make either. I walked over to him, and he put his arm around me. I eased myself cautiously down onto his lap.

I snuggled close to Wes, and he held me tight. When he turned his face toward me for a kiss, I was more than ready. "Oh, yes. Oh, yes!" I murmured, as we kissed.

Wes put his arm tightly around my waist. "Don't let me hold you where you still hurt," he whispered.

"It's okay, Wes. Hold me. Hold me tight. Hold me tight and kiss me hard."

Wes held me tight and kissed me hard, over and over and over again. I hurt all over, but I sure wasn't about to tell him that, and I felt wonderful there in his arms. Finally, I whispered, "Wes, if seeing my scarred up ol' body won't turn you off, let's go to bed."

By way of response, Wes kissed me again. "I don't wantta hear any more talk about scars," he said through our kiss. "Let's go to bed. It's what we both need now."

Chapter Eleven

Wes was gone when I woke up the next day. It wasn't in the morning. As a matter of fact, my clock indicated that it was almost two in the afternoon! He had left me a note on my bedside table that said he hadn't wanted to wake me, and that he could call me later in the day. Then he thanked me for the wonderful night we had shared.

It wasn't the first night Wes had spent with me, but this time our togetherness had been far more intimate. I had told Pam the truth when I said that Wes and I hadn't been "doing" anything except being buddies. The last night had changed that, though, and put a new perspective on our relationship. I sure hoped that last night wouldn't be the only one Wes and I would spend together that way. The last thing I remembered about it was snuggling close to Wes, my head on his shoulder as I dropped off to sleep. Nights like that one with Wes beside me almost made me regret my statement to Pam that I "wasn't the marryin' kind." Maybe I would become "the marryin' kind" someday. Maybe someday soon.

After fixing myself a cup of soup for lunch, I called Bren. Once again, I got a gruff "'Lo. Last Chance" from the man who answered the phone, but when I identified myself and asked for Bren, I got a pleasant "Yes, ma'am. I'll get him right away."

"Bren," I said, when he came on the line. "It's Joan. I'm just checking in with you. Did everything last night go the way you planned?"

"Perfectly. Joan, you were superb. I'd go with you anywhere, and I want you to know that I've already said so to Chris Freeman. Gave you a real thumbs-up!"

"Thanks, Bren. I guess you need to know that I feel the same way about you. I like the way you work."

"Thank you. We'll work together again, you can count on that. Uh, Joan?"

"Yes?"

"Don't know if she told you, but Pam and I had lunch today. In fact, I just now got back to the Last Chance."

"You still like her, Bren?"

"Joan, I've never in my whole life been so smitten with a girl as I am with Pam. I mean, I've always been . . . well, I guess I've just never met a girl like Pam. Or, I should add, like you."

"Like me? Oh, come on, Bren! I can understand your feeling that way about Pam. She's a pretty special gal, but we're so different."

"Joan, I'm serious. I really like you both. And that's hard for me to say because I've never wanted much to do with girls, period. And the two of you aren't nearly as different as you seem to think. You're just a little more . . . well, experienced than Pam . . . you've had a lot more tough times to get through, from what I hear, and it's made you . . . well, tougher, more self-sufficient, maybe. At least, that's the way I see it."

"You can't fool me, that's just your nice way of saying that I'm older than Pam, and you're right, I am. You know that girlish little giggle of hers? Well, it's been so long now since I've giggled like that . . . I don't even know how to do it anymore. Seriously, though, Bren, I can tell you this. I don't think either Pam or I have ever met a man quite like you. I mean that in the best way possible. You're a helluva man, Bren, and I'm proud to have you for my friend."

Bren was silent.

"I'm embarrassing you, aren't I?"

"Yeah. But it's kinda nice."

"I'll change the subject. When can we get together?"

"How about tomorrow at noon? For lunch."

"Okay, but I'm not getting in the way of your having lunch with Pam, am I?"

"No. She was telling me earlier that she's got an assignment that'll take her to the other side of town tomorrow. She won't be back in time for lunch."

Bren said he'd pick me up about eleven-thirty, and we were about to hang up when his voice suddenly came back on the line. "Wait, Joan. I want you to know that I've already got the reward money for Womack. His old motorcycle buddies turned out to be real reliable guys. The gang came through right away with a check and I deposited it. I'll bring along a cashier's check with your name on it for your share when I see you tomorrow."

"Sounds great. I've had a bunch of unanticipated expenses lately what with getting torn up the way I did so my bank account can really stand the addition."

"There may be more reward money, too. I'm working on it."

I thanked Bren and had just hung up the phone when it rang. I picked up right away.

"Hello."

Wes's voice: "Hi, Joan. Hope I didn't wake you."

"No. I'm up and it's really nice to hear your voice."

"It's really nice to hear yours, too. Joan, I'm in the middle of a rush repair job so I can only talk a few minutes now, but I'm hoping you can drive for me again tonight?"

"Sure, Wes. What time do you wantta pick me up?"

"What say I pick you up about five-thirty and we go get a sandwich at Archie's? Then we can both get some rest this evening before we go out on our job about one o'clock. Will that work for you?"

"Sure. And, Wes, why don't you just come over here to my place after we eat? We can rest and leave from here."

"Sounds great. I'll pick you up about five-thirty and we'll take it from there. Uh, Joan?"

"Yeah?"

"We're gonna do two cars tonight, well, actually one car and a pickup, okay?"

"Yes, I guess so." I couldn't help wondering if I was up to more than one escapade like the last one.

"Actually, these'll both be a snap to do. See, they're located quite close together. We'll stash the pickup in the same garage we used last time, and then we'll go get the car. Gotta run. Five-thirty, then, okay?"

"See you then, Wes. Five-thirty."

Wes was driving his ol' Ford again when he picked me up. Later that night, we changed into our "repo garb," as Wes called it, and by one o'clock we were on our way.

Like the last time I went with Wes to pick up a car, my garb consisted of my brunette wig and dark clothing. We were, Wes told me, going into an especially dangerous neighborhood, so both my Smith & Wesson and my cell phone were on the seat within easy reach.

We'd driven just a few blocks when Wes told me he had a new gadget and asked me to get it out of the glove compartment. "It's what they call a 'Cyber Eye,'" he explained. "It's a night vision scope, the smallest and brightest one I've ever seen.

I'd been introduced to night vision goggles and scopes when I was a policewoman, but the device Wes had was, indeed, the smallest night vision scope I'd ever seen. It fit nicely in my hand, measuring perhaps five inches in length and two inches in diameter.

"Try it out," Wes invited.

I raised the scope to my eye. Wow! It provided much better night vision than any of the larger scopes I'd used. "Isn't that something!" I murmured.

"Try the infrared illuminator."

I switched on the infrared illuminator. Suddenly the night became ever more visible. "This is wonderful! Unbelievable! Even with its small size, it sure beats any of the larger scopes I've used!" I exclaimed.

"Yeah. This is what they call a 'generation three' scope. It offers a higher level of eye clarity than generation one or two scopes. Those earlier scopes were good, but this one is even better, much better.

"It's really nice, and I like the eye relief. You could mount this scope on a rifle for night use, couldn't you?" My words were more of a comment than a question, and Wes agreed with me.

"Sure could. It's made so it'll mount on standard scope mounts. The damn thing cost a bundle, but I think it's gonna be real useful," Wes said. "Get some practice with it, Joan, and you can keep an eye on me and on the streets when I'm working. That's gonna get more and more important as we really get into the repo business."

"You mean, we're not really into it now?" I feigned amazement.

Wes chuckled. "Baby, you ain't seen nothin' yet, as the saying goes. Just you hang in there with ol' Wes. There's real money to be made in this business—for both of us."

I practiced with the scope, getting familiar with the field of view and the scope's operation as Wes drove us down Twentieth Avenue. After a few minutes of practice, I could easily pick up street signs in the distance and read house numbers as if it were total daylight. Best of all, I could detect human and/or animal activity that I could never have made out with the naked eye. That scope was empowering.

"We're looking for a white Chevrolet Silverado pickup," Wes told me, as he drove. "That's our first vehicle. It's parked in a guy's driveway just a couple of blocks off Twentieth Avenue on Eighteenth Street."

I watched the street signs as we drove by them. Twenty-first Street. Twentieth. Nineteenth. Eighteenth. Wes turned east on Eighteenth, drove one block, and parked the Ford. He got out of the car and went around to the passenger seat while I slid over under the steering wheel.

"Where to, Wes?" I asked in a whisper, though no one else could have heard me. The situation just seemed somehow to call for whispering.

"Drive on down the street. We'll make sure the Chevy pickup's there and check out the guy's house. If everything looks okay, I'll get out at the end of the block. You can turn around and watch for me to grab the truck."

Sure enough, the white Chevy Silverado was sitting in the driveway, just as Wes had said it would be. The house was entirely dark. So was the entire neighborhood as far as we could tell.

Wes studied the house and the truck with his night-vision scope as we drove past, checking the license plate number against the number he'd written in his notebook. It was the right truck. He didn't see anyone around. There weren't any dogs around either to alert anyone to our presence, at least none that he could see.

"Let's get it," he whispered. "Meet me at the garage."

I gave Wes a thumbs-up as he slipped out of the car and melted into the shadows on his way back to repo the pickup.

When I drove back by it on my way to Wes's garage, a light was on in an upstairs window of the house where the pickup had been parked. Someone must have been awakened when Wes started the truck. Nobody came outside or tried to follow it, though, at least nobody I could see.

Twenty minutes later, we had that pickup securely hidden in Wes's garage. Another twenty minutes and we were back on Twentieth Avenue, only much farther down the avenue this time, looking for another vehicle, the car that was to be our second repo of the night.

Ninth Street. Eighth. Seventh. Sixth. Fifth. Fourth. Wes studied the street signs as he drove down Twentieth Avenue, then pulled the Ford to the curb between Fourth and Third. He'd certainly been right about taking me into a dangerous neighborhood. I recognized the area as one in which drug dealing was rampant, assaults were commonplace, and drive-by shootings occurred at least once a week.

We changed seats. I'd drive from here on. "We're looking for a light green Olds Intrigue," Wes told me, "an Olds Intrigue GL to be exact. It should be parked to our right about two blocks down, in front of a house between Third and Second Street."

"Okay. Where do you want me to let you out?"

"We're gonna drive past the Olds to make sure it's there. If it is and things look okay, you'll let me out on the corner of Twentieth and Second. There's a caution sign there so you'll have to slow down anyway, but don't stop completely 'till we get around the corner. Once we're around the corner, stop just long enough for me to jump out. Then, you can go around the block. By the time you get around the block, I'll be gone and you can follow me back up Twentieth Avenue. Okay?"

"Okay, Wes. Good luck."

"Joan, you gotta be real careful when you go 'round the block 'cause you're getting into an area where there's a lot of crime. Don't stop for anything. You understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes."

I pulled the Ford back onto Twentieth Avenue. Just after we passed Third Street, Wes pointed to the Olds. "There it is," he whispered, "right where it should be."

"Wes! There's a light on in the house. You're not going after the car while the house is lighted, are you?"

"That place has never been lighted this late before." Wes's voice conveyed both surprise and caution. "Something funny is going on tonight. I can feel it. Let's go around the block and park up a block past the house, where we can watch things."

We'd just parked about a block away from the Olds and hunkered down in the car to watch the house when a porch light came on, creating a fan of light in front of the house and across the car that we were watching. In the Ford's rearview mirror, I saw a man dressed in a tee-shirt and blue jeans come out of the house, look furtively around for a few moments, and then walk to the Olds. He glanced over his shoulder again in the direction of the house as he pressed the buttons on the keyless entry system, then opened the door and slid under the steering wheel.

Wes had turned in the seat to watch through his night-vision scope. "Shit! There goes half a night's work!" he groaned, "and this half was the part where we were gonna earn the big bucks. We were . . . ."

KER-BOOM!

There was a tremendous roar as the Olds exploded, engulfed in a ball of yellow fire and black smoke. Shards of glass and metal showered down around the area. Then the gasoline in the Olds's tank caught fire and flames shot high into the air.

"Jeez!" Wes breathed. "Let's get the hell outta here. Fast! Now!"

I eased the Ford back onto Twentieth Avenue and was just about up to Fourth Street when a car pulled away from the curb about two blocks in front of us. Wes raised his night-vision scope to study it.

"What can you make out about that car, Wes?" I asked.

"It's a Cadillac, a black Cadillac. I can't make out the license."

A black Cadillac. I had unpleasant memories of several rides in black Cadillacs. "We're not going to try to tail that car, Wes." I realized that my voice was tight.

Wes sensed the tension in my voice. He knew about Alan Hall's black Cadillacs. "No way. They're going right on down Twentieth. Let's you and me turn off on Sixth and get our headlights out of their rearview mirror. We can take Sixth over to Marlow Drive and then over to Anderson Avenue.

In the rearview mirror, I could see the smoke from the bombed out and burning Oldsmobile.

Chapter Twelve

"Oh, man! That coulda been me in that Olds, Joan!" Wes's voice was wavering as the horrible realization set in. "That coulda been me!"

"I know that, Wes. But it wasn't. Take it easy." It wasn't much to say, but it was all I could think of at the moment.

"All that poor guy did was turn the ignition key like he's turned it a hundred times before. Only this time, BOOM! He's dead. It coulda been me in a million bloody little pieces," he muttered.

"Do you know who owned that Olds, Wes?"

"Yeah, I saw his name on the papers the dealer gave me. A guy by the name of Gene Shaw owned it. At least, he made the down payment in that name and was supposed to be payin' on it. It was a nice car, but he sure didn't keep up his payments."

"You don't know anything about him other than the fact that he didn't keep up the payments?"

"Not really. All I know is that he was way behind in his payments on the Olds and the dealer, one I've worked with for a long time, said 'go get it.' Nothing special about the deal far as I could tell."

"Gene Shaw, huh?"

"Yeah, that's—or that was—his name, supposedly. Does that name mean anything to you, Joan?"

"No, I don't think so, but it might to Chris Freeman. We'll find out when we get to my place. You wantta come in with me, Wes?"

We were back to Anderson Avenue. My apartment was only a few blocks away.

"Oh, yeah, Joan. I'd really 'preciate it. Man, that coulda been me. Damn, I'm shook!" Wes's voice was still shaky.

Seeing that black Cadillac pull out onto the street just a few blocks down from the bombed Olds made me extremely apprehensive. Overly so, perhaps, but I'd developed some good survival instincts as a cop. I was as shook as Wes in my own way.

I tried to tell myself that there was no connection between the two vehicles. After all, Alan Hall's people weren't the only ones who drove black Cadillacs. And whoever owned that particular black Cadillac probably hadn't had anything to do with bombing the Olds. Somehow, though, I couldn't convince myself that there wasn't a connection between those two cars. It was just too big a coincidence.

As we approached my apartment building, I couldn't get the combined images of that bombed and burning Olds and that black Cadillac out of my mind. "Let's take a look around the area before we go inside," I suggested to Wes.

"Damn right! Let's ride around the whole area. Check things out and be damn sure no one's been tailing us. See if there's a black Cadillac around anywhere."

Wes got out his night vision scope and studied each parked vehicle as I drove slowly around the block, down the alley, and through the parking lot. Neither of us saw anything unusual. There was no black Cadillac waiting for us.

I knew it was late, a terrible time to wake anybody, but once inside my apartment, I dialed Chris Freeman anyway.

"Sorry to wake you, Chris. I wouldn't if I didn't think it was urgent. Something's come up we think you'll want to know about, and I have a question for you."

"It's okay. What's up, Joan?"

"Does the name Gene Shaw mean anything to you?" I asked.

"It sure as hell does." Chris seemed to be holding his breath. "What's happened?"

I told him what Wes and I had seen. The car bombing, the black Cadillac, everything. He listened without once interrupting.

"Gene Shaw is an alias," Chris responded, when I finished. "It's one of the many aliases that man uses. His real name is, or now I suppose I should say was, Arnold Bailey. He and one of Alan Hall's buddies, a guy named Orin Armstrong, used to be good friends.

"Armstrong was and probably still is Hall's right-hand man. He arranged a few hits for Hall that we know of, and probably more that we don't know of. Bailey was a torch for them, an arsonist. If anybody needed a building burned, say for the insurance money, Armstrong and Hall would make the arrangements and Bailey'd do it. Unfortunately, Bailey fell on hard times."

"How's that?"

"The first thing we heard of that got Bailey in serious trouble is that Armstrong caught him messing around with his girlfriend. Armstrong beat him up over that. Damn near killed him. Beat the girlfriend up, too Put her in the hospital for close to a month. Then, to put the icing on his cake, Bailey muffed a torch job for Hall and let himself get caught setting a fire." Chris paused, probably trying to decide how much I really needed to know.

"There were some other things about then that didn't go right for Bailey either. For one thing, Bailey got drunk one night in a bar and started telling stories about Armstrong. One of our informants heard him and relayed the stories to the cops. I said to myself then that Bailey was done for."

"Knowing how Hall does things, he'd never let Bailey get away with that kind of behavior."

"No. He couldn't afford to," Chris continued. "Now, this is just a guess, Joan, but I don't think you seeing that black Cadillac was a coincidence. My guess is that Armstrong and Hall had enough of Bailey and got rid of him. After all, Bailey was facing hard time in prison, and Hall couldn't be sure he wouldn't tell what he knows about his organization to cut some years off his time."

"Chris," I broke in, "We've assumed that Bailey died in that car bombing, but here's something we've got to think about. We don't know for sure that Bailey died in that car. It probably wasn't but it could have been somebody else."

"You're right, of course, Joan. We'll have to let Homicide determine the facts, but I'll bet that you and I are right about what happened. Now, Joan, my next question is the hardest but maybe the most important one: Was anyone connected with Hall able to identify either you or Wes around that car bombing?"

"We don't think so, but we can't be one hundred percent sure. I didn't see the black Cadillac when we drove past where it pulled out from, but it might have been back in a driveway and not on the street where we were looking."

"So you didn't see the Cadillac parked on the street when you came by?"

"No. But that doesn't mean it wasn't there. They might have seen us, but I was wearing a wig so they might not have recognized me if they did see us."

"Be careful, Joan. That's an order from a well-meaning friend."

"I'll try. Chris, if this bombing is Hall's work, do you think that means he's back in town? I'm asking you because Bren thinks Hall's out of town right now, most likely due back here in a couple of weeks, if not sooner."

"Maybe Hall's in town. Maybe not. One of his men could have carried out this bombing on his orders. But there is something that you should know about Hall."

"What's that?"

"Hall likes to watch his victims die. If he can, he'll even make a video recording of the killing."

"Oh, God. You're serious, aren't you."

"Deadly serious. Hall loves to taunt the cops with those videos, but he's got a talent for making them so that they show what he wants us to see without having anything in them that can link the killings to him or his men."

"That's downright scary! Scary and . . . crazy!"

"It sure is. Now, listen, Joan. Bren told you Hall killed his sister. I'm the one who had to break the news to Bren. What he doesn't know and what you aren't going to tell him is how I knew his sister was dead." Chris paused for a moment, then went on. "I knew she was dead because Hall made a video tape of her death. Not just her death, not just the bullets hitting her head, but what his men did to her before she died.

"I can't tell you how or why I got that video tape," Chris continued, "but if you ever want to see some sick, sadistic shit, I'll show it to you. You'll never forget what you see. It'll turn your stomach. That's why I don't want Bren to know about it. If he ever finds out we've got it, he'll keep after it until he sees it, and I don't think even Bren could take that.

"What I'm getting around to is this: Hall may have videotaped that car bombing. He actually may have done it himself. More likely, he had one of his men do it. Either way, if he did, you guys might be on that tape. Probably not, but maybe. It's something to think about."

"The worst thing might be if he thinks we actually saw who wired the bomb."

"That's right."

"Here's something else. If he did make a video recording, he'd have had to be much closer to the action than where we saw the Cadillac leave from. That may mean that one of his men with a video camera was somewhere across the street from the Olds when it blew. If that's the case, the cameraman might have been awfully close to Wes and me."

"Right again. You guys just gotta be extremely cautious for awhile. Oh, there's one more thing, Joan."

"Yes?"

"If Hall did make a tape of the car bombing, he'll probably send a copy of it to Bailey's wife. He might send a copy to the cops, but he'll be sure to send one to Bailey's wife. That's his style. He wants the hurt to go on and on. If he does send a copy to the wife, I'll get a copy, and we'll go over the tape to see if you're on it. I'll alert homicide and tell 'em that I want a copy of any tape Bailey's wife gets that shows the bombing."

"Chris, did Hall ever send a copy of the tape showing Bren's sister's death to Bren?"

"I don't think so. At least, if he did, Bren hasn't said anything about it, and I think he would have. Why Hall would have missed an opportunity like that, I don't know. Maybe he didn't know that Bren was her brother."

Before Cris and I finished talking, he asked if I wanted to fill Bren in on what had happened or if I wanted him to. I asked him to do that, and he said he would.

"By the way, Joan, while I've got you on the phone," Chris added, "there are a couple of other things I meant to mention to you."

"Okay."

"First, Bren told me how well you and he worked together when you picked up Womack. I think he's going to want to team up with you on some other things. At any rate, he was quite lavish with his praise for you, says you're a natural hunter just like him, and he's not a man to praise anyone lightly, if you know what I mean."

"I think I do know what you mean. Thanks for telling me. Hearing that makes this ol' hasbeen cop feel a little less useless."

"Dammit, Joan. You aren't hasbeen in my book. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, but it's hard for me not to feel that way about myself sometimes."

"Well, just you remember that a whole bunch of us don't feel you're a hasbeen. Actually, we thing you're pretty special."

"Thanks, Chris. I'll try to remember that."

"You do that, Joan. Now, the other thing I wanted to tell you: There's something else I wanted you to know because I think you had a hand in making this happen."

"What's that?"

"Bren tells me he's quite taken with Pam, 'smitten' I think is the word he used. That's a pretty big admission from a guy who never has had much to do with women."

"Chris, I think that's just great, the two of them getting together, that is. I know that Pam really likes Bren, too. And you're right, I did encourage Bren to call her."

"You guys take care, now," Chris cautioned. I assured him we would.

Wes had been listening to my side of the conversation and, when Chris and I finished, I filled him in on Chris's concerns for our safety. We agreed that Wes should put the ol' Ford we'd driven that night into one of his empty garages for awhile.

My clock indicated that it now was almost four o'clock in the morning. We'd been up almost all night. It was still dark out, though, and Wes asked if I was up to picking him up if he put his car in one of his garages right away. That would get it out of sight before daylight when it would be easily visible to anyone looking for it. I told him I was absolutely beat but that I was up to it if he was up to taking me to breakfast on our way back.

"I know a real good place to eat breakfast," he said, "and pretty girls like you are always welcome there."

Chapter Thirteen

A year before, I could have rebounded from the last night's activities after three or four hours of sleep and been ready to go into action. That shoot-out in the elevator and six months in the hospital had changed all that. The confident young woman who had walked into that set-up and got shot up was now long gone. In her place was another woman with half her insides missing, a leg that wouldn't work quite right, scars, and pain. Constant pain. Except when I took painkillers, and they made me drowsy, so I only took them when the pain was really bad.

Wes had brought me home about seven o'clock in the morning after we'd hidden his car and shared breakfast. Then he'd gone to work. When I woke up almost eight hours later, it was two-thirty in the afternoon, and I felt like I had been run over by a semi.

Everything about me hurt. Then I got a good look at myself in the mirror and damned near cried. Nobody would ever have called me beautiful before, but now with all those scars I looked like a circus sideshow freak. Regardless of what Wes said, I knew I looked like a freak.

Not only was I hurting and feeling sorry for myself but I was scared. And being scared was a new feeling for me. Seeing that black Cadillac leaving the scene of a car bombing and the conversation I'd had about Hall and Warshawske with Chris Freeman had unnerved me.

I dragged my aching body to my bedroom window, pushed the curtain aside ever so slightly, and looked out over the parking lot and then to the street, not certain what I'd see. To my relief, there was no black Cadillac or anything or anyone else that looked suspicious in my line of sight. Nor did I spot anything suspicious from my kitchen window or through the peephole in my door.

For the first time since I got home, I really felt sorry for myself. I was a freak, a circus sideshow freak, a has-been as a cop, a . . . . That's when I crawled back into bed, pulled my grandmother's patchwork quilt over my head like I had as a child, buried my face in my pillow, and started sobbing.

When I finally lifted my head from the pillow, I saw my gun on the bedside table. Feeling the way I did, it would be so easy to end everything with that gun. It was then that I understood most clearly why so many cops do take their own lives, often with their own guns.

You can't call it quits, Joan. No matter how much you hurt. You've got unfinished business, Joan. I don't know where the thoughts came from but they shook me. Two elements of that unfinished business flashed across my mind: Alan Hall and Ken Warshawske. I didn't know exactly how, but somehow I was gonna get both of 'em. Damn right, I was. I was gonna get 'em or die trying.

Oh, I knew I had more than revenge to live for. A part of my mind told me how fortunate I was to have friends like Wes and Pam and Bren and Chris, friends who cared about me. Right then, though, the pain crowded out all of those positive thoughts. Still, I knew that I had to shake the negative thoughts before they took over completely.

I'd always considered myself a rough-'n'-tough cookie, fully able to look out for myself. Now I had to ask for help if I were to survive. With a shaky hand, I picked up my phone, and not sure just what I'd do if he wasn't in, I dialed Bren's number.

"Las' Chance," a surly voice mumbled.

As usual, though, when I identified myself and asked for Bren, the voice brightened. "I'll get him right away, ma'am."

"Joan?" Bren's voice came on the phone before I could change my mind and hang up. "What's up?"

"Oh, Bren, I'm probably bothering you but . . . ."

"Joan, you're not bothering me. Don't be silly." Bren must have heard the self-pity in my voice because he immediately wanted to know, "Have you been crying?"

"Yes," I blurted out. "I feel so damn bad and I hurt all over and I look like a freak and . . . ."

"Joan? Are you at home?"

"Yes," I sniffed, and blew my nose. Bren waited for me to continue. "I need a shoulder to cry on, and then I need to talk to you about what happened last night—and where we go from here."

"I talked to both Chris and Wes about what happened last night," Bren replied, "and I was going to call you right away, but I was afraid I'd wake you. Now that you're awake, how about if I come over. I've got some things for you, and . . . . Hey! Have you eaten anything since that early breakfast?"

"No. Not a bite. And I am hungry."

"Then let me pick you up, and we'll get you something to eat. You'll feel better with some food in you."

"I know I've gotta eat, but I just don't wantta bother you, Bren."

Bren broke in, ignoring my comment. "Joan, are you okay? I mean, you're not sitting there with your gun in your hand, are you?"

"No. Not now. A little while ago, maybe. I'm not about to shoot myself or anything like that now, though. It's just that I feel so bad and I look so bad and . . . ." I blurted out the words.

"Listen to me, Joan." Bren cut through my flood of words. "I think a little food and rest will get you back on track fast. You'll be ready to go hunting with me again before you know it. And, whether you can accept it or not right now, I think you're still a very attractive girl. Of course, Wes thinks you're beautiful. You know that, don't you Joan?"

"I . . . I guess so."

"Well, it's true. Wes thinks you're beautiful, and so do I, and we're in a better position to know about that than you are."

"Thanks, Bren. I guess I'll need to hear both of you say that over and over again."

"No problem. I'm afraid we've both encouraged you to overdo it. Hell, I know we have. We'll help you get more rest from now on, Joan. Neither of us wants anything bad to happen to you any more than Pam does. I hope you know that, too."

"I . . . I know."

"Now, how about if I come over and pick you up? We'll go get some food."

"Okay. I'll get ready."

Bren had said he had some things for me but I'd been so tied up wallowing in my own misery that I had neglected to ask him what they were. When he arrived at my apartment door a little later, he was carrying a small duffle bag. He placed the bag on the floor, and before I could ask what was in it, he put his arms around my shoulders. "Joan," he said, "if you ever need somebody to talk to, call me like you did today, okay?"

"Thanks, Bren. I . . . I will." I couldn't believe how just having him there with me was making me forget some of the bad things that had seemed so important just a few minutes before.

"So, what's in the duffle bag?"

"Let's keep that a mystery 'till we get you something to eat." Bren was grinning at me.

"I hate a mystery, but okay. We'll wait." I couldn't help but grin back, painful as it still was to move my facial muscles.

* * * * *

Bren was right. Once I'd eaten, I felt much much better. You see, I keep forgetting that my stomach only holds a little at a time and I should eat more often. The doctors told me that I'd feel better if I did it that way, and I should remember to take their advice.

Bren and I didn't talk much while I ate. He just let me eat and relax. Several times when I looked his way, though, he was looking right at me, his normally hard eyes much softer when I met his gaze. My self-pity for the day was almost gone, and I found myself thinking that maybe I wasn't so horrible to look at after all. Bren, to his credit in my book, didn't say anything more about my crying or my eeling sorry for myself.

Back at my apartment, Bren opened his duffle bag. "Let me show you a couple of things I got for you. A couple of little presents, you might say."

"Okay. I always like presents." I watched closely as he first withdrew a small black metal box about two inches square and one inch thick with a short antenna on one corner.

"This gadget is a bug detector," he said. "You can use it to sweep a room for bugs or you can wear it on your belt to warn you of the presence of bugs." He handed it to me.

"I've seen one of these before, but I don't know anything about them. How does it work?"

Bren showed me the controls.

"What happens when it detects a bug?"

"One of two things. You can set it to vibrate silently if you don't want to announce your presence, or you can set it to pick up and broadcast the actual words being transmitted by the bug." Bren reached back into his duffle bag. "Here's the earpiece you can use when you use the detector in audio mode." He handed it to me. "It plugs in right here." He showed me where to plug the connections into the black box.

"Shall we try it out?"

"Yeah. Let's walk around your apartment with it. Check your place for bugs."

I started to hand the bug detector to Bren but he shook his head. "I want you to keep it, and I want you to learn how to use it," he said.

Bren showed me the best way to hold the little black box so the antenna was positioned right to pick up signals and how to adjust the controls. With his encouragement, we swept my entire apartment, the kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bath. There weren't any bugs. Thank goodness!

"You can sweep your car with this, too," he assured me. Then he added, "Now, let's play a little game."

"A little game?"

"Yeah. You like games, don't you?" Bren reached into his duffle bag, produced a small plastic box, opened it, and showed me the tiny metallic device inside. "I've got a bug here,' he said.

"I've seen bugs, but I've never seen one quite like that one before."

"No. You probably haven't. This is a very sophisticated bug. Even the cops don't use these very much." He handed me the bug, and I studied it for a moment before handing it back to him. "Now," Bren continued, "like I said, what we're gonna do is play a little game."

"Okay. What are we going to do?"

"You're gonna sit right here while I hide this little critter somewhere in your bedroom. Then you're gonna find it, okay?"

"I'll try."

Bren took the bug and went to my bedroom while I waited. He returned moments later. "Okay, it's hidden. Let's go find it."

I held the bug detector like Bren had showed me and did my best to imitate what we'd done earlier when we'd swept my apartment. Before long, I was rewarded when the bug detector vibrated in my hand.

"It's vibrating. I've got something, Bren!" I exclaimed.

"Good girl. Now, let's sweep real carefully around where you think the bug is and let the detector pinpoint its location for you."

I did my best to follow Bren's advice. Before Long, I'd discovered the bug right where Bren had hidden it, inside my jewelry box on my dresser.

"Here it is!" I exclaimed, as I handed the bug to Bren. He deactivated it and dropped it back into its box. I must have been grinning at my success because Bren was grinning back at me.

"Good work, Joan!" Bren exclaimed, then added, "We're gonna practice some more one of these days, but right now I've got something else to show you."

"Bren?"

"Yeah?"

"Let me ask you a question."

"Shoot. No. No. Maybe that was a poor choice of words in view of everything that's been happening. Go ahead, Joan. What's your question?"

"You're obviously real familiar with bugs, and you sure know how to use this detector. I think I know the answer, but . . . do you plant bugs?"

Bren actually laughed out loud at my question. "Yeah, all the time. Ever since I learned the basics of surveillance in the service, I've been fascinated with bugs and other electronic surveillance devices. I work with the cops some and with a couple of private investigators. You'd be surprised how many bugs the cops have out there listening in on people. Of course, sometimes I do a job on my own. After all, you can gather a lot of information with bugs that you can't get any other way."

I shook my head. "Bren, you're really smart, knowing how these things work."

"Well, thanks, Joan. I aim to teach you how to use 'em, too. In fact, once you get rested a little, I'm going to get you and Pam and Wes together, and we're gonna study these little critters and some other interesting things, too."

"Wow! I'd like that, Bren!" I exclaimed. I meant it. Electronic bugs were beginning to fascinate me. I could think of any number of ways they might be useful to me.

"Now, let's take a look at something else." Bren led me back to the living room where he'd left his duffle bag. "This," he said, lifting out another black metal box, "is a telephone tap detector. By the way, I tap telephones, too. Just another of my sidelines."

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" I chuckled.

The tap detector was about five inches square and maybe two inches high, a black box with a digital meter and several controls on its front face. "This gadget defeats most telephone tampering," Bren told me. "It not only detects wire tapping but, again either audibly or silently, it'll alert you if somebody puts a tap on your line. In fact, you can even set it to simply cut off your conversation if it detects a tap on your line."

"These things must be expensive. Is it really for me to keep?" I asked.

"It sure is. It's a gift from me, and you said you like presents. Let's install it."

Bren connected my telephone to the tap detector and adjusted the voltage dial to match my telephone line connection. "This gadget also has a built-in memory, so if anybody attempts to tap your phone, it'll record the exact time the attempt took place."

"It looks pretty complicated to me. You think I can figure it out?"

"I know you can," Bren replied. He handed me the instruction sheet that came with the tap detector. "The most important thing for you to do is watch this light. It's green now, but if it glows red, you'll know that something's wrong. If you get any signs of tampering with your telephone on this gadget," Bren continued, "you let me know right away. I'll come over, and we'll take a look-see at what's going on."

I said I would, then thanked him for bringing the bug detector and the tap detector and for showing me how to use them. We went back to the living room.

"Bren," I began, "you said you'd talked to both Chris and Wes about what happened last night, right?"

"I sure did. Seeing that car blow up must have been really upsetting. Chris said he talked with you about the guy who was killed and, incidentally, it really was Arnold Bailey. Chris confirmed that with me."

"Chris figured that's who it was. He said Bailey was an arsonist who got crosswise with Alan Hall's crew."

"Yeah. He sure did. Actually, I'd suspect Orin Armstrong had a hand in that bombing. Bailey was messing around with Armstrong's girlfriend. Don't know if Chris told you that."

"Yes, he did. He also said Bailey might have turned evidence against Hall."

"That's probably why they killed him. As Chris may have told you, Bailey already had a reputation for loose lips. Do you know how they got him out of the house at that time of night?"

"No."

"Chris found out. Seems as if somebody had a wiretap on Bailey's phone. Anyway, Bailey got a call from one of Hall's men just before he left the house. Chris either isn't sure who or he isn't saying. Anyway, whoever called Bailey asked him to meet him somewhere, probably knowing damn well that he'd come out and get in his car and it'd blow."

"So they could record it, the cold-blooded bastards."

"Chris told you about that part, too. If they recorded it, they'll send a copy to Bailey's widow. Nice guys, huh?"

"'Bout as nice as Ken Warshawske. I wantta know all you can tell me abut Warshawske."

"Okay. Chris told me he discussed that sonofabitch with you, too." Bren's eyes had blazed hatred the instant I spoke the man's name.

"He sure did, and that gave me one more reason for living. I figure Warshawske sold me out to Hall just like he sold out Ron Whitney and your sister. I wantta get him bad, just like I wantta get Hall. I wantta hunt him down and nail him." I heard my own words tumbling out.

"Take it easy, Joan. You want him and I want him, just like we both want Hall. We're gonna get 'em, too, both of 'em. In the meantime, though we gotta stay alive."

"Chris told you about the black Cadillac?"

"Yeah. The possibility that Hall's men may have seen you and Wes near that bombing concerns me, just like it does Chris."

"Is that why you brought over the bug and tap detectors? You think somebody may tap my phone or plant a bug here in my apartment?"

"Joan," Bren continued, "you have to realize that we're dealing with extremely dangerous men. You took out three of Hall's best men, and he isn't gonna like the idea that you're still alive, not one little bit. And he's for sure not gonna like the possibility that somebody saw somebody wiring a bomb onto Bailey's car."

"Yeah," I sighed. "That's what Chris was getting at."

"The other thing is," Bren continued, "we're not just dealing with Hall's organization. There are lots of other riffraff around and they don't just go after an individual. They go after family and friends as well. You know what I mean?"

"I sure do."

"Joan, I don't want you staying alone for awhile, at least not at night. I already asked Wes if he'd stay with you, and he said he would. I hope that was all right."

"Yes. Actually, I think we'll both feel better if we're together. Wes was pretty shook up himself when he realized that he coulda been the one in that car and that we coulda been seen in the area."

"You both have every right to be shook up. You guys are good for each other, too. I guess you know he really likes you."

"I know."

"Wes told me he'll be back over here later this afternoon, and he plans to stay all night. Oh, by the way, he's gonna redo the car you were driving last night. The 'ol' Ford' as he calls it. I'll let him tell you what he's doing with it, but when he's through with it, I don't think anybody will recognize it as the same one across the street from that car bombing." A faint smile flickered across Bren's face.

"Thanks, Bren. You sure are going out of your way to take care of me."

Bren smiled. "You're welcome. You gotta know I really like having you around, and I want to keep you around. Wes, too."

"Thanks. We like having you around, too. Now, Bren?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you know about Ken Warshawske?"

"I've been developing a file on him ever since Chris mentioned his name, but I don't have a lot. I know where he lives and that he drives a Porsche, but I don't know a lot about his habits."

"Can you describe him?"

"Late thirties, early forties, maybe six-two, medium build, good looking man with dark hair. Dresses extremely well all the time, usually in expensive brown suits."

"Do you have a picture of him?"

"Yeah. His picture was in the newspaper about a year ago, and I got a copy of the actual photograph from a reporter I know"

"I wantta see it."

"Right. I'll let you see the whole file I've got on him."

"What does he do when he's not being a dirty cop? I mean, what's he do at night? Where's he party? Or hang out, or whatever he does?"

"That's the part we need to work on. He's a ladies man, a real playboy, and he's got the money to show the girls a good time. So, what I'm getting at is that he takes 'em to the expensive clubs and sporting events and the like. That's how he spends a lot of his time and money."

"Chris tells me Warshaske doesn't go near the payoff money himself, that his relatives take care of that for him."

"Yeah, somebody else launders it. Sounds like a real family affair. To my knowledge, the rumors about Warshawske being a dirty cop have been flying for years and the top cops have heard 'em all, but they don't do anything 'cause he's one of 'em and his official image is squeaky clean. If anything, the top cops have interfered with Internal Affairs when they've wanted to investigate Warshawske."

"So it's kinda up to us to get him."

"Internal Affairs would love for us to get Warshawske. Guys like Chris Freeman will even help us get him. Like Chris says, we can do things he can't. You understand what I'm saying."

"I understand. Now, two questions. First, can we use Warshawske in some way when we go after Hall? Second, where does Warshawske make the deals and do the transactions? On the phone? Has he got a favorite bar? Or--?"

"Let's go backwards. Warshawske does most of his dealing on the phone. If he has to provide something printed or packaged, he'll arrange to leave it in a car, say at the airport. Then he'll arrange for a relative to find a manila envelope stuffed with cash in his or her car."

"Has anybody got a tap on his telephone?"

"No. Internal Affairs tried to get a court order to have one placed there once, but no judge would approve their request."

I thought a moment. "We don't need a court order. Can we get a tap on his phone?"

"Maybe, but I've been thinking about something else. See, Warshawske, being the playboy that he is, has a fancy phone in his fancy Porsche. Damn near every time I've seen him in his car, he's been talking on that phone. Now, maybe he's been talking to his girlfriends, but I doubt it."

"Um, I think I know what you're thinking."

"If Wes could open Warshawske's Porsche some night, we could plant a bug or recorder of some kind."

"Don't you think Warshawske sweeps his car for bugs?"

"Maybe, but I doubt it. I don't think he'd ever think somebody could plant a bug or a voice recorder in his car."

"Hm-mm! Let's check with Wes. See what kind of problems there would be in getting into a Porsche."

"Yeah. Ask him how much trouble it is to open a locked Porsche. If it were a regular car, Wes wouldn't have any trouble at all. The thing is, though, some of those expensive cars like Warshawske's are fitted with sophisticated anti-theft devices. Anyway, let's see what Wes says. Get his take on things."

"Good idea!" Bren and I smiled at each other. We were on the same wave length. "Now what about my first question?"

"I've been thinking about getting to Hall for some time, and I think we can get to him in one of several different ways. We may be able to use Warshawske but not right now. We've got to think carefully about that." Bren glanced at his watch. "Say, Wes is gonna be coming along soon, and I need to get back to the Last Chance."

"I know that, and I really do appreciate your coming over. You'll never know how much better I feel than I did when I called you. I know that's partly because I'm beginning to feel the thrill of the hunt again, but it's also because you were here for me when I needed someone to lean on for awhile."

Bren could be real comforting. "We all need someone one time or another, Joan."

I knew we'd both feel more comfortable if we got back to business. "Bren, I do want to see your file on Warshawske. Also, I want to start studying his after-hours activities. Find out where he goes and what he does and where he parks and how long he leaves his Porsche unattended. Things like that. Maybe we can get some evidence against him, and even if we don't, we'll need to know where we can pick him up some night—because I want that bastard."

"Joan, I know you want Warshawske and Hall, but I want you to put those kinds of things out of your mind this evening and get some rest. Talk things over with Wes about the Porsche. Then, tomorrow, you call me when you wake up. I'll bring over my file on Warshawske, and then let's you and me do some serious thinking about him and Hall."

"Great!" My enthusiasm had soared sky high by the time Bren left.

Wes called a few minutes later to assure me that he was on his way over. "Meet me out front and we'll go eat," he said. "Oh, by the way," he continued, "I'm not driving your car. Look for me in a blue Firebird."

I was hungry for food and for Wes. The day was certainly ending better than it had started. For the first time in a long while, I was looking forward to tomorrow. And taking down Hall and Warshawske.

Chapter Fourteen

Just as he'd told me, Wes wasn't driving my car. Oh, I had a good idea of what he'd done with it, but I felt like teasing him anyway.

"Where's my car, Wes?" I teased. "Did you wreck it? Or sell it?"

"Sold it. Sold it to a little ol' lady in tennis shoes who promised she'd only drive it on Sundays—in Pasadena. Traded it for this ol' blue Firebird, too. Whatdaya think, Joan? Make a good trade?" He teased me right back.

"Super trade. This is a neat car. Are ya gonna let me keep the Firebird?"

Wes slapped my leg and laughed. "Ha! Ha! You don't want this one, Joan!" Wes got serious for a second. "I put your car in one of my garages for a few days. And I'll leave this one for you to drive instead, but you really don't want to keep this one."

"I don't? Why not?"

"'Cause I've got a better one on my lot just for you. Just took it on a trade so it needs a little work. Needs a new set of tires, too. Then, it'll be a great car. It's the same metallic red paint as my Camero. Looks just as good, too. Maybe even better. Come to think of it, maybe I should keep it for myself." Wes grinned at me and arched his eyebrows. "Give you a good trade-in allowance on your car, too. Soon as the one I just traded for shows up!"

We continued the lighthearted banter as I tried to take Bren's advice and forget for the night about getting Hall and Warshawske. Besides, one of these days I just might take Wes up on one of his sporty little cars.

Later, of course, Wes had to tell me again how he'd hidden my car in one of his garages. "It's just as well if it isn't sitting in front of your apartment if somebody's lookin' for you," he said. "You don't need a public announcement that you're at home." I had to agree with that.

Wes took me right back to my apartment when we finished eating. "Bren told me not to let you outta my sight and to make sure you got a whole lotta rest tonight," he told me, and then he added, "I'm gonna do just that."

"Thanks, Wes. You and Bren sure are taking good care of me, and I appreciate it." I didn't ask if Bren had told him how depressed I'd been earlier in the day, and if Bren had told him, Wes was too polite to bring it up.

Back at my apartment, I showed Wes the new tap and bug detectors Bren had brought over. Wes is interested in any kind of electronic gadget so he examined each of the detectors carefully. "These are top-of-the-line detectors," he informed me after he'd examined them. "They're about the best you can get unless you're FBI or one of the military intelligence agencies."

"Bren wants to teach you and me and Pam about electronic bugs and other surveillance devices," I told Wes. "He said he'd get us together just as soon as I'd rested a little more."

"Yeah!" Wes sounded pleased. "I've been interested in learning about those little critters, and Bren'll be a good teacher. Did he tell you that he plants bugs and taps telephones all the time?"

"Well, he was pretty modest about it, but yes, he did mention that he does that."

Wes grinned. "Oh, boy! does he ever! Actually, it's like a hobby with him. I don't know just how many bugs he's placed around."

Interesting to Wes as the detectors were, it was when I asked him about getting into a locked Porsche that he sprang to life. "Is this Warshawske's Porsche we're talkin' 'bout by any chance, Joan?"

I didn't remember telling Wes that Warshawske drove a Porsche. "Uh-huh! How'd you ever guess?"

"I like cars, Joan," Wes replied. "Always have. I live 'em and I breathe 'em, and the first thing I want to know about somebody is what kinda car he drives. So, after you talked with Chris Freeman and got Warshawske's name, I asked around and found out that he drives a really ritzy Porsche. Ever since then, I've been doing some thinkin' 'bout what's involved in opening a Porsche." A little grin flickered across Wes's face.

I grinned back. "Oh, you have, huh? And?"

"Well, it depends. You see, we work on a few Porsches at the speed shop, not many, but a few. Some of 'em are equipped with elaborate security devices, some from the factory and some aftermarket. Here's the thing, Joan. I really would need to see Warshawske's car in order to determine exactly what kind of a security system it has."

"And then?"

"I can defeat any of the security systems. It's just that if I don't know what I'm up against, it may take longer than we want me to take. You follow me?"

"Um-hmm. So, if you were to see Warshawske's car and have a chance to study it up close and personal, you'd know what you need to do in order to open it?"

"No sweat. Regardless of the security system, it'll just take a little time to defeat it. The best just take a little longer. When can I take a look at the car, anyway?" Wes obviously was looking forward to the challenge.

"I don't know, Wes. We'll talk with Bren about that tomorrow. By the way, Bren tells me you're disguising the car we were driving last night."

"He's right. Nobody'll recognize the ol' Ford as the one they saw up there on Twentieth Avenue."

"What are you doing to it? Or maybe I should ask what you've already done to it?"

"First, I reported the tag as stolen and got a new one. Figured that might throw somebody off if they got the tag number last night and try to trace it. Then, after I got the new tag, I arranged with a friend of mine to have the car repainted tomorrow. It's already in his shop."

"What color's it gonna be?"

"It's gonna be baby blue with orange flames across the hood and front fenders. Orange flames with little yellow and red accents."

"That's not gonna be a very good camouflage paint job if we're gonna take it on another repo trip, is it, Wes?" I had to wonder about his plans for the car.

"No, the car won't be camouflaged for our purposes. That's for sure." Wes laughed, then got serious. "It won't make any difference about the paint job, though, 'cause we're not gonna drive that car again anyway, anywhere. See, there's been a guy buggin' me to buy it for six months because of the racing engine I installed in it. He'll love it with this paint job, so I'll sell it to him.

"We can drive a different car next time," Wes continued. "In fact, I'm working on that project right now. We're gonna be driving another souped-up ol' Ford, but this one's gonna look a lot different than the one we used before. It's a plain-jane car so it won't stand out in the crowd, but it'll run fast an' handle like a road racer, an' it'll be totally reliable."

"You think of everything, don't you, Wes?"

"Not always, but hey! Joan, I'm thinkin' about you right now, and I'm thinking about how Bren said to put you to bed early tonight. Ya ready for bed?"

"First, I wantta take some painkillers. They'll knock me out for the night."

I hated taking the painkillers more all the time because of how they make me groggy, but I knew I needed the sleep. I sure didn't want to wake up again as depressed as I had that day.

Wes walked with me to the kitchen and watched as I shook two of the pills from the bottle into my hand and washed them down with tap water.

"Now, I'm ready." Wes was watching me when I looked up. "You are taking awfully good care of me."

"That's what I'm here for. Let's get you to bed now," he urged.

Once we were in bed together, Wes wrapped his arms around me, and I snuggled close to him. The painkillers did their thing fast. I dropped off to sleep almost instantly.

Several hours later, though, I woke up with a dreadful feeling that something was very wrong. I reached for Wes. He wasn't beside me.

"Wes?" I whispered. There was no answer.

"Wes? Wes? Where are you?" Again, there was no answer.

I sat up in bed, groggy from the pills but listening as hard as I could. I didn't hear a sound. Without turning on a light, I eased myself out of bed and picked up my gun from the bedside table.

"Wes?" I whispered again. Again, there was no answer, just silence. Something was wrong.

There wasn't a sound anywhere in my apartment. Keeping my gun in my right hand, I located the tiny flashlight I keep in the bedside table and held it in my left. Flicking the switch on and off quickly to limit the light, I looked around the room. Wes's clothes weren't where he'd left them.

I started to make my way to the living room, then heard soft footsteps out in the hall. Light suddenly spilled into my apartment as the door was eased open.

"Joan! You awake?" It was Wes's voice.

"Yes."

"It's me, Wes! Don't shoot! Everything's cool."

"Okay. Come on in." I breathed a sigh of relief and sank down on a chair.

Wes eased through the door, then closed, locked it, and took the gun from my hand.

"Trouble?" I asked.

"Nothin' that won't wait 'til morning. Can you go back to sleep?"

"No. Well, maybe, but I wantta know what you were doing."

"Come on, Joan. Let's get you back to bed. Then I'll tell you."

I was so groggy that I could hardly stand by myself. "Okay," I heard myself murmur. Then Wes was guiding me back to bed.

Once we were back in bed, Wes wrapped his arms around me and held me close again. "You scared me, Wes," I whispered. "When I couldn't find you beside me, I was real scared."

"Sorry about that, Joan. I tried to get outta bed without waking you."

"What was going on? Where'd you go?"

"About four o'clock, I woke up. Exactly what woke me up I don't know, but when I woke up all I could hear was a car running out in the parking lot. Idling. I've worked around cars long enough that I can pretty well identify the make of a car by the sound its engine makes when it's idling. At least, I can identify the more unusual cars."

"What was out there, Wes?"

"A Porsche. They've got a characteristic sound when they idle, and I recognized it."

"What'd you do?"

"I went over and looked out the window. It was a Porsche, all right, a gray one, and it was just sitting there toward the back of the parking lot. I couldn't make out much about the driver because of the way the light from the security lights was falling on the car, but there definitely was a man in the driver's seat. Looked like he maybe was wearing a sports jacket or a blazer of some sort.

"Now, we'd just been talking about Warshawske's Porsche," Wes continued, "so the fact that a Porsche was sitting out there was interesting to me, to say the least."

"Right. Whatdidya do then?" I whispered.

"Went out and got its tag number."

"That's where you were when I woke up?"

"Yeah. Like I say, I tried to get outta here without waking you. Almost made it, too."

"You went outside and . . . ."

"Yeah. I went down the back stairs and around the perimeter of the parking lot. Got behind the Porsche just as it was taking off, just in time to get the tag number."

"You see anything else?"

"Yeah. Well, not much. By the time I got the tag number, the car was moving. Bud I did see that the driver was talking on his phone. That is, I saw the movement as he lifted something like a phone to his ear."

"You got the tag number? Wrote it down?"

"Yeah. Joan, can you go back to sleep for an hour or so? It's too early to call anybody about that tag number now, and the Porsche is probably gone for the night." Wes hugged me.

"I'll . . . I'll try to . . . go . . . back . . . ." I tried to tell him that I'd go back to sleep, but I was already asleep.

The next thing I remember was waking up in the morning. Sunlight was streaming through the windows. A glance at my clock told me it was almost nine o'clock.

Wes was up and dressed. "I already called Chris Freeman about the Porsche," he informed me.

"What did he say?"

"Wantta guess who it belongs to?"

"Warshawske?"

"Technically, no."

"His sister?"

"Yeah. Same difference. Chris says Warshawske doesn't own anything like that himself. Not in his own name. Says the car is registered in his sister's name."

"No surprise there. You gonna go to work now, Wes? Now that I'm awake?"

"Only if you're sure you're gonna be okay. Oh, yes, and Chris wants you to call him right away when you wake up. Didn't say what about, only that it was urgent. You gonna be okay now if I leave?"

"I'll be okay. Honest."

Wes came over, wrapped his arms around me in a big bear hug, and kissed me. "You're absolutely sure you're gonna be okay?"

"I think so."

"Okay, then I'm gonna go to work, but I'll be checking on you during the day, and I'll be back again tonight. You're gonna let me know if you need anything or need to go anywhere or if there's any trouble, right?"

"I will, Wes. I promise."

"You know I've got your car. People won't know if you're home, not by looking for your car, anyway."

"Good."

"Can you just rest today, Joan? Get some sleep? Get your strength back?"

"I'll try, Wes. Really, I will. Thanks for being here."

"You're welcome." Wes kissed me and held me close again before he left. I'd get what rest I could. I had a feeling I was gonna need all the rest I could get.

Chapter Fifteen

The first thing I did after fixing myself toast and coffee for breakfast was to call Chris Freeman. When I identified myself and said that I was returning his call, his receptionist put me right through to him.

"There are several things I want to talk over with you right away, Joan," he began, as soon as we had exchanged pleasantries. "Wes called me earlier this morning about the Porsche. I guess he told you who owns it?"

"Yes. No big surprise there, but I want to talk with you about the implications of that particular car being parked where it was," I began. "What do you—"

"Yes, I know that we've got to talk about that, Joan, and we will," Chris interrupted, "but first there's something else that's come up. Pam and I really need your help. In fact, she's here in my office right now."

"Oh." I didn't think that this, whatever it was, was likely to help ease my many aches, pains, and apprehensions. "Okay, Chris, how can I help?"

"Before we talk about it, just so you don't think I'm totally unaware of what you're going through, I want you to know that Bren called me."

"I was afraid he might." I'd be honest. "I was in pretty bad shape when he saw me yesterday. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. It just shows you're human. Anyway, Bren's right when he says you've been doing too much too fast considering what you've been through. Said that we all need to be sure we aren't pushing you too much before you get your strength back."

"Aw, it's nobody's fault but my own. I mean, when the few friends I've got ask me for help, I can't very well say no, can I? And believe me, Chris, I've needed to keep active. Being a has-been cop isn't much fun. Well, here I am, rambling on again. What's going on with Pam and you?"

"Here's the deal, Joan. Pam's been interviewing witnesses and potential suspects in a homicide."

"Okay. I've done that, too. That's what a homicide detective does—among other things."

"Right. It should be a routine thing for Pam except for two things. Some of these people she's got to talk with are scum, to put it bluntly, and they're living in the ratty part of town. Going into an apartment over in that part of town by herself would be pretty scary and just plain stupid beause that kind of people can give cops a hard time and they do."

"Don't I know it! Doesn't she have a partner?"

"That's the second part of the problem. Her regular partner, a darned good cop, too, I might add, just got reassigned to a high-priority homicide. The brass cops around here have forgotten what life on the street is like, so they assigned Pam a partner who's a rookie cop or a near-rookie cop at best.

"Having a rookie for a partner should be okay when a person's interviewing witnesses, but this kid isn't up to it. He freaked out late yesterday when somebody pulled a knife and began threatening them. This kid's behavior could have got them both killed. To make matters worse, the kid just ran off. Told Pam he wasn't cut out to be a cop and just ran off, leaving her looking at a guy with a knife. To make matters worse, he took their car and went straight back to the station, leaving Pam out there on the streets by herself. Needless to say, he's not going to be a cop long."

"Wow! 'Nuff said. I get the picture."

"After she finally talked the guy out of the knife and found a cab to take her back to the station, Pam called me at home last night and told me what happened. This morning, we've been talking about what she's going to do next because she's refusing to go back out on the street for those interviews without a competent partner, and I'll back her on that. The brass say it'll be a day or so before her regular partner's back. My guess? It'll be more like three or four days before he's back, and you know as well as I do what three or four days does for getting good information from witnesses, right?"

"Right."

"Well, Joan, you know what's coming. Can we talk you into going with Pam?"

"Oh, boy! Chris, you gotta remember something. I'm not a cop anymore."

Chris chuckled. "What's that got to do with it? I consider you my cop."

"Well, what's the brass gonna say about me goin' with her?"

"They don't need to know. Those bozos expect her to go out by herself. So she takes a friend with her, what the hell?" Chris chuckled again, then got serious. "Besides, remember you always have the right to make a citizen's arrest."

"Yeah, Chris. I know where you're coming from. But it's probably against some sort of official policy for me to accompany Pam, and if somebody pulls a gun, and this friend blows him away, who's gonna take the heat?"

"I'll take any heat that comes down." Chris was deadly serious now, and there was a hard edge to his voice. "Tell you something else, Joan. There ain't gonna be any heat come down because I've got enough on Pam's pie-faced boss to deep-six his career—and he damn well knows it. And now Pam knows what I've got on him, and I'll make sure he knows that she does, too. In fact, I've got heavy stuff on his boss, too. If any problems come along, they can cover 'em, up."

"Well, in--"

"There's something else, too," Chris interrupted. He was on a roll now. "Those guys know there'll be a whole lot more heat if they send Pam out there by herself and she gets hurt. That might even involve Internal Affairs. You read me, Joan?"

"Loud and clear. Well, Chris, you know I'll do anything I can to help Pam. Only trouble is, I don't have the energy I used to have. I guess you both know that."

"We know that, and Pam isn't going to push you. You get tired, you tell Pam. Take a break."

Pam came on the line. "Are you really going to be able to help me, Joan?"

"Yeah, Pam, I'll do my best, given that there's only about half of me left. You know that. We'll just hope that the half of me that's left is the best half. No guarantees just how long I'll last, but I'll give it a try."

"I won't push you. If you get tired, we'll take a break or call it a day. Whatever works."

"Okay. When and where do you want me?"

"Um-mm. Half an hour?"

"Okay, but I don't have my car today. Will you come by my apartment for me?"

"Sure thing. Thanks, Joan. See you in half an hour. I'm going to give you back to Chris, okay?"

"Okay."

Chris came back on the line. "Thanks, Joan. I knew you'd come through for us. Now, let's get back to Warshawske for a minute."

"Right."

"I don't want you to think we're not doing anything about him. In fact, I called both Bren and Wes, and the three of us plus maybe another cop or two are going to talk over some possibilities later today. We'll keep you posted."

"I want more than that, Chris. I want to be included. I want a part of the action. When the time comes, I wantta be in on taking both those bastards down."

"I know that. You're part of the team, Joan."

"Okay. Now, Chris, my immediate question is this: What was that guy doing parked out in my parking lot last night?"

"Don't know that, Joan, but that's one of the things I'm trying to find out. In the meantime, I've made a deal for some of the cops I trust to keep an eye on you and your apartment."

I wanted to pursue some ideas I had about getting both Warshawske and Hall, but with Pam on her way to pick me up, I didn't have the time right then. Chris said he'd get back with me, and I managed to get dressed by the time Pam knocked on my door. Even if I would only be tagging along as Pam's backup, getting back into police action sure made me feel a whole lot better!

Chapter Sixteen

So here I was, acting like a real cop again. I hadn't worn the clothes I'd worn as a real detective for months, but even though I'd lost some weight in the hospital, they still fit just fine. Well, okay, anyway. I even had the .380 auto in its back holster and its twin in my purse, just like the old days. I had to admit to myself that it felt good to be back in harness, literally and figuratively.

I was just finished dressing when Pam arrived at my door. She broke into a grin when she saw me. "Ready, partner?" she asked.

"I'm ready, partner." I closed my door, made sure it was secure, and limped out to Pam's car with her.

"This may get a little rugged, partner." As we pulled away from the curb, Pam began to fill me in on the people we were going to interview. "First off, we're going to see a gal named Debra Merritt. She just got busted for extortion, kidnapping, and possession of cocaine. We're not going to see her about those charges, though. We think she saw a guy set a fire that we need to know more about."

"I see. She's out now on bail?"

"Yep. She's out on ten thousand dollars bail."

"What exactly did she do?"

"It's some story. Some kid owned Debra's husband, a drug dealer named Phil Merritt, over $50,000. Of course, that didn't make Merritt very happy so he kidnapped the kid. Took him to their apartment and beat the hell out of him. Thrashed him good and told he he was going to kill him if he didn't come up with the money."

"You say 'kid,' Pam. How old a guy are we talking about?"

"Sixteen."

"Okay. What happened then?"

"The kid told Merritt that his dad had a lot of money. So the Merritts got the bright idea to get the money from his dad."

"How'd they try to do that?"

"They took the kid to a pay phone, and he called his dad. Told his dad that he owed this money and that if he didn't get it sent to him right away these people were going to kill him. The kid's dad said he would send the money. Told them he'd wire the money by Western Union."

"That was real smart!"

"Sure was. Dad called the cops. When the Merritts went with the kid to pick up the money, guess who was waiting for them? Right. About a dozen FBI agents and cops."

"So what was Debra's role in all this?"

"Seems she was right in there with her husband through the whole thing. Even helped beat up on the kid. In fact, she seems to be the one who thought up the extortion angle in the first place."

"What happened to the husband? He in jail?"

"Oh, he's out on bail, too. His bail was set at $100,000 because this is just the last in a whole string of offenses for him. Money doesn't seem to be a problem for either of the Merritts, though."

"He around?"

"Nobody seems to know where he is. We need to be alert for him because he's likely to be armed, and he's considered dangerous. He's already had one second-degree murder conviction, and when they were booking him, he went on a real rampage, kicking and shouting that he was going to kill all the cops."

"Sounds like something every cop witnesses over and over. Tell me about the fire you think Debra witnessed."

"Somebody set fire to an apartment building just across the street from where the Merritts live. The fire killed a couple of kids and put some other people in the hospital. We've interviewed a number of potential witnesses in the area already. As you can imagine, nobody seems to have seen anything suspicious. Of course, people living in that part of town just don't talk to cops. Too many of the people around there have ties to the drug trade or other criminal activities."

"But you think Debra Merritt may have seen something important?"

"Yes. Debra Merritt left a bar located two miles away from her apartment in her car about one o'clock the morning of the fire. She'd been over there partying by herself according to witnesses. Given the time she left the bar, and considering that she probably didn't drive too fast, she would have been parking in front of her building about the time the fire started, around one-fifteen or one-twenty.

"Other witnesses say they saw a man running from the front of the torched building about that time. If Debra was parking in front of her building like she usually does, she just might have seen something. Matter of fact, when I called her a few days ago, she hinted that she might have seen something."

"Think she'll tell you the truth if she did?"

"Well, I can't offer her anything officially, but since she's facing a sentence for kidnapping and extortion, not to mention the drug charges, she might be inclined to speak up. We'll find out."

By this time, Pam was pulling into a parking space just down the street from the apartment building where Debra Merritt lived. "Anything special you want me to do?"

"Joan, regardless of your official status, I consider you my full partner. If you've got something to say, I want you to say it. And do what needs to be done."

"Thanks, Pam. I'll do my best by you."

"I know you will. One other thing."

"What's that?"

"We gotta cover each other's back both out here on the street and inside."

"Will do."

We climbed out of Pam's car and walked to the front door of the apartment building, ignoring the whistles and catcalls from a group of young men who were loitering on the steps of the burned-out building across the street.

Pam held her badge up to the doorman. "Merritt," she said. "Apartment number?"

The doorman flinched. When he hesitated, Pam repeated her question.

"Tenth floor, Apartment C." The doorman sighed. He hadn't wanted to tell us.

"Both the Merritts there?"

"I . . . I don't . . . I don't know, for sure, that is," the doorman stammered.

"What do you mean, you don't kow. It's your job to know. Are they there or not?"

"They . . . They're . . .They're both there."

"Thanks."

"Now, please don't tell 'em I told you there were there! They said if anybody, especially cops, came along, asking about 'em, I should say they were out."

"Figures. Now, what I'm telling you is that you don't call up there the moment we walk away. You don't tip 'em that we're on our way up, alright?"

"Whatever you say, Officer. I . . . I've never been in any trouble with the law, and I don't want to be."

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

Pam and I went inside and walked to the elevator. She hit the button for the tenth floor. Getting inside that elevator reminded me of a night not that long ago when I got on an elevator with three guys intent on destroying me, but I managed to push that thought out of my mind, and I sure didn't want to call it to Pam's attention.

"He says they're both there," I whispered.

"Yes. Our lucky day."

Pam knocked on the door to Apartment C. We waited, standing to either side of the door. When there was no response, Pam knocked again, louder this time.

Someone in Apartment B down the hall opened his door and looked out into the hall, saw us, and abruptly slammed the door.

Pam knocked again, even louder. This time we got a response.

"Who . . . Who is it?" The words were slightly slurred. It was a female voice.

"Police. Open up."

I had my right arm crooked under my jacket, my hand on the grips of the .380 auto holstered against my back. The door eased open against a chain security lock.

Pam held up her badge. "'Debra Merritt?" she asked.

"Um-mm. Yes."

"I'm Detective Nickelsen and this is my partner, Joan Gilbert. I called you a few days ago, We want to talk to you. May we come in?"

Debra looked at us blankly before agreeing. "I guess so."

She slid the chain from the door's security latch and opened the door for us. A beautiful brunette in her early 20s, she was wearing a skin-tight leather outfit and high-heeled shoes. Her spacy eyes told me she was high on something. That would account for her slurred speech.

I took a quick look around the living room. The furniture was all leather and chrome. Expensive art work hung on the walls, and what appeared to me to be expensive sculptures rested on a small antique marble table under a window. The Merritts had expensive tastes. Successful drug dealers always seem to have expensive tastes along with the money to indulge them.

"Is there anyone else here?" Pam asked.

When I moved farther into the apartment so that I could see into the kitchen area, there didn't appear to be anyone there. My closer inspection revealed, however, a dusting of some sort of white powder on one corner of the kitchen table.

Pam was looking toward the closed door that probably led to the bedroom. Debra glanced over her shoulder at the door, but she didn't respond to Pam's question.

Pam asked her again, her voice firm. "Is there anyone else here?"

"Uh, no. I'm here alone." She slurred the words.

I didn't believe her. Neither did Pam.

"Then you won't mind if I look around?"

"Uh, why don't you have a seat right over here?" Debra motioned toward a leather sofa. "We . . . We can talk here. Right here."

"Fine. Right after I look around."

Pam took a step toward the bedroom door. I watched as Debra Merritt's spacy eyes followed her. Those eyes aid that somebody was back there. My right hand inched up to the grips on my gun.

"No! don't go in there! There's no one there!" Debra suddenly shrieked.

Just then the bedroom door flew open. A tall, thin man wearing faded jeans and a white t-shirt with an obscene motto on it whom we later learned was Debra's husband, Phil Merritt, stood framed in the doorway. He appeared unsteady on his feet, and there was a 9mm Beretta automatic in his hand.

"Gonna kill all you bitchin' cops!" he growled, his voice as slurred as Debra's.

The man's eyes were as spacy as Debra's, too. No doubt about it, they were both high on something. That made them both especially dangerous.

"Freeze. Drop the gun!" I yelled, as I drew my own gun and brought it to bear on him, dropping into a shooter's stance as I did so. He'd been swinging the gun in his hand toward Pam when I yelled. Now he swung it toward me.

There was a flicker of recognition in the man's eyes as he focused on me. Even though I hadn't made the connection before, I quickly recognized him as having been in that bar called Crazylegs when I'd met Max McCormick and arranged for the sale to McCormick of 9mm Berettas.

The cops had taken most of the guns I'd sold to McCormick off the street. I'd bet real money, though, that the Beretta in this guy's hand was one of those guns I'd sold to McCormick.

I saw Pam's gun come out of it's holster. She was fast on the draw—and she didn't hesitate. CRACK! Pam's first shot hit the man in the chest a split second before he fired in my direction.

CRACK! The big Beretta spat flame, and a bullet thudded into the floor directly in front of me as the man pitched forward to the floor, still spouting off about how he was going to kill all the cops.

Debra's eyes were wild with hate. She spun around and sprang past me, going for Pam, screaming, "I'll kill you with my bare hands, bitch!" I kicked her feet out from under her as she dived by me, and I shoved her hard to the floor. She landed on her shoulder with a thud and rolled onto her back, groaning in pain.

When she started to jump up, I stuck my gun in her face. "Lie still and keep your hands where I can see 'em!" I growled in as hard a voice as I could muster. She dropped back down on the floor, both fists clinched, her eyes aglow with drugs and hate and hurt and with tears of pain streaming down her lovely face.

The big Beretta had slipped from the man's hand as he fell, bounced across the carpet, and come to rest just out of the reach of his hand. Pam kicked the gun away from his grasping fingers and backed away from him, the gun in her hand now aimed at his head. He groaned and started to push himself up, reaching out weakly toward the gun.

"One more move and you're a dead man," Pam hissed at the man on the floor. I thought he was crazed enough to make a play, but he did as she told him and dropped back to the floor.

Pam glanced toward me. "Call an ambulance, will you, Joan?"

Keeping my gun up, covering both the man who most likely was Phil Merritt and Debra Merritt, I located my phone and dialed 911. Once I was assured that an ambulance and the police were on the way, I called Chris Freeman.

Chapter Seventeen

The ambulance crew took Phil Merritt away to the hospital. The cops took Debra Merritt down to the station for questioning. Neither one looked good, but I suspected that his immediate needs for medical care were far more urgent than hers.

One of the cops arranged for Pam to meet him at the station so that he could take her statement about the shooting. He was Fred Hancock, an older man who'd been at the police academy when I was.

He grinned when he saw me there in Merritt's apartment with Pam and came right over. "Hi, Joan. I'm Fred Hancock. 'F.H.' for short. Remember me?"

I assured him I did. "It's good to see you, F.W. How've you been?"

We chatted a little. Then he turned more serious. "You've been getting quite a reputation with some of us cops," he told me.

I wasn't sure just what he meant by that, but then he continued, "I do a little work with Internal Affairs, mostly with Chris Freeman. Guess you know he's pretty high on you. You and this girl here." He motioned toward Pam.

I tried to change the direction of our conversation a little. "Chris has been awfully good to me, especially since I got shot up. He's been real good to Pam, too."

"Yeah." F. H. was not going to be distracted from what he wanted to discuss. "He's told me all about you, how you went up against three bad-assed goons and shot 'em all dead. That's somethin'! I'm real proud of you."

"Thanks. Of course, those guys shot the heck outta me at the same time. Put me in the hospital for six months."

"I know, but you're lookin' good now. That's what counts."

"Thanks, F. H. By the way, did Chris send you out here?" I had to ask.

"Um-mm-mm." He hesitated, then said, "Yeah!" and grinned at me. "He filled me in on why you were here, too. I'm going to take Pam's statement, but I don't' think I'll even mention you, at least in my initial report. A very minor mention, if any. Who the hell needs to know you were even out here, anyway?"

I grinned back at him. "You're sounding just like Chris."

"I'll review my report on Pam and you with him before I submit it up the chain of command. Chris and I think the same way on most things, you know," he told me. "In fact, just so you know, I'm one of the cops he asked to keep an eye on you and your apartment."

"Great! He couldn't do better by me. He tell you what showed up out there in my parking lot last night?"

"Yeah. Well, we're after that sonofabitch in the Porsche, too. Fact of the matter is, a couple of friends of yours and I are meeting with Chris a little later this afternoon to talk about that one."

It already was almost one o'clock in the afternoon. Pam asked F. H. if we could go have lunch before meeting him at the station to give him her statement. He suggested we all go have lunch together, and that's what we did.

A little later, I went with Pam to the station when she made her statement. Even though Pam's developing into a tough cop, coping with the knowledge that you've shot someone is never easy, even if you haven't killed him, and I wanted to give her all the support I could.

It was late in the afternoon when Pam finally took me home. I checked the tap detector on my telephone, and it indicated that everything was just fine. Then I took the bug detector and walked it through my apartment just like Bren had showed me. It wasn't that I expected to find a bug, just that I wanted the practice of doing it. There didn't seem to be any bugs. Having checked over my apartment, I collapsed on my bed.

After I'd rested for awhile, I realized I was getting hungry again. About that same time, my telephone rang. Wes was on the line.

"Hi, Joan. Ready to go get some grub?" he asked.

More than ready, I assured him.

"Pick you up in half an hour, okay?'

I assured him that would be fine.

* * * * *

Over barbeque sandwiches at Archie's, half of one for me and two and a half for him, Wes listened to my day's story. Then, the told me that he had met with Bren, Chris, and F. H. that afternoon.

"I'm going out with Bren and Fred later tonight," Wes informed me, "so if you wake up and I'm not beside you, you won't worry. Okay?"

"I guess so. I mean, I guess it's okay. I'll try not to worry. Where're you guys going anyway?"

Wes grinned. "Out to take a look at a car."

"A Porsche?"

"Yeah. How'dya ever guess?"

"How long'll ya be gone, Wes?"

"Maybe as much as an hour. You gonna be okay?"

"I guess so." I was feeling pretty shaky. The experience with Pam in the Merritt's apartment had drained my energy, and suddenly I slumped.

"I really like having you there with me," I told him. "I hope you know that."

"I know it, but I like it when you say that, Joan. I hope you know how much I like being there with you."

"I know that, Wes."

"I'll only be gone about an hour."

"An hour can be awfully long when you're missing someone. What are you gonna do tonight?"

"Tell ya on the way home, not here, okay?"

"Sure, Wes. I know this isn't the place to talk business. I'm just tired and I'm not thinking clearly."

"It's okay. Joan, listen to me. Bren and Chris and I want you to get some rest tonight. I'm sure Pam does, too. We've all been pushing you too hard, and we know that. By the way, are you planning to go out with Pam again tomorrow?"

"No. Not tomorrow. Pam's been placed on administrative leave while the cops look at the shooting. They're gonna review how she handled it."

"Shit. They don't blame her for it, do they? Guy pulls a gun on her, what's she gonna do besides go for hers?"

"No. They won't find her at fault. A review's just routine after most shootings. Besides, it's pretty traumatic when you shoot somebody. It won't be long before it hits Pam, so we've gotta be ready to support her, too."

"How long'll they keep her on leave?"

"Don't know, Wes. Maybe a day. Maybe a week. Since she didn't actually kill Merritt, it shouldn't be for very long."

"Is Chris gonna be involved in the investigation?"

"I think so. I sure hope so."

On the way home from Archie's Bar, Wes outlined the things he, Bren, and F. H. had lined up for the evening. The bottom line was that F. H. knew that Warshawske was taking his current girlfriend, a high-profile fashion model no less, to a concert at the Civic Center. His Porsche should be left in the parking lot for over three hours, giving the three of them ample time to look it over. F. H. knew where Warshawske usually parked, too, and thought he could take them right to his car.

"You're just going to study Warshawske's car tonight, then, Wes? Check out the security systems?" I had to know what they'd planned.

Wes looked at me and grinned. "Yeah. Well, that's the first step. If I don't see any problems, we're gonna plant a mini-recorder in it."

"A mini-recorder?"

"Yeah. Chris came up with a high-tech recorder that's not much bigger than a penny. It'll record up to eight hours on a microchip. Actually, he came up with three of them."

"Eight hours recording time on each?"

"Yeah. They're voice activated, so that means eight hours of actual conversation, not just eight clock hours."

"You're gonna plant this recorder in Warshawske's Porsche. Then you'll have to retrieve it."

"Actually, we're gonna plant two of 'em. One's on a timer, so it won't start recording 'till the other one's filled up. It'll pick up where the first one leaves off. Know what I mean?"

"I follow you, more or less."

"Now, about retrieving the recorders. we'll probably try to pick them up the day after tomorrow. Of course, we'll plant some other ones when we pick these up. If we're lucky, we can retrieve a couple every day or at most every other day. It's gonna depend on how easy we can get to his car."

"This isn't like a bug that can be monitored somewhere outside the car?"

"No. He would be outta range of any receiver-recorder a lot of the time when he's on the go. This recorder will go with him and record whatever is said inside the car. I've experimented with it a little, and it's good. Picks up voice and screens out other sounds."

"Like you said, though, Wes, you'll have to get the recorder outta the car before long in order to listen to it. How are you gonna know where his car is so you can retrieve the recorder.

"That's an easy one." Wes grinned. "We're gonna plant another device under his car that'll let us know where the car is all the time. It works off a global positioning satellite."

"I've heard of that kind of thing. How's that work, Wes?"

"You know how some of the new cars come equipped with a global positioning system so that they'll always let you know where you're at? You can ask directions, and it'll draw a map for you, lay out the highways and streets for you to take."

"I guess I've heard that much about them. My car never had anything like that, though."

"Yeah. Well, this works something like that GPS system. This little gadget under his car sends a signal to a satellite. We'll have a mapping device that'll receive ths signal and let us know where the car is at any given time. I mean, this pinpoints its location within about one-hundred feet, maybe less, almost right down to the parking space where it's parked."

"Wes, you blow my mind with these things."

Wes laughed. "I'll show you how one works one of these days. Anyway, that's how we're gonna keep track of Warshawske's Porsche."

"I see." I hoped all of that electronic stuff worked like Wes thought it would.

"Chris wants us to work on two aspects of Warshawske's affairs. First, we're lookin' for any evidence we can pick up of the guy's dirty dealings. Second, we're hopin' we can keep track of where Warshawske goes. Like, does he meet with certain people and when and where. Stuff like that."

"I'm gunning for Warshawske, Wes. I hate that bastard. I guess you know what he did for me?"

"I know. Chris explained in detail what he thinks Warshawske's done to you and Bren's sister and to that young cop—what was his name?—Ron Whitney. We're gonna get Warshawske." Wes pulled into my apartment parking lot and turned to face me, his hand on my arm. "Joan, can you put this shit outta your mind for the night? I really want you to get some rest. We all do."

"I'll try, Wes."

Wes and I went inside together. He nagged me all the way about getting some rest. When we got inside, I gave in, took some painkillers, and went to bed. I'd decided it was the only way to keep him quiet. Besides, I was completely exhausted.

I've always had a habit of reviewing the day's activities before I drop off to sleep. For some reason, I've always been able to think more clearly just before I got to sleep, and sometimes I've been able to put together things that eluded me during the day. By morning, things I'm concerned about seem much clearer than they did the night before.

While I was waiting for Wes to join me in bed that night, trying not to fall asleep until he got there, I got to thinking about the Merritts. To my knowledge, I'd never seen Debra, but like I said earlier, I had seen Phil in the Crazylegs Bar when I'd arranged a sale of guns with McCormick. Phil had recognized me that afternoon, all right, and he had swung the gun in his hand away from Pam and toward me when he heard my voice. He wanted me.

Now, McCormick had connections with Alan Hall. There was no doubt about that. I couldn't help but wonder if Phil Merritt had connections with Hall, too. If he did, I wondered what those connections might be, and just how long it would be before Merritt let him know about me.

Wes finally made it to bed, and we snuggled close. I went to sleep in my now-favorite way—with my head on his shoulder. The next thing I knew it was morning. I hadn't even heard Wes leave in the middle of the night.

Wes wasn't beside me, but I smelled coffee perking. He heard me stir and came into the bedroom

"You finally awake, sleepyhead?" he teased.

"Yeah, finally. What time is it?"

"Nine o'clock. A.M. You slept for almost twelve hours."

"Did you really go out last night, Wes?" I had to know.

"Didn't hear me, huh?"

"Not a sound."

"Hey! I'm getting pretty good, huh?"

"The best. Everything go like you planned?"

"Yeah. That little recorder should be doin' its thing. At least it's in place. Actually, both of 'em are in place."

I didn't go out at all that that day. Wes had fixed toast and coffee for me to eat. I went back to sleep after eating that breakfast, woke up around noon and fixed some soup, then slept until Wes came in about six o'clock that evening. Never in my whole life had I slept like that.

Wes had a pepperoni pizza with him that he'd picked up at a restaurant on his way home. We reheated it in my microwave and ate it piping hot along with some beer I had in my refrigerator.

All the time I was eating, I could sense that something was bothering Wes. Finally, I had to ask, "What's up, Wes?"

"Okay. I hate to get you involved with something else, but Bren and you and I are gonna hafta talk. The sooner the better. This evening if you're up to it."

"Sure. Wes, I've slept all day. What's this all about?"

"Bren's a crafty sorta guy. Crafty in a real smart way. I guess you know that."

"He sure is. Crafty like a fox."

"Right," Wes continued. "Well, he called me today and we went for a ride. He's very suspicious of Fred Hancock."

"Why so?"

"Things were just a little too pat for Bren last night. See, Hancock knew exactly where Warshawske's car was, knew what kind of security system it had. Things like that."

"Seemed to know more than you'd expect him to?"

"Yeah, a whole lot more. The more Bren and I talked, the more it seemed like Hancock knew things he could only have gotten from Warshawske himself."

"Maybe Chris gave him the information. Do you think?"

"Maybe, but I doubt it. In fact, I think it was Fred who volunteered that he knew where Warshawske would be last night and where his car would be parked. Anyway, let me tell you more."

"Yeah. Go on."

"Bren and I located Warshawske's car late this afternoon. It was in a parking garage under an apartment building."

"Yeah. I'm listening."

"It was a little dicey, but I opened Warshawske's car and guess what wasn't there."

"Those recorders?"

"Right. Neither one of them was where I'd put them."

"What about the positioning system device?"

"It's gone, too."

"You think Warshawske just found them? Stumbled across them accidentally?"

"I doubt it. Very, very unlikely. Without knowing exactly where to look, a guy would have had to tear his car apart to find those recorders whre I put 'em. An' the positioning system was well outta sight under his car. And Warshawske sure doesn't strike me as the kind of guy likely to go crawling around under his car. No, the only person who coulda spotted that on his own would have been a mechanic who crawled under the car while he was servicing it. We checked out that idea. Warshawske didn't take his car in for service, at least not with the garage he usually uses."

"Then you're thinking that somebody told him those devices were there and where they were, and he took 'em out?"

"Had to be Fred Hancock told him. He's the only other person who knew there were there or where we'd put 'em."

"If you're right, we've gotta warn Chris."

"Bren's already done that."

"What'd Chris say?"

"Well, he's having a hard time believing it, but you know he trusts Bren's judgment. Chris is gonna set a trap for Hancock. He's also checking into what possible damage Hancock can do with what he knows. The thing that worries Bren and me is that Hancock may be leaking or selling information to other people besides Warshawske."

"Other people?"

"Yeah. If he's in with Warshawske, he may be in with people like Hall or the Merritts or other drug dealers, too. Here's somethin' else. Chris pulled some strings to get Hancock over to the Merritt's apartment yesterday afternoon to take a statement from Pam. Did you know that?"

"I thought so. F. H. hinted at that."

"Did you know that this Merritt who tried to shoot you and Pam was in with some of those guys who worked for Hall? At least, that's what Chris says."

"Phil Merritt recognized me yesterday, Wes. I'm absolutely sure of it. In fact, I was thinking about that whole situation last night before I went to sleep. I remember seeing Phil Merritt at a bar when I was making a deal with Max McCormick. I don't know just how close they were or anything, but they knew each other."

"Joan, listen. I'm gonna call Bren now. If you're up to it, we want you to join us. He'll pick us up, and we'll go for a ride while we talk, okay?"

"Yeah. We've gotta talk. If your suspicions are correct, Warshawske and Hall know exactly what we're up to and where we are. They know we're after Hall, too, that we want him dead. Hall's been warned, and Warshawske'll help protect him."

"Yeah, that's what we're afraid of. Oh, by the way, I didn't mention something else that you'll wantta know."

How much more was there, I ask myself? "What's that?"

Wes grinned. "Bren and I put that third recorder we had inside Hancock's Chevy just before I came over here. Chris arranged to keep Hancock busy and away from his car while we did it. As soon as Chris can get us another recorder, we'll get it inside Warshawske's Porsche, too, only without Hancock's knowledge this time. If we're lucky, we'll find out what they're both up to."

"If we're lucky, and if we haven't spooked Warshawske, and if we stay alive long enough."

"Bren doesn't think we'll have spooked 'em. He figures they're both so sure nobody knows what they're doing that they'll keep right on doing it. Hell, they just proved to themselves that they're smarter than us, didn't they?"

"They sure did. And Bren's probably right. Wes, wait a minute. I just had another thought. F. H. said he's one of the cops Chris asked to keep an eye on me."

Wes looked at me, his eyes simmering with anger. "I know that! Chris talked with Bren about that, too. They agreed that it was better not to reassign Hancock right now, though. They thought it might make him suspicious, make him think he'd been found out for what he is. He'll still be keeping an eye on you, but Chris spent some time explaining things to the cop who's gonna be partnered with Hancock."

"Is this guy, Hancock's partner, clean?"

"Chris thinks so. At any rate, he's an ol' timer, always been clean as a whistle, and Chris says he's gonna be keeping a close eye on Hancock while they're both keepin' an eye on you. Chris figures he'll be able to reassign Hancock in a few days without arousing any suspicion."

I didn't much like the idea of Hancock patrolling around my apartment, but Chris probably was right in what he was doing. At least, I had to trust him because there wasn't much of anything else to do.

"Well, whatever," I sighed.

"Hey, Joan! Things are gonna work out. You just wait and see." Wes put his arms around me and tried to reassure me, then said, "I'm gonna call Bren now," as he reached for the phone. Just as he was about to punch in the number for the Last Chance, he paused and added, "By the way, something else is coming down the pike that you gotta know about. Bren'll fill you in."

Chapter Eighteen

Bren pulled up in front of my apartment building fifteen minutes later. Wes immediately recognized and called my attention to the new metallic blue Cadillac with deeply tinted windows Bren was driving.

"We're in for a real treat, Joan," he whispered excitedly, "a ride in Bren's brand new Cadillac."

Wes and I had been waiting for Bren in the lobby, and we went outside as soon as we saw his new Cadillac appear. Both Wes and I looked around the adjoining parking lot as we walked to Bren's car, but neither of us could spot anything suspicious.

I wasn't surprised to see Pam in the car with Bren. She looked especially nice tonight, too, having worn what appeared to be a new blue dress that matched Bren's new Cadillac instead of her usual slacks and blouse.

In fact, Pam looked positively gorgeous, and I had to tell her so. "I love your blue dress, Pam. Is it new?" I asked.

"Thanks, Joan." Pam winked at me. "I took Bren shopping with me this afternoon. He helped me pick it out."

Bren smiled at Pam as he turned to me. "Blue's one of my most favorite colors. I think she looks beautiful, period. She looks especially beautiful, though, in blue, don't you think, Joan?"

"I sure do, Bren." I turned back to Pam. "And I love those earrings, too," I continued. "They match your dress. Are they new, too?"

Pam smiled. "Yes. I got them this afternoon, to go with the dress. Actually, Bren found them for me. I love 'em."

I couldn't help but notice that Bren was more neatly dressed than usual in gray slacks and a white shirt. One of these days before long, I fully expected to find Pam wearing a diamond engagement ring.

After Wes and I were seated in the Cadillac's luxurious leather seats and had exchanged pleasantries with Pam and Bren, I let Bren know just how much I liked his car. "This is a truly beautiful car, Bren!" I exclaimed. "I really do like it."

Bren grinned. "Thanks, Joan. Did Wes tell you when I got it a few days ago?"

"No! Wes didn't say a word."

"It was a present to myself," Bren continued, then pointed out some of the car's features designed for what he called "creature comfort." "It's the nicest car I've ever owned," he added.

Wes grinned. "This baby isn't just luxurious, Joan," he pointed out. "It'll go like hell, too, won't it, Bren?"

"It sure will. I got the biggest engine option I could get when I bought it. It's also got the beefed-up suspension and high-performance wheels and tires, so it'll hold the road like a magnet on steel."

I hadn't seen Bren quite so pleased with anything as he was with his Cadillac. "How do you like it, Pam?" I asked.

"I love it, Joan." She winked at me again. "In fact, next time we go out to interview witnesses together, I'm going to borrow it."

"I doubt Bren will go for that, but thanks for the thought." I turned to Bren. "You two are still speaking then, I take it?" I winked at Pam as I teased Bren.

Bren chuckled. "It's hard to keep us apart when we've both got a free minute." Then he got serious. "You gotta know something, though, Joan. I didn't want to bring Pam along tonight 'cause I really didn't want her gettin' mixed up in what we've gotta talk about and do, but she wouldn't hear of my leaving her out. Maybe you can--"

"Of course, I'm in with you guys," Pam broke in. "I'm in all the way, no matter what. After what Joan has done for me, do you honestly think I'm just gong to sit on the sidelines when you guys go after the dirty cops and Hall and his cronies? No way. Count me in!"

I was a little reluctant to get Pam involved, too, but I knew she'd made up her mind. "It could get dangerous, Pam."

"Enough of that talk, both of you. I'm in." Pam turned in her seat to face me. "Joan, I don't think I ever really thanked you for what you did with me the past few days. I guess I was pretty nervous after the shooting, but I want you to know that I really do appreciate you and everything you've done for me. In fact, I'd have called you earlier, but I heard Wes and Bren talking about how tired you were and how they hoped you'd sleep all day, so I didn't call you today, but let me say it once again: I really want you to know how much I appreciate all you've done for me, not just the past few days but ever since we met."

"Pam, a friend isn't much good if she doesn't see you through the rough times as well as the good. You put in a pretty rough day out there what with having to shoot a guy. That's hard on a person, and I know it. I've been there."

"Listen, Joan. I'd have had a lot rougher time if you hadn't been there with me. And then you stayed with me 'till I made my statement to the cops, and you talked to me awhile afterwards, and I appreciated your staying with me, too."

"I'm glad I was able to be there."

"Joan, listen to me," Bren said. "I think you sometimes have a hard time letting anybody thank you, but both Pam and I sincerely thank you for all you've done for both of us. She'd have called you earlier today if I'd have let her."

"I really do appreciate your concern," I said, "and I sure did need the extra sleep, but it's always okay for any of you guys to call me—anytime. I hope you know that. Wake me up if you have to."

Both Pam and Bren grinned and said, almost in one voice, "We will." All of us laughed at that.

Bren drove in silence for a few blocks, then pulled into a parking space in a mall parking lot and turned in his seat to face me. "Wes told you about Hancock, didn't he, Joan?"

"He did, but run what you're thinking by me again."

"Okay. Wes told you how I got suspicious of Hancock, right?"

"Yeah, but tell me again, Bren, in your own words."

"Okay. When the three of us went out to put those recorders in Warshawske's car, everything was just too slick. Hancock knew right where Warshawske'd be, knew almost to the exact parking space where his Porsche would be parked, and even told Wes what kind of security devices he thought were on the car."

Wes seemed to be thinking out loud as he commented, "Yeah, now that I think about it more, there was somethin' real odd about Hancock's knowing about those security systems—and knowing that Warshawske never turned on one of 'em. I mean, how'd he know that--"

"I thought about that, too," Bren broke in. "How'd Hancock know that the alarm wasn't activated that night?"

"Oh, he said Warshawske never activated that alarm so I didn't have to worry about that. How'd he know that, anyway?" Wes asked. It wasn't really a question.

"That should have been a tip-off to us, but we were so sure of Hancock. After all, Chris vouched for him," Bren added.

"Anyway, to make a long story short" Wes continued, "I opened the Porsche without a hitch, and we installed the recorders and global positioning device like I told you."

"Yeah, I watched Wes install those recorders, and nobody could have found them without knowing exactly where they were. That's why, when we checked out Warshawske's car and didn't find 'em, well . . . I went straight to Chris."

I wanted to hear the details from Bren. "What happened then, Bren?"

"Chris was very unhappy, to say the least," Bren replied, "but he listened to me. Said he had always trusted 'F. H.' as he called him, and that they'd been working together for quite awhile. Said that Hancock knew you from being at the police academy with you, so he thought he'd be an ideal person to keep an eye on you and your apartment. Wrong! Dammit! Absolutely wrong!"

"Yeah. Some friend I had there, huh? What'd Chris do then?"

"He started doing some heavy damage control right away. Wes told you we planted a recorder in Hancock's car while Chris kept him busy at something or other."

"Right."

"Well, while we were doing that, Chris set a trap for Hancock."

"A trap?"

"Chris gave Hancock a juicy little bit of what passed for inside information about an investigation into a suspicious fire, and we're betting that Hancock will pass it right along to Warshawske or maybe even directly to Orin Armstrong. You remember Armstrong? He's the one we think put a bomb under Arnold Bailey's car."

"This information is the kind that might be worth something to Armstrong, right?"

"Right. I don't know what those goons are paying these days, but I'd guess it could be worth maybe $500 or $1,000, maybe more, enough to make it worth his while, anyway."

"I follow you. What's our next step?"

"Chris gave me two more of those recorders, so we're gonna go out a little later tonight and get the one we put in Hancock's car. Then we'll put in a fresh one."

"Um-hmm. This is gonna be a quick test for Hancock, then?"

"Right. We'll see if he called Warshawske or Armstrong from his phone. Chris likes recorded evidence, you know. We'll also put another recorder in Warshawske's car as soon as we can, maybe even tonight if we can find his Porsche."

"Now, back up, Bren. If Warshawske knows we're, and by 'we' I mean Chris Freeman and the three of us at least, are suspicious of him, what'll he do?" I asked.

"Can't answer that one," Bren replied.

"You think he'll run?"

"No. He's had too much going his way here to run. My guess is he believes he's well enough protected by his superior officers that he can weather any storm Chris creates for him. After all, those recorders we planted may have had Chris's blessing, but any evidence we get from them won't hold up in court. Basically, they're illegal listening devices."

"Yeah, I know. We don't have a court order."

"No. That we don't."

"What I'm wondering about, Bren, is whether Warshawske or Hall or Armstrong or maybe even Hancock will try to retaliate against us. You know, like put a bomb on our cars or something like that?"

"I don't know, Joan. We're just gonna have to be extremely careful and watch each other's back."

"So what do we do next?"

"The next step depends on what we can find out about Hancock and Warshawske," Bren continued. "Things are coming together kind of fast right now, and I think we're gonna have this whole affair behind us before we know it."

"Wes mentioned that something else was coming down and that you'd tell me about it. What's goin' on, Bren?"

"Okay, Joan. You remember how I told you I was monitoring the phone calls to a call-girl agency where my sister worked?"

"Um-hm. The agency Alan Hall uses when he's in town, right?"

"Right. Well, yesterday our ol' friend Orin Armstrong was on the phone to the gal who runs that agency. Called her to arrange for a party, the kind of party Alan Hall likes to have the night when he arrives in town. Armstrong made arrangements for four of the girls to join them, that probably means three for the hired men and one special one for Hall himself."

"Three hired men plus Hall, okay."

"Interesting thing is that one of those hired men who's gonna be at this party probably is Warshawske."

"Um-mm. Warshawske? Are you sure?"

"No. It was just something in the way the request came through. Something like getting a high-class girl for the 'real ladies man' among 'em."

"I hear you. When's the party?"

"Tomorrow night."

"Where?"

"That's what we've gotta find out."

"And how are we gonna do that, Bren?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"What we learn about Warshawske and Hancock tonight and tomorrow."

"Hey, guys!" Wes broke in. He was looking at his watch. "It's late enough now. Let's see if we can find Hancock's Chevy."

"Good idea. Let's go have a look." Bren swung the Cadillac back into the street.

Wes turned to me. "We checked out Hancock's home address this afternoon. He lives in an apartment building with a parking garage in the basement. We found his parking place. That's where we'll look first for his car."

"What about security? Aren't there any people watching the parking garage?"

"We checked that out, too," Wes went on. "There isn't much security at all. There's a guard at the main entrance, but there's nothing to prevent us from parking around the corner and just walking into the back of the garage through a stairway exit door. Cool, huh?"

"Cool, if you don't get caught."

"No problem," Bren broke in. "Hancock parks right next to that stairway. It's a thirty-second job. You girls are gonna wait for us just inside that stairway exit door and delay anybody who comes along down those stairs."

"What if Hancock comes along down those stairs, makin' straight for his car?"

"We'll see to it that he doesn't. We're gonna dial Hancock's phone when we get ready to go in. If he answers, we'll hang up. That means he's in his apartment on the fifth floor and there's no way he can get down there to the parking area before we're outta there. Outta there and long gone."

Bren parked the Cadillac around the corner from the apartment building where Hancock lived, and the four of us walked to the door leading to the parking garage where Hancock's car was supposed to be. The door was locked from the inside, but Wes had it open in a few seconds. A quick check revealed that Hancock's car was indeed there. A quick phone call revealed that Hancock was in fact in his apartment. Less than a minute later, Wes and Bren returned.

"Mission accomplished," Bren whispered, as the four of us walked out that exit door and locked it behind us.

"So how do we listen to the recorder?" I asked, once we were back in Bren's Cadillac.

"We've got a little black box to help us do that," Wes replied. He reached into a bag that was on the floor, pulled out a little black box that measured about two inches square and one inch thick, and held it for me to see. "This has a speaker in it and we'll just insert this little recorder like this." He opened a sliding door on the box, slipped the recorder inside, and closed the door.

"Ya gotta remember, we're just gonna hear Hancock's side of any phone conversation," he told us as he flicked a switch.

"K. W. This is F. H." Hancock's distinctive voice came through loud and clear. Wes immediately shut off the device.

"He's using initials. 'K. W.' stands for Ken Warshawske," Wes explained, then added, "That's one of Hancock's funny little characteristics. He tends to call people by their initials. In fact, Joan, I've heard him call you 'J. G.' several times. J. G. this, J. G. that. Here we go again." Wes flicked the switch to its 'on' position.

"Got somethin' for ya." Once again, Hancock's voice was loud and clear as the recorder captured his side of the conversation. Of course, we couldn't hear Warshawske's response.

"Somethin' 'bout a fire." Hancock again.

* * *

"Yeah, it's 'bout somebody we both know, awright. Guy has ties to O. A. Be worth somethin' to him."

* * *

"How much? I don't know how those things are handled."

* * *

"Where yaw wanta meet me? Usual place?"

* * *

I listened intently to Hancock's side of the conversation, hating every minute of what I was hearing, knowing that a policeman I thought was my friend would betray all of us for money given the opportunity—and knowing he had plenty of opportunities.

Hancock broke into song after he hung up his phone, singling loudly as he drove along. We had a good recording of him singing grossly off-key for a couple of seconds before Wes turned off the switch.

We all sat there in a kind of stunned silence, thinking about what we'd heard. Then Wes grinned at me and broke the silence. "That bastard Hancock took that stuff Chris gave him right to Warshawske, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Bren said, "and we're going to take this recording right to Chris Freeman."

Bren made a right with the Cadillac and headed for the freeway that would take us to Chris's house. Without saying a word, Pam picked up her telephone and dialed Chris's number, then handed the it to Bren.

"Got somethin' for you, Chris," Bren said when Chris came on the line. He listened for a moment and then added, "Yeah, it's somethin' you'll really like. We'll be at your house in about fifteen minutes."

Chris met us at the door to his house and invited us into his study. Wes played the recording, and Chris taped three copies on audiotapes, one for himself, one for Bren, and one for me. He added some notes about what he'd told Hancock and noted the date and time.

I'd been thinking as I listened to that recording, mulling over ideas I'd been working on for the past two days. "Okay, Bren," I began as we were driving away from Chris's house, "now that we know there are good strong connections among Hancock and Warshawske and Armstrong and Hall, I've got a plan to bring 'em all down flat. All at once."

"All at once?"

"All in one night, anyway. I think we can take 'em all down in one night."

"Are you gonna want Chris involved? He promised us backup, you know."

"I want Chris involved personally, not that he'll be in on things when the shooting starts. If he won't do what I want him to, it's okay. We'll do that part without him. Of course, we'll want backup, but we'll want it maybe ten or fifteen minutes after we go into action. They can take the credit for what we do."

"Let's hear your plan," Bren said.

"There's one more thing I want from you first."

"What's that?"

"I want to see the photo you have of Alan Hall."

"Okay. I'll get it to you tomorrow. Now, let's hear your plan."

Chapter Nineteen

I outlined my plan to take down Hancock, Warshawske, Armstrong, and Hall, all of them in one night. When I finished, Bren had a wide grin on his face. "It just might work, Joan," he mused. "It just might work."

"If it doesn't get both of you killed," Pam murmured in a voice so low I almost didn't hear what she said.

"What Pam says is true," Wes joined. "I'd sure hate to lose either one of you. Are you absolutely sure there isn't any other way?"

"Wes, for my part, I think my days are numbered if we don't get Armstrong and Hall and very soon," I replied. "They're gonna come after me, one way or another. I can't speak for Bren, of course, but if he doesn't want in, I'll--"

"Hey! I can't come up with a better plan. I'm with you, Joan, all the way," Bren interrupted me, "not for myself but for my sister. I won't try to fool you, if I'd had an address for Hall, I'd have killed him along time ago. Let's sleep on this plan and talk it over again tomorrow, what do you say? We can work out the details then."

I felt somehow exhilarated. Thinking through my plan and laying it out for the rest of them had me pumped. "Good!" I agreed. "Let's work out the details tomorrow."

"What say I pick the three of you up about noon?" Bren asked. "We can get something to eat and then see where we're at. Who knows, something may develop between now and then that'll alter out plans altogether."

"Sounds good to me," I agreed, "but let me get something straight. Are you sure this party of Hall's is tomorrow night?"

"That's what I overheard. Plans are for the girls to be picked up somewhere around seven tomorrow night. From what I gather, they usually don't go home until the following morning."

"So Hall will be sure to be in town by tomorrow night, then?"

"Best as I can guess."

"And Armstrong hangs in there with Hall while he's in town, right?"

"As near as I know. If we find one, we should find 'em both."

Bren drove Wes and me back to my apartment. Pam got out of the car and hugged me before I went upstairs with Wes. I told her once again how gorgeous she looked in her new blue dress and earrings. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to because her hug said it all.

Wes saw the package leaning against my apartment door before I did. He grabbed my arm, pulling me back and away from the door. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the package. "Are you expecting a package?"

I shook my head. "No." We both studied the package. Whatever it was had been placed in a white paper bag, and the bag had been folded around it but not taped shut. "It's the size and shape of a video tape," Wes said.

"Think we should call somebody about the package, just in case it's not what it seems? Chris, maybe?"

"Yeah, we'd better call Chris," Wes said. "Let's go down to my car and use the phone there."

Chris listened to our description of the package. "I think I know what it is," he said, "but just to be sure, let me send over Art Fleming. You know him, Joan, or at least you know who he is, right?"

"Bomb Squad?"

"Yeah. Older man, and a good cop. Been through it all before. I'll call him. Stay on the line. I'll use a different phone to call him."

Chris came back on the line a little later. "Art's on his way," he said. "You two just stay away from that package until he makes sure it won't blow up in your faces. Okay?"

"You said you had an idea of what it is?"

"Yeah, it's probably a present from Armstrong. If it looks like a video tape, I think that's what it is, but we need to be careful."

"A video tape? Of what?" My mind wasn't working clearly or I'd for sure have known the answer to that question without having to ask Chris.

"Probably of that car bombing you and Wes saw. I'm going to check just as soon as we finish talking and see if Bailey's widow got a video tape today."

"Any other possibilities?"

"Yeah. I just hope it's not the one they made when they raped and tortured and killed Bren's sister. That's a sick one, and if that's what it turns out to be, just don't watch the damn thing. It'll turn your stomach. And whatever you do with it, don't show it to Bren!"

"Chris, would you mind checking with Bren and Pam to see if they got something like this on their doorsteps while we were out?"

"I'll do that, too, soon as I hang up here. Now, Art will be there before long, so you just wait and let him take a look at that package before you touch it, okay?"

I assured him that we would and that either Art or I or both of us would get back to him. Then just as I was ready to hang up, I got to thinking about my plan. "Chris?"

"Yeah, Joan, I'm still here."

"I've got a plan to get Hancock, Warshawske, Armstrong, and Hall, all in one night. Night after tomorrow, probably. I've discussed it with Bren and Wes and Pam. I'd like your involvement."

"How's that?"

"First, we're gonna want some back-up cops. Actually, we're gonna want mop-up cops because, if we do our job, there won't be anything left for any of 'em to do except mop up. They can give us ten or fifteen minutes, and then it's all theirs. They can have the credit for everything."

"What else?"

"Your personal involvement early on. Not when the shooting starts. I don't want you involved in the shooting."

"I'll do what I can for you. Can we talk it over tomorrow? Work out the details?"

"The four of us are having lunch together tomorrow and then we're gonna talk. Can you join us?"

"Wouldn't miss it!" Chris exclaimed. He sounded upbeat, excited! Maybe he was ready for some action, too. "Where are we meeting?"

"Ask Bren when you call him. He's gonna pick Wes and me up. I don't know where he's taking us, but I'll count on seeing you there."

Art Fleming, an older man with the sad eyes of a cop who's seen it all and it's all been too much, arrived and carefully examined the package at my front door. He checked it out and pronounced it to be exactly what Chris had suggested, a video tape in a cardboard slip-container.

A photograph fell out of the container when Art slid out the video tape cartridge. He looked at the photo, groaned a little, muttered something under his breath that I couldn't make out, and then handed the photo to me. It was a picture of me—with an addition.

I studied the picture. I was wearing the outfit I'd worn when I worked undercover as a gunrunner, and the photo appeared to have been taken inside a bar, probably the Cheetah or maybe the Crazylegs. I couldn't be sure because it was a dark, somewhat grainy photo that didn't show much background, probably taken with a hidden security camera.

As I implied earlier, it wasn't just a photograph of me. Someone had used a felt-tipped pen to draw a circle with cross-hairs on the picture—a telescopic sight focused on my chest!

"Oh, shit!" Wes exclaimed, when he saw the photo. He shook his head. "Somebody's sending you a message, a threat."

"Big surprise," I mumbled.

"Yeah," Art added, his sad eyes focusing on the photo as he spoke. "Somebody's sending you a message alright, Joan. And from what Chris told me, I don't think we have to guess who that somebody is."

"No. We don't have to guess."

"Have you got a VCR?" Art asked.

"Yeah."

"Want to view the tape?"

"Maybe. Let's see what it is, anyway."

I opened the door to my apartment, and after Art had gone inside and checked it out, he gave Wes and me the okay to follow him in.

Art switched on my television and VCR, then inserted the video tape into the slot. I picked up the remote. If it was that tape of Hall's goons with Bren's sister, I was gonna take Chris's advice and cut it off. Art could watch that one by himself if he wanted to. I wasn't up to watching that kind of stuff tonight.

An image quickly formed on the television screen. At first, I though we were watching an amateurish pornographic video because we were seeing a man and a woman in bed together. They were in what appeared to be a four-poster bed made up with black satin sheets in a room decorated with a number of green, leafy plants.

I didn't recognize either the man or the woman but Art did. "I think the man is Arnold Bailey, the man who got it in the car bombing," he said.

"Who's the woman?"

"I don't know for sure," Art replied, "but I'd guess it's Orin Armstrong's girlfriend. It was Bailey's messing around with Armstrong's girlfriend that got him forever crosswise with Armstrong."

"I remember that's what Chris said. He said Armstrong beat up both Bailey and the girl. You think Armstrong had a hidden camera that caught Bailey in bed with his girl? Is that what we're seeing?"

"Probably so. Armstrong would like to show something like this to both of them, just to make 'em squirm. Watching the video of the two of them together would infuriate him. It's a wonder he didn't just kill both of 'em on the spot. From what I hear, he's that kind of an impulsive hothead."

We watched the couple having sex for another five minutes. As I watched the man on the screen, I saw a decided resemblance to the man I now knew to have been Bailey, the one Wes and I had seen as he walked form his house to his car on the night he died.

Bailey had been a handsome man, rather muscular with finely chiseled features and thick, curly black hair. I could see where the girls would go for him, and this one obviously had been eager to go for him, married man though he was. I wondered for a moment if Bailey's wife had known about his extramarital activities. She'd know about them once she saw this tape for sure, and I had no doubt that Armstrong would make certain that she saw it.

Once the lovemaking was over, the scene shifted dramatically. It now was night, and the camera was situated across the street from what I recognized as Bailey's house. As clearly as I could remember that scene, the camera would have been positioned about five or six car lengths ahead of where Wes and I were parked. They'd been damn close to us, and we'd had no clue that they were there.

"Wes?"

"Yeah, Joan?"

I wanted to confirm my thinking with Wes. "If I'm remembering right, we'd have been parked five or six car lengths behind where this camera was positioned. Do you remember seeing anything unusual in that area?"

"No. I sure don't. You figure the cameraman was inside a car, don't you?"

"Yeah," Art broke in. "He was probably sitting in a car with the camera aimed out the window."

We watched as the porch light came on at Bailey's house and he walked out toward the Oldsmobile. The camera followed Bailey, keeping him in the center of the picture as he pressed the keyless entry pad on the car door and climbed into the driver's seat.

There hadn't been any audio on the tape until this point, but when the bomb went off, the camera picked up and recorded the awful sound of the explosion, shattering glass, and tearing metal.

Wes was shaking his head. "If we'd been just a little bit earlier, I'da been in that Oldsmobile instead of Bailey! I'da been dead instead of Bailey!"

"Yeah." Art and I nodded our agreement. There really wasn't much else we could say.

We continued watching the video in silence as the gasoline tank caught fire and flames shot into the air. Wes and I had left the scene about then and, just as I suspected, we passed directly in front of the video camera.

It would take a frame by frame study of the tape to see if either of us could be identified within Wes's car, but the car itself certainly was on tape. I was glad that he'd arranged for it to be repainted and sold.

Of course, Wes and I hadn't been on the scene early enough to actually see anyone attaching the bomb to Bailey's car, but whoever was taking the video couldn't know just how long we'd been there. Maybe it didn't make any difference what Armstrong or Hall thought now, anyway. If my plan worked either the two of them or Bren and I or maybe all four of us were going to be dead within a couple of days.

The three of us continued watching the video until it ended a few minutes later. It seemed likely that the cameraman left the scene seconds after we did, probably before the cops or fire fighters arrived, although we hadn't seen any car lights behind us that night. Maybe that's because we were concentrating on the black Cadillac that pulled out down the street from us and not on the traffic behind us.

We let the video tape play through until the end to make sure nothing else was recorded on it. Nothing was.

Art called Chris and told him what we'd seen on the video. Chris told him that Bailey's widow indeed had received a copy in the mail that afternoon. She'd called Homicide, and one of the cops had picked it up from her. "I'll have a copy on my desk in the morning," Chris said, when Art passed the call along to me.

Chris also told me that he had talked to Bren. Neither he nor Pam had found anything suspicious on their doorsteps. For that, I was thankful.

I told Chris about the photo of me with the rifle scope crosshairs drawn on my chest. There wasn't much he could say except "Be careful." He did promise to call some more cops and have them keep an eye on me. I hoped they weren't cops like Hancock.

After Art left, Wes pulled me down beside him on the sofa, then eased me over onto his lap and wrapped his arms around me. "I'm real sorry about all this, Joan. I'm kinda at fault, too."

"No. Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault, Wes."

"Maybe not, but if we hadn't been out to repo that Olds, we'd never have seen that bomb go off. Then, maybe those guys wouldn't be out to get you."

"Wes, listen to me. We did what we did, and I'm not blaming you. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you've gotta remember something. I've known that Hall would be out to get me ever since I killed three of his men in that elevator. It was just a question of time."

I didn't add that in a couple of days either Hall or I was going to be dead. Maybe both of us. That would have been a little much to lay on Wes right then.

Wes didn't respond. He just held me close and kissed me, not just once but over and over and over again. "Joan," he finally said, "we've gotta get some sleep."

I knew Wes was right. We went to the kitchen together to get my painkillers, and I took two of them, hoping they'd knock me out and help me forget all the shit that was falling around me. A few minutes later, Wes and I were in bed, snuggled close together with my head on his shoulder. It was a closeness I was beginning to appreciate more than any other relationship I'd ever known, a closeness I was beginning to depend on. Tomorrow we'd plan . . . .

Chapter Twenty

Bren, Pam, Wes, and I met for lunch as we'd planned. And just as he had promised, Chris was there, too.

I was pumped. It was payback time. In fact, everyone was feeling pretty good except for Pam. She didn't seem too thrilled over the reason for us getting together that day, not that she'd hear of being left out of the action.

After lunch, we settled into Bren's new Cadillac. That's where we talked about the video tape and the threatening photograph that showed up at my door and began to make our plans for the following night.

Bren passed around his photograph of Alan Hall. Chris had brough along an older surveillance photograph of Orin Armstrong, and we also passed it around. I memorized both images as best I could.

"We've known both of these men by their names and reputations for a long time," Chris told us. His voice was grim. "What we haven't had is an address. If Joan's plan works, we'll have that tomorrow night."

After we had talked for awhile and settled our plans, Chris told us he wanted to say something. We all got quiet.

"I know Joan's reason for wanting Hall," he began, "and I know Bren's reason. Now, let me give you my reason. What I'm going to say may also give you an idea of why I'm going along with your plan even though it isn't exactly following the book."

"I'd like to hear your reason," Bren said.

I wanted to hear Chris's reasons, too. In fact, given the screw-up with Hancock, I admit to having had misgivings about Chris Freeman and his role in our group, misgivings that I had not shared with anyone. Maybe what Chris was about to say would reassure me. I'd trusted Fred Hancock at least partially because Chris had recommended him, and F. H. had sold us out.

I hoped I could trust Chris. I wanted to trust Chris. We needed him if my plan was to work smoothly. Of necessity, I'd built in an option, but I wasn't looking forward to having to exercise that option.

"When I first joined the force," Chris began, "we had a bunch of cop-killers on the streets. By that, I mean young punks who would earn $1,000 or more from the drug dealers for each cop they killed. Put a bullet in a cop's back, earn a thousand bucks. That was the deal, and back then $1,000 was good money. Two of my good friends on the force got killed that way.

"There were two of us cops who took it upon ourselves to track down the dealers who were financing those killings. We got the names of a couple of the punks who bragged about doing the killings, and we rounded up those two punks. I had to cut both ears off one of them before he decided to talk. I'm not proud of that, but he gave us a dealer's name. The other punk learned by seeing what happened to his buddy, and he gave us the name of another dealer, the one who was paying him off.

"We took out those two dealers, fast. We didn't go by the book when we took 'em out, either. I was right out of the Marines then, and like Bren here, I didn't much care what the book said.

"The cop-killings slowed down considerably," Chris continued, "but they didn't stop. One night a hooker I'd befriended called me. Said she'd seen a punk shoot a cop, and she gave me the punk's name. We tracked down the punk, and he gave us the names of two dealers who'd paid him. Took awhile, but he was happy to give 'em to us after a little not to friendly persuasion.

"I told you we've known Alan Hall and Orin Armstrong by name for a long time. They were the third and fourth names we got. Trouble is, we never could get an address for either of 'em, and we never knew when they'd be in town. Now you know the kind of guys we're dealing with, and you also know why I want 'em both."

"If Joan's plan works," Bren said, "we'll have an address for 'em. And if my hunch about Hall's plans to party is right, we'll know he's there."

I grinned at Bren. "Tonight's Hall's party. Tomorrow night's our party."

I hoped that Hall would enjoy his party that night. It might well be the last party he ever held.

* * * * *

Wes and I were ready to go when Bren picked us up at six o'clock on the night of our party. Pam and Chris were already with him. He was driving the old Chevy he'd driven when I went with him to pick up Jeremy Womack, and he was wearing the camouflage clothing and heavy leather boots he was wearing that night, too.

Our first stop was around the corner from Fred Hancock's apartment building. Wes unlocked the exit door to the parking facility under Hancock's apartment building by picking the lock, just as he had a few days earlier. While the rest of us waited in the stairwell, he and Bren went directly to Hancock's car and retrieved the recorder.

Wes and Pam went back to Bren's car to listen to the recording while Chris, Bren, and I climbed the stairs to the fifth floor and paid an unfriendly visit to Fred Hancock. Chris knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Chris Freeman. I need to talk to you for a minute, Fred."

Hancock opened the door. He was dressed in brown slacks, a white shirt, and a tweed jacket, and he smelled of aftershave. From the look on his face, he wasn't happy to have his plans for the evening interrupted. "I was just going out," he grumbled. "Can't this wait?"

"No, Fred!" Chris said, his voice now hard. "This can't wait. You're not 'going out' tonight because you're going to be with us instead. Come on."

"I'm going with you? What's this all about?" Dismay crept into Hancock's eyes as he looked back and forth from one to another of us. Suddenly he backed into his apartment, pushing at the door to close it in our faces as he did so, but Bren and Chris grabbed his arms and yanked him into the hall.

"I don't think you heard me, Hancock," Chris growled. "I didn't give you a choice. I said you're coming with us. Now!"

"Awright. Awright! Let me lock the door."

Chris and Bren walked on either side of Hancock, and I followed behind him as we made our way down the stairs to the parking garage and then out to Bren's car.

"Get in!" Chris snapped.

"You . . . You're kidnapping me!" Hancock accused.

"You'll wish that was all we were doing before we're through." Chris's voice cut like a knife. "Now, get into the car."

"Got something I want you to hear, Hancock," Chris continued, once Hancock was seated between Wes and him in the back seat. Turning to Wes, Chris said, "Go ahead, Wes. Play the damned recording."

Wes held the little black-box player up so Hancock could see it and pressed the 'on' switch.

Hancock's voice came on strong. "K. W. This is F. H."

"Oh, my God!" Hancock moaned over and over. He buried his face in his hands.

"I trusted you, Hancock. Joan trusted you. Wes and Bren and Pam trusted you. We all trusted you, and you betrayed us." Chris spat out the words.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . . It was supposed to be so . . . so easy. I mean, Ken Warshawske said . . . ." Hancock started to blubber.

Chris ignored Hancock. "You got anything good on the recorder you just picked up, Wes?" he inquired.

"Yeah. We got another one of these 'K. W. This is F. H.' messages. This one's more incriminating than the one you've already heard. We also have a recording of Hancock here talking with some gal on a street corner. From the way he's talkin', it's like she's leanin' into the car through a window. Now I wonder why she'd be doing that? Oh, well, it's probably just his girlfriend, but anyway, they're talkin' about what she's gonna do for him tonight and how much he's gonna pay. Sounds like they're really gonna party."

"Oh, my god!" Hancock moaned again.

"Actually, we're doing Hancock here a favor. See, we're saving Hancock here some cool cash by takin' him with us," Wes continued. "This here night's activities were gonna cost him $500. Maybe more. I'll bet the girl's gonna be mighty unhappy that he ain't showin' up about now, though. Ya wanta hear the conversation?"

Chris shook his head. "Maybe later. We've--"

"Those recordings," Hancock interrupted. "They're illegal. You don't have anything on me you can use in court!" Hancock was sounding defiant now.

"I'll tell you something," Chris began, his eyes boring into Hancock's. "These recordings aren't going to be used against you in court. But if you don't do what we're asking of you, every cop in the city is going to listen to them, and believe me, Warshawske and Hall are going to hear them, too. What they'll do to you, well, I won't be held responsible, but I doubt there'll be enough of you left to show up in a court of law. You'll probably die a slow death. Or, maybe a quick one, who knows? Hard to tell."

Hancock slumped in his seat, then buried his face in his hands and began to cry. "I'm sorry," he moaned.

"Listen, dammit, I don't care how sorry you are," Chris snapped. Hancock raised his head and looked at Chris in disbelief.

"Your career in law enforcement is over," Chris continued, "but you help us out tonight, and some or maybe all of these recordings will just disappear. What do you think about that?"

"What can I do?" Hancock sighed.

"Let's get this straight. Even if you help us, these recordings aren't going to be destroyed. I'll have 'em and every person in this car will have a copy. What happens if you help us is that we bury them where nobody else will find them—that is we'll bury them after you resign from the force first thing tomorrow morning."

"I hear ya. What . . . What can I do for you?"

"Do you know Alan Hall?"

"Just know he's a friend of Warshawske's. Never met him personally."

"Is Hall in town now?"

"I . . . I think so. Warshawske said something about going to a party at Hall's apartment last night."

"Is that so? Do you know where Hall's at? Where he's staying?"

"No. I think he has three or four apartments here in the city, but I don't know where any of 'em are. I really don't. He keeps them a big secret."

"Where do you usually meet Warshawske to pass information?"

"Oh, my God. You're gonna make me give you Warshawske, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, Mr. Freeman. You hold all the aces, so you win. You win." Hancock seemed resigned to whatever Chris asked. "Warshawske usually meets me in the parking lot of the Silver Star Bar and Grill. It's over around 43rd and Spruce."

"I know where it is. Now what you're going to do is call Warshawske. You're going to tell him that you've got to talk to him, that you can't talk over the phone. Then you're going to arrange for him to meet you in the Silver Star parking lot just like always."

"What if he won't bite?"

"It's your hide. You'd better cook up a good story and get him there. You screw up and I won't be responsible for what these people do to you."

"Let me think."

"You've got two minutes to cook up a story. Then I hand you the phone."

Hancock sat there thinking, his head in his hands, for several minutes. Chris didn't push him.

"Okay," Hancock said, "I'll do it. Let me have the phone."

Pam handed Hancock the phone and he punched in Warshawske's number. Minutes later, he had Warshawske agreeing to meet him at the "usual place" in twenty minutes.

"He drivin' his Porsche tonight?"

"Yeah, near as I know. That's the only car I've ever seen him drive off duty."

"Okay," Chris continued. "Now, I'm going back into your parking garage with you and we're going to get your car. You're going to drive directly to the Silver Star, and you're going to park in the usual place where you meet Warshawske. These people are going to follow us."

Chris opened his jacket to reveal a 9mm Smith & Wesson automatic nestled in a holster. "Don't make me use this, Hancock," he said. "Now, get out and put your hands on the car. I'm going to frisk you."

Hancock got out of the car and did as he was told. Chris patted him down, pulled an off-duty revolver from its holster inside Hancock's waistband, and handed it through the car window to Wes. "You won't be needing this, not ever again," he told Hancock.

I still wasn't completely sold on Chris's loyalty, and seeing him leave us with Hancock prompted my concern, even though what Chris was doing was a part of my plan. The moment Chris and Hancock were out of earshot, I asked Bren if he had any information on Hall's address.

"Yeah, Joan," he responded. "Maybe we're thinking along the same lines about Chris, but I hope we're both wrong."

"I do, too. You got an address, though, just in case?"

"A tentative address. I talked to one of the girls who partied with Hall last night. She's one of the girls who was a friend of my sister.

"She isn't sure exactly where they took her because they blindfolded her, but from what she remembered about the streets and the parking area, it was in the 1300 or 1400 block of Maple Street. They took the girls up to the top floor, that would be the 16th floor. Third apartment on the right, she thinks.

"Pam and I drove over there this morning," Bren continued. "The only place matching that girl's description is an apartment building at 1307 Maple. I checked the parking area, and there were two black Cadillacs like you described parked there. Bottom line is I think we can find Hall without Warshawske, but I'd sure like to have Warshawske open Hall's door for us."

We followed Hancock's car to the Silver Star Bar and Grill. Bren parked behind and to the right of Hancock's car where we could watch what was happening. Five minutes later, we saw Warshawske arrive in his gray Porsche. His car reminded me of the Porsche Max McCormick used to drive. McCormick's was blue, of course, but otherwise they appeared identical.

Bren and I got out of Bren's car and crouched behind it. We each had a gun in our hand. Inside the car, Pam slid over into the driver's seat. She'd drive Bren's car the rest of the way.

Warshawske pulled into a parking space behind Hancock's car. He got out of his Porsche, strode quickly around Hancock's car, and started to open the passenger door. He had the door open before he saw Chris in the back seat. As he hesitated, Bren and I moved in fast, one on either side of him.

Warshawshe looked at Bren and then me. He'd started to reach under his coat, but stopped when he saw the guns in our hands.

"No fast moves if you wanta live, Warshawske," Bren snapped.

"Whatda you want?" He asked, his voice icy.

Chris got out of the back seat. "We'll ask the questions, Warshawske. Put your hands on the car!"

Warshawske complied with Chris's order. Bren reached inside his jacket and removed the 9mm Smith & Wesson from its holster, handed it to me, and then patted Warshawske down for a hideout gun. When he didn't find one, he produced handcuffs.

"Hands behind your back unless you want us to do this the hard way."

Warshawske put his hands behind his back and Bren snapped the cuffs on his wrists.

"Now, get in the car." Bren snapped.

"What's this all about?"

"We don't have time for questions. You hear the man. Get in the car," Chris growled.

Chris held the back door to Hancock's car. When Warshawske didn't move, Bren grabbed his shoulder and shoved him roughly down and headfirst into the car.

Warshawske was between Chris and Bren in the back seat. I climbed in the front seat beside Hancock, my gun n my hand, covering him as he sat behind the steering wheel, repressing the urge to squeeze the trigger.

"Okay, Warshawske," Chris began. "It's payback time."

"I don't know what you're talking about, but I'll have all of you bastards arrested for kidnapping and--"

"It's no use, Ken. They've got tapes," Hancock blurted out."

"Whatdaya want from me?" Warshawske asked, his voice more subdued.

"It's all over," Chris informed him, "and prison won't be much fun for a cop like you. That's why you've been give an chance to help us."

"Whatdaya want?" Warshawske's voice was almost pleading.

"You're going to take us to Hall's apartment, and then you're going to let us in."

"The hell I am! I'm not doing that!" Warshawske was belligerent.

"Oh, you'll do it. It's just a question of which way." Chris drew a knife from his boot. It was about eight inches long with a four inch, stainless steel blade that caught and reflected the light from the security light in the parking lot.

Warshawske shrank back as Chris showed him the knife. "What the hell are you going to do with that?" he gasped. Beads of sweat broke out on Warshawsek's forehead.

"Give us an address."

Warshawske didn't reply.

"If you ever hear of a punk on the streets who doesn't have any ears, you check around. You'll find that I'm the one who removed 'em, and this is the knife that did the work. Cut 'em off him slick as a whistle. Snick! Snick! It'll do the same for you."

Warshawske didn't say a word.

"Okay. If that's the way you want it, try me. I'm gonna count to three. If I don't have an address by then, your right ear's history. Lose 'em both an' you can learn to read lips. It's all the same to me." Chris motioned to Bren. "Push his head over here, over my legs."

Bren grabbed Warshawsek roughly by the shoulder with his left hand and clamped his right hand around his throat, then forced him down until his head was resting across Chris's knees. Chris grabbed Warshawske's ear between his thumb and forefinger, then rested the knife blade against his ear.

"One! Two!" Chris counted.

"Awright! Awright! Don't cut me." Warshawske was sweating profusely now.

"The address?"

"It's 1307 Maple."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"What's the apartment number?"

"Oh, God! Hall'll kill me if he finds out I've told you where he's staying," Warshawske moaned. "Nobody's supposed to know where he stays. He'll kill me if he finds out I told you."

"Maybe so. Getting people killed didn't seem to concern you when you sold 'em out to Hall, though. Now, the apartment number? Be quick about it."

Chris pressed the knife blade against Warshawske's ear.

"One." Chris began the count again.

"Awright! Don't cut me."

Chris didn't release the pressure on Warshawske's ear. "Let's have it."

"Sixteenth floor, Apartment C."

Chris repeated the address Warshawske had given us. "1307 Maple, Sixteenth floor, Apartment C. Is that what you said?"

"Yeah. That's it," Warshawske muttered.

"Armstrong there, too? With Hall?"

"Probably. Can't be sure."

"How many men are in there with Hall and Armstrong? How many shooters?"

"Two. Maybe three. Maybe four. Who can be sure? They're all shooters."

"All right, Warshawske. You better hope we find Hall and Armstrong there."

Chris turned to Bren. "Are you satisfied, Bren?"

"Yeah. Let's go."

Chapter Twenty One

Chris released Warshawske's ear. Bren pulled him up and into a sitting position between himself and Chris, still keeping one hand clamped loosely around his throat.

"You'd better be right about that address, Warshawske," Bren hissed. "If you ain't, it won't just be your ears that'll be missing when they find you. That is, if they find you."

Bren turned toward Hancock. "Awright. Let's go, Hancock. You heard the address: 1307 Maple."

Hancock sighed, started his car, and backed out of the parking space. As he pulled away, I saw Bren's Chevy following us.

We rode in silence for a few blocks. It was when we were passing the street where my apartment building is located that Warshawske leaned forward and snarled at me. "I coulda had you killed, bitch. One phone call was all it woulda taken. I shoulda done it."

"You damned near did get me killed, Warshawske," I snarled back at him. "You set me up to get raped and tortured and killed, just like someone else we all know about, and you better believe I haven't forgotten. Neither has Bren."

"None of us have forgotten what you did, Warshawske, not just to Joan but to my sister and some others, probably more than we'll ever know about," Bren added. "Now, shut the hell up."

Warshawske shut up.

We watched the street signs. Sixteenth. Fifteenth. Fourteenth. 1307 would be in the block between fourteenth and Thirteenth. Hancock was eyeing the street numbers as he drove.

"Easy now, Hancock," Bren warned. "We're almost there."

"There's 1307 Maple," Hancock announced, motioning toward the apartment building at that address. "Where do you want me to park?"

"Drive around the block," Bren directed.

We looked things over as Hancock circled the block, checking the available parking places and the cars that were already parked on the streets in the vicinity.

Wes had his night-vision scope and was checking the darkest areas on the street for any signs of surveillance operations, for any signs of anyone from Hall's camp who might be watching for us. Of course, we hoped Hall and Armstrong were ignorant of our plans for the night, but we never could be absolutely sure, not with people like Warshawske and Hancock around who would sell out their friends for cash. We didn't want to walk right into a trap.

"Circle the block again," Bren told Hancock. "This time you'll park where I tell you."

Hancock circled the block again, driving slowly. "There. On the street in front of those shrubs." Bren motioned to the parking space where he wanted Hancock to park. "Pull into the first space."

Hancock parked as Bren directed him. Bren had chosen a double space, and I saw Pam park his Chevy directly behind us.

"Get out, Warshawske," Bren ordered.

Bren and I got out of the car, followed by a reluctant Warshawske. "If you led us to the wrong address," Bren hissed in his ear, "you'll be the first to be gunned down."

Wes climbed out of Bren's car and fell into step with Bren, Warshawske, and me. Chris and Hancock moved to Bren's car to wait with Pam, just as we'd planned. They'd all come in later.

Bren and I walked on either side of Warshawske. His hands were still handcuffed behind him, but we weren't taking any chances of his getting away—or giving us away.

Wes picked the lock on an exit door to the building's parking garage so that Warshawske, Bren, and I could go inside. Then he went back to Bren's car to wait with the others.

Bren. Warshawske, and I didn't use the elevator. Instead, we climbed the stairs. It was a long climb but we couldn't risk the elevator, and we climbed slowly, mostly for my benefit. Finally, we were at the sixteenth floor, Hall's floor.

While Bren waited with Warshawske, I eased the stairway door open and looked out into the hall. No one was in sight. Looking down the hall, I could see the apartment doors with letters above them. "C" was the third apartment on the right.

"Ready, Bren?" I asked.

"Ready, Joan. Let's go."

I looked at Warshawske. "Okay, it's time for you to get us inside Hall's apartment. What you're gonna do is go to the door and knock. Identify yourself. Get 'em to open the door and let you in. We'll be right with you."

"You fools . . . You're makin' a big mistake. Hall's men'll kill both of you the moment he sees the two of you with me. Then he'll kill me, too!"

"Makes it all the more reason for you to do a good job," I said. "If you get us in there fast and don't raise any alarms, maybe he'll be the one getting killed and not us. If you try to pull anything, we'll kill you ourselves. You gotta remember, we both owe you that. Enough bullshit. Get going. Now!"

Bren jabbed his gun into Warshawske's back to encourage his cooperation. "You heard the lady. Get going."

We followed Warshawske into the hallway, listening for sounds of any activity from within the apartments that would indicate a trap. Everything seemed quiet.

Things wouldn't be quiet for very long.

Warshawske paused before the door to Apartment C. He glanced first at me and then at Bren, then took a deep breath and faced the door, his face directly in front of the peephole. He knocked softly. Tap! Tap!

I wondered if the two taps were some sort of a coded knock. It was too late to worry about that now.

There was no answer to Warshawske's knock, but I sensed movement inside the apartment as someone came to the door to look through the peephole.

Warshawske announced himself: "It's Ken Warshawske."

"Whatcha need?"

"Got somethin' here for Mr. Hall. Somethin' real important."

I heard a safety lock being unlatched before I saw the door handle turn. Then the door swung open. Bren and I shoved Warshawske ahead of us, both of us partially hidden behind him, as the three of us pushed inside. I'd take the right side of the room. Bren would take the left.

I had my 9mm Smith & Wesson in my right hand. My 380 auto was in the holster at my back, and my two-shot derringer was in my boot. I also was wearing the bullet-resistant vest Chris had loaned me the night I went with Bren to pick up Jeremy Womack. Bren was wearing one, too.

The hunters had found their prey. Alan Hall sat at a large mahogany table across the room almost directly in front of me. I had no trouble recognizing him from the photo Bren had shown me. He was wearing a white shirt and gray slacks. His long hair was neatly combed. There was a leather briefcase open on the table, and he was counting cash. To Hall's left at another mahogany table was the man I recognized as Orin Armstrong. He, too, was counting cash.

Behind Hall was a stairway leading to the apartment's second floor. To the left of the stairway was a kitchen area, separated from the living-room by an archway.

To my right, one man was lounging in a brown leather recliner, his feet up on a matching leather ottoman, watching a baseball game on television. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and a bowl of popcorn on the floor beside him. I could see the outline of a big shoulder-holstered gun under his jacket. There was another leather recliner next to his, probably where the man who'd let us in had been seated. The two men reminded me of Kevin Applie and Frank Crowell, the men who'd driven me around town when I posed as a gunrunner, the way they were dressed in white shirts, gray slacks, and jackets.

From the corner of my eye, I could see another man to our far left, but I didn't have a clear picture of what he was doing. I didn't have to know. That was Bren's side of the room.

Bren kicked the entry door shut once we were inside and I heard the security lock click. Nobody was going to get away from us out that door, not very fast anyway.

"What the hell you doin' here?" the man who'd let us in shouted the moment he saw that Warshawske wasn't alone. I could make out the outline of a shoulder-holstered gun under his jacket, but he apparently thought better of going for it when he saw the gun in my hand aimed at his face. Ever so slowly, he backed away from me, carefully keeping his hands where I could see them.

The man's shout got everybody's immediate attention. Hall jerked his head up. His eyes darted from Bren to me. "It's that cop bitch," he snarled, then smacked his fist on the table top, sending the cash on the table flying in all directions. "Kill 'em all," he shouted.

The man who'd let us in and was backing away from me suddenly dived to his left, reaching for his gun. I swung my gun to follow him as he dived and I fired. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! He screamed and his gun flew out of his hand as my bullets caught him in the chest before he got off a shot.

I swung my gun toward the man who'd been lounging in the recliner. He knocked the recliner over and was going into a crouch, his gun just clearing his holster when I fired. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Blood spurted from the bullet wounds in his chest as he collapsed over the side of the recliner, knocking over a lamp with a crash, screaming and cursing as his gun dropped from his fingers and bounced on the carpet out of his reach.

Hall remained frozen at his table for only a split second. Just as I was pumping bullets into the second man, I saw him upend the table where he'd been counting cash and leap to his feet. He had a gun in his hand, and he was squeezing the trigger as he came to his feet. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Hall's first three shots ripped through Warshawske's head, knocking him back against the door as he went down with a thud, dead before he hit the floor.

Hall swung his gun my way, blazing away as he did so. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Bullets smacked into the wall behind me as I dived behind the overturned recliner, the only cover I could see, pumping bullets back in Hall's direction as fast as I could aim and squeeze the trigger.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! I heard heavy gunfire erupt from the left side of the room where Bren was shooting it out with the men who were over there. Somewhere a man screamed. The noise in that apartment from the shooting and screaming was deafening. My ears were ringing.

Hall cut loose with two more shots in my direction. CRACK! CRACK! He was spraying bullets now without aiming, the bullets flying over my head. When he quit shooting for a moment, I looked past the overturned recliner, to see him sprinting for the stairs that led to the second floor in the apartment, his gun waving haphazardly in my direction as he ran.

I can't move as fast as I used to, what with my weakened leg, but I leapt for those stairs right after him with all the strength I could muster. CRACK! CRACK! Hall blazed away at me over his shoulder as he ran up those stairs, his bullets thudding into the wall behind me as I zig-zagged first right and then left so he wouldn't have a good target to aim at.

Hall spun toward me as he made the first landing, snapped off another round and then bounded on up the stairs to my right. Knowing that once he got to the rooms on the second floor he'd be much harder to corner, I redoubled my efforts. I couldn't keep up with him on those stairs, but I was determined that he wasn't going to get away from me. Not after I'd come this close to getting him.

I was panting hard as I reached the first landing. Hall was three steps ahead of me up the stairs when he suddenly spun to face me, aimed right at my chest, and squeezed the trigger. I thought he had me, and even though I wa wearing a bullet resistant vest that might save my life, a hit at that range would have knocked me down, but instead of the shot I expected there was a resounding CLICK! His gun was empty.

I was almost out of breath as I tried to bring my gun up to aim at Hall's chest. Before I could aim, though, he threw his empty gun at me, and then he himself was hurtling through the air at me. CRACK! I dodged his flying gun, then snapped off a round that caught him in the shoulder just before he hit me, body-slamming me backwards against the stair banister with all his weight.

The wooden banister swayed as Hall drove me back hard into it. Wood splintered, and I thought we were going together through the banister and to the floor below. The broken banister held! It wouldn't for long.

Hall knocked my gun from my hand when he hit me. Before I could make a move to defend myself, he went straight for my throat with both hands, wrapping them around my neck, squeezing hard, and forcing me backwards over the banister, his entire weight pressing against me.

There was no way I could reach the .380 auto in my back holster. Hall tightened his grip on my throat. No way did I have the strength to push him away. My breath was now coming in short gasps.

"You're gonna die, bitch!" he hissed.

My arms had been partially trapped at my side. Somehow I managed to free my left arm, though, and as hall clamped down on my throat with both hands, I jabbed the index finger of my left hand straight into his right eye, jabbed it into that eye with all the energy I could muster.

Hall screamed as I drove my finger into his eye, jerked his right hand away from my neck, and grabbed my left arm to keep me from jabbing his eye again, all the time forcing me back against and over the shaky banister, slamming his knees into my legs, cursing a blue streak.

"You bitch! I'll kill you!" he shrieked over and over again, kicking at my legs and twisting my left arm.

Hall's left hand was still gripping my throat, but with his right hand away from my neck I could almost breathe normally. I gulped in the fresh air I desperately needed. He was gripping my left arm so tight that I thought he'd break it, but I was prepared to go right back for his eye if I got loose and he knew it.

All the time I was trying to get my finger into his eye, I was kicking at Hall's legs for all I was worth, just as he was kicking at mine. When he twisted to the left to avoid my boot, I managed to get my right arm free and reach for the derringer in my boot holster.

Hall suddenly let go of my left arm and swung a short right punch at my head. I twisted away and took a glancing blow behind my ear and then, as he drew back his fist for another punch, I reached the derringer and pulled it free.

I got the derringer up as he hit me again, jabbed the gun into Hall's side, and fired both barrels into him just as the banister splintered and gave way completely. Then I was toppling over backwards and hurtling through the air. My breath was knocked out of me as I landed with a bone-jarring thud on my back on the carpeted floor below.

Debris from the broken wooden banister landed around me as I lay on the floor. My head was swimming, my eyes unfocused, my body hurting all over from the blows Hall had landed and the fall. I fully expected Hall to land on me at any second, but I just couldn't move to avoid him if he did.

I shook my head from side to side, trying to clear it, trying to get my eyes to focus. I remembered I'd lost my Smith & Wesson and that the derringer clutched in my hand was empty, and I managed to twist my right arm around and reach the grips on the .380 auto holstered at my back. When my head cleared moments later and I spotted Hall, though, I knew I didn't need the gun. At least I didn't need the gun for Hall because he was dead, dead, dead!

Hall wasn't going to fall on me either, not anytime soon anyway. He was impaled on one of the broken banister uprights, its splintered end protruding grotesquely from his chest. Apparently he had twisted to his left as we fell, maybe from the impact of the two bullets I'd fired into him, and fallen away from me and onto the splintered upright when the banister had given way. Then I became aware that blood from his body was dripping into a pool on the carpet next to me.

I looked around to the opposite side of the room and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Bren standing tall, his .45 Colt in his hand. Before I could call to him, though, there was a commotion in the hall outside the apartment and the crash of splintering wood as the door to the apartment burst open.

Four big cops in S.W.A.T. team protective gear charged into the room, guns drawn, yelling for everyone to freeze and drop their guns. The cops didn't pay any attention to Bren or me. Two of them moved swiftly through the first floor of the apartment, quickly checking each of the dead men for signs of life, while the others checked things out upstairs.

I watched the S.W.A.T. team cops do their thing for a few moments. When I looked in Bren's direction again, he was limping toward me, seemingly paying little attention to the S.W.A.T. team cops. There was blood soaking one leg of his pants and spattered all over the rest of him.

"You okay, Joan?" Bren asked as he sank down beside me on the floor.

"I'm okay," I managed to whisper, "but you've been hit. Is it bad?"

"It's nothing to worry about. Just a nick across my leg. The blood on me is just spatter." Bren put his arm around me and helped me into a sitting position. I leaned against him, exhausted and extremely thankful that we both were still alive.

Bren was looking at me strangely. "There's blood all over you, Joan. Are you hit?" he asked.

"No. It's Hall's blood. We got up close and personal and he damn near got me on those stairs but I'm okay. Did you get Armstrong?"

"Yeah. Armstrong's dead. So are two other men who were on my side of the room. Shot one dead right away but the other one of 'em jumped me from behind. Came outta the bathroom with a knife." Bren grinned down at me. "He shoulda known better than to jump a Marine like that 'cause I took that knife away from him and broke his neck," Bren commented matter-of-factly.

The moment the S.W.A.T. team gave the "all clear," Chris, Pam, and Wes rushed into the room. Behind them came a couple of medics and then another policeman with Hancock securely handcuffed to his wrist. I saw other cops in the hallway, guarding the door and keeping onlookers away.

Chris, Pam, Wes, and the two medics converged on Bren and me. As soon as the rest of us got done hugging one another, the medics patched up Bren's leg and said they weren't even going to take him to the hospital. "Give it some rest for a few days," one of them advised him, and that was that.

One of the S.W.A.T. team cops brought me the Smith & Wesson I'd dropped on the stairs. "We didn't find this here," he told me as he handed it to me. There was a big grin on his face as I thanked him. As he turned away, he added, "You guys did one helluva job. We got need for guys like you two on our team if you're interested."

I managed a grin. "We'll keep that in mind," I responded.

Once the medics finished with Bren's leg, they insisted on checking my throat where Hall's grip had left red welts, my arm that he'd damn near twisted off, and the bruises he'd left on my head with his fist. They also checked to be sure I hadn't broken any bones when I'd fallen over the banister and to the floor. "You're gonna be real sore for a few days, Joan," one of them told me, "but you're gonna be all right. Take your painkillers. Get some rest. Lots of rest. That goes for both you and Bren, okay?"

"Okay."

I thanked the medics for checking me over. Right then it seemed to me that I'd been real sore all of my life as far back as I could remember so a few more days weren't going to make that much difference, especially now that Hall and Armstrong were dead.

"I'm gonna see to it you get the rest you need, Joan," Wes whispered, once the medics were gone. He squeezed my hand and smiled at me, not his usual grin, just a real sweet smile.

"Thanks, Wes." I tried to smile back at him but somehow the effort was just too much. "I'll try to be a good patient."

Chris had been looking around the room, taking pictures of the carnage with his camera. When he saw that the medics were through with both Bren and me, he came over. "You guys wantta get outta here before the press shows up?" he asked.

"We sure do," Bren answered for all four of us. "You can take over. We're outta here."

Pam held Bren's hand in both of hers as he got to his feet. Wes took my hand in his, slipped his arm around my shoulders, and steadied me as I stood up. Was I ever shaky! That shoot-out, the mauling Hall had given me, and the fall from the stairs had taken more out of me than I'd thought, and I suddenly was very, very happy that Wes was there beside me.

Wes sensed my unsteadiness. "Lean on me, hon," he whispered.

"Thanks, Wes. I'm really tired." I looked up at him. He was smiling at me, and once again I did my best to smile back as I concentrated on getting one foot in front of the other.

On our way to the door, I glanced over at the side of the room where Bren had taken down Armstrong and the other two men, wanting to assure myself that Armstrong really was dead. From the way he was sprawled in a pool of his own blood, there could be no doubt in my mind that he really was. The two other men Bren had killed were lying to either side of Armstrong, the one's head twisted at a grotesque angle to his body.

The four of us, Bren, Pam, Wes, and I, were almost to the door when Chris eased up beside me. He had a briefcase in his hand. I recognized it as the one that had been on the table where Hall was counting money when we first came into the apartment.

"Joan," Chris whispered in my ear, "you forgot this. We don't know anything about it so it must be yours." He took my hand and wrapped it around the briefcase handle. "Now, outta here! All of you!" he ordered.

I started to thank Chris, but he had quickly turned and walked away before I could say a word. The four of us kept walking. Well, actually Wes seemed to be half dragging and half carrying me. I never looked back.

"Want me to carry that?" Wes asked, once we were in the hall.

"Yeah. Thanks, Wes." I handed the briefcase to him.

The four of us left Apartment C on the sixteenth floor and went down to Bren's car the way we had come, taking the stairs to avoid the press and any other people who might be curious about a guy and a gal who were bloodstained and bruised and looked like they'd just shot it out with a bunch of killers.

Chapter Twenty Two

The medics were right about my needing lots of rest. I was a mass of bruises and, even with my taking the painkillers regularly, I hurt all over. I looked absolutely awful, too. My skin was a maze of different colors and puffy around my eyes, my lips were swollen, and there were little cuts and abrasions all over, and that was just on my face.

Wes took the very best of care of me, and Pam and Bren dropped in every day to encourage me and to do whatever they could to help me feel and get better. Mostly, though, I just slept the days away, giving my beat-up ol' body time to heal. I especially looked forward to the nights when Wes would be there with me to cuddle me. That was the best medicine of all—just what the doctor ordered, as the saying goes.

Alan Hall, Orin Armstrong, and Ken Warshawske all were dead. Fred Hancock had resigned from the force the morning after our shoot-out, just as Chris had told him he would. I hoped that I'd never ever see him again. I had the sick feeling that I probably would. When or how I wouldn't know.

I admit to feeling good about what Bren and I had done in taking down Hall and Armstrong and a few of their goons. In fact, I relived that gun battle in Hall's apartment over and over again in my mind, and each time I did, I felt really exhilarated over having achieved at least a little justice for myself, Bren's sister, and Ron Whitney, as well as the others I'm sure we'll never even know about.

Wes showed me the brief newspaper account of what was described as a raid on a drug dealer's apartment. S.W.A.T. team members and the police took the credit and neither Bren's nor my name was mentioned. That's exactly the way I had hoped it would be handled.

So many things had happened in the days since I first came home from my lengthy stay in the hospital and the nursing home following my shoot-out with Hall's men in that elevator! At first, I'd been terribly worried about what I was going to do with myself. Oh, the paper work had been done to insure that I'd draw a disability check for the rest of my life, and that did take a big burden off my mind, but that didn't insure a life worth living for a gal who thrilled to the hunt and loved being an active policewoman.

Of course, as you now know, my fears about being a "has-been" cop with no friends and nothing to do were groundless—what with people like Wes and Bren and Pam and Chris around. True, I'd been terribly depressed and felt really sorry for myself that one time, but those wonderful people had seen me through all that. No more would I dread my future.

Three days after that shoot-out at Hall's apartment, Wes brought Bren to see me. Like I said, Bren and Pam had gotten into the habit of dropping in just to check on me and maybe visit a little, but somehow this visit seemed different, more formal, and it wasn't just because Pam wasn't there.

"Bren wants to talk with you, Joan," Wes explained, "so I'm gonna go down to the store and get a pizza while you two talk, okay?"

"Okay, Wes. What's going on, Bren?" I asked.

"I'd like you in on a little secret, and I've got a special request to make," Bren began. He was smiling all the time he was talking.

I did my best to smile back, even though it made me look like a ghoul and my throat still hurt a little when I stretched my lips. "I love secrets," I told him.

"You've probably guessed this, but Pam and I have been having some wonderful times together," Bren began, almost shyly.

"You're right. I guessed that. Actually, it's been pretty obvious, and I'm very happy for both of you."

Bren pulled a chair close to where I was sitting and sat down facing me. I waited.

"We plan to be married before long," Bren continued, "and we're going to want you to be at our wedding and playing a part in the ceremony."

"You know I'd like that."

"Also, I want you to help me plan a little surprise get-together for Pam. See, I have an engagement ring for her, but I thought it would be neat if you could be close by when I gave it to her and . . . ."

"It sure would be neat, Bren, but I'm not in very good shape to go anywhere. Not right now, not just yet."

Bren held a finger to my lips. "I know. Now, how would it be if we kinda borrowed your living room for the little surprise get-together? I thought we'd invite Pam over. If you do the inviting, she won't even know I'm gonna be here 'till she gets here. I'll have the ring and . . . ."

"That's a great idea! Then the four of us can share a drink in celebration of you lucky guys. I'll have Wes pick up some champagne and things."

"How about tomorrow?"

"That's just fine. I'll ask Pam to come over. She is back at work now, isn't she, Bren?"

"Yeah. The review of her shooting that damn Phil Merritt didn't amount to anything. It was just the kind of bullshit that I couldn't stand if I was a cop. Oh, by the way, she's got her regular partner back now. As a matter of fact, her boss was downright apologetic about how he goofed up in assigning that rookie to work with her and then trying to send her out on her own into that crappy neighborhood.

"In fact, Joan," Bren continued, "Get this: Pam's boss told her she was real smart to take you with her. My guess is that Pam'll be asking you to help her out again one of these days."

"You know Bren, I'd like that," I told him. "Pam's a good cop as well as a good friend. I'll work with her any time she needs me. And I'm glad there weren't any problems for her over the shooting. What time does she get off work, anyway?"

"She's usually off by five these days if no emergency comes up."

"Okay. What's the best time for us to get together tomorrow night?"

"How about eight o'clock? Pam will have time to go home and change clothes. Then I'll take her out to eat about six. I'll drop her off at her place, and she won't expect to see me again that evening."

"Tricky! Okay, Bren. I'll invite her to come over about eight. What time shall we expect you?"

"About half an hour after she gets here."

"And you'll have the ring?"

"Yeah."

I had to tell him. "Bren, I think you're just wonderful!"

Bren leaned toward me and put his hands on my shoulders. "I don't want you to misunderstand me when I say this, Joan, but I'm gonna say it, and I hope you'll understand."

He hesitated for a few seconds and then continued. "I'm not as good with words as you or Pam are, but I want you to know that I love you, not in quite the same way I love Pam, but I love you nevertheless. Do you know what I mean, Joan?"

"I know what you're saying, Bren. Thanks for telling me. I love you, too, in the same way—friend to friend." I put my arms around his neck, and we hugged each other.

Wes was jogging up the stairs with a hot pepperoni pizza as Bren left my apartment. They exchanged greetings. "See you tomorrow evening, Bren," I called after him. He waved at me in reply.

Honestly, I still didn't feel like showing my face in public, not with the bruises on my neck and head still showing. And I still wasn't walking very straight. For those reasons, I thought Bren had been awfully nice to let me in on his plans and arrange things so I didn't have to leave my apartment in order to share a special moment with him and Pam.

Later that night, I called and invited Pam to come over for a little while the following evening around eight o'clock. She said she'd be happy to see me, and that she had something to tell me. I asked her what it was, and she teased me by saying I'd just have to wait until I saw her. "It's a secret!" she giggled.

When I opened the door to her the following night, Pam had a smile on her face as if she already knew that something was up. She was wearing the blue dress and earrings she'd been wearing when we'd gone for the ride in Bren's new Cadillac a few days earlier. She'd also had her hair done since I'd last seen her, and she looked absolutely beautiful. Bren was right. Pam looked gorgeous in blue.

Once Pam was seated on my sofa and we'd chitchatted a little, I asked her about her "secret."

Did her eyes ever light up! "I thought you'd never ask, and I know you'd never guess. Oh, of course, you would! Bren and I are going to be married! I'm so happy!" Pam's excited words tumbled out.

Both of us got up and hurried toward one another, arms outstretched. "I'm so glad for you, Pam," I whispered, as we hugged each other.

Pam and I were still hugging each other when we heard a knock at the door. "Is that Wes?" Pam asked.

It was Wes, of course, and Bren was with him.

Bren had dressed up for our little get-together and was wearing a white shirt, blue slacks, and a blue blazer. Despite his crooked nose and the scar on his face, Bren's rugged good looks contrasted just enough with Pam's soft and delicate features to make them an ideal couple, at least in my eyes. I was happy they had gotten together, happy that I'd played a minor role in getting them together.

Pam gasped when she saw Bren at my door and then threw her arms around him. "What is this? What's going on?" Pam breathed.

"You had a secret for me, and this is a surprise for you!" I said.

"Surprise?" Pam giggled. She arched her eyebrows. "I thought something was up."

"Yeah, Pam, we have a surprise for you," Wes teased. "Bet you'd never guess what's going to happen, either."

Pam sank back onto the sofa, looking from one of us to the other. Bren sat down beside her and took her hand in his.

"I thought we should have Joan in on this surprise and she isn't quite ready to go out yet, so we invited you here," Bren explained. "How's that for being tricky?"

"Very tricky!" Pam giggled.

While Wes and I watched, Bren produced a tiny jewelry box from his jacket pocket and opened the lid. A diamond sparkled in the light.

Pam's eyes lit up when she saw the ring. "Oh my gosh! It's . . . absolutely lovely! Is it really for me?" she bubbled.

"Just for you." Bren told her.

Bren lifted the ring from the velvet lining of the little box. Pam held out her left hand, and Bren placed the ring on her third finger. Wes and I leaned near them to watch.

"Congratulations! It's beautiful, Pam!" I told her as I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I meant it, too.

"It sure is," Wes agreed. We both admired the ring with her.

"Thank you, Bren!" Pam whispered. "I really do love it." Pam turned to face Bren and threw her arms around his neck. "I love it, and I love you!" she exclaimed.

Pam looked up at Wes and me. "I love all of you guys!" she blurted out.

"Then we'll celebrate!" Wes decreed. "We'll get the champagne." He led me to the kitchen with him so that Bren and Pam could have a few minutes alone together, and then we carried back champagne for everyone.

* * * * *

It was about ten o'clock the next morning when my telephone rang. Not surprisingly, it was Wes.

"Got a favor to ask, Joan," he began.

"Okay. Ask away."

"Are you up to doing a little driving tonight?" he wanted to know.

"Whew! I . . . think so. Is this about what I think it is?"

"Yeah. I don't want to push you, Joan, but we've got a job waiting for us tonight. It's gonna pay real good, too. We're gonna pick up a car."

"I'll rest today, and I'll be ready," I assured him.

"Thanks, pardner. Tell ya the details about it later, okay?"

"Okay."

No sooner had I hung up the phone than it rang again. I thought it was Wes calling back but it wasn't. This time Bren was on the line.

He thanked me again for helping with the surprise get-together for Pam the previous night, but I could tell from the sound of his voice that he had something more than that on his mind.

"I just got a call from the Fugitive Unit. They tell me they can't locate a guy by the name of Bill Weber. They want us to take a look for him, and I'm saying they specifically asked for us. Are you feeling like . . . like getting back in harness?"

"Count me in, Bren. It's just that I'll have to take it easy for awhile, and Wes got to me first. I'm going to help him tonight."

"Can we get together tomorrow to go over the file on Weber? Say, tomorrow afternoon?"

"You bet! Sounds good." So Bren and I made arrangements to meet, just like old times.

That night I'd be working with Wes. The next day, Bren and I'd be working a new case. 'Back in the harness' was the way Bren had put it.

There was something else in the wind, too. Just before he hung up, Bren told me that he had a lead on an ol' buddy of Alan Hall's.

I was feeling more alive than I'd felt in ages!

THE END

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