The Violent Streets te-41

by Don Pendleton

  "Well, what do you want?"

  "I'm with SOG," La Mancha said simply. "Sensitive Operations Group."

  Fawcett was nonplussed.

  "I, uh, guess I'm not familiar with that unit," he said.

  "It's need-to-know, Jack. You don't."

  Fawcett felt as if he had been slapped.

  "So, okay," he said, forcing a casual tone he didn't feel, "why are we having this conversation?"

  "I was asking you about your problem. The headcase."

  "And I'm telling you that there isn't any goddamned headcase. I don't know where you get your information..."

  "That's right," the big guy cut him off, still smiling. "You don't."

  Jack Fawcett felt like a tire with the air slowly leaking out of it.

  "Listen, La Mancha, somebody's been feeding you a line. There's no way I wouldn't know about something like that."

  "That's what I thought," La Mancha said, nodding.

  Fawcett's hands fidgeted on the steering wheel like nervous spiders.

  "Okay," he said. "So you asked, and I told you. That's it, right?"

  "We'll see."

  "Well, what the hell..."

  "About those D.O.A.'s, you may need to rethink the syndicate connection."

  Fawcett was on firmer ground now, and he felt some of his old self-confidence returning.

  "Says who?"

  "Call it intuition," the fed replied. "While you're at it, you might want to pick up the other three."

  He was already out of the car and leaning in through the passenger's window, big forearms neatly crossed on the frame.

  Fawcett was flustered now, hopelessly confused.

  "Other three what?" he asked.

  "Bodies, Jack," La Mancha said patently.

  And the man called La Mancha proceeded to tell the dumbfounded Jack Fawcett exactly where and how to find a Caddy with three cold ones in the trunk. Fawcett had just enough presence of mind to memorize the details for future use.

  "You have to get on the right side of this thing, Lieutenant," La Mancha was saying from the window. "We don't want to see a career man get caught with his pants down."

  Jack Fawcett felt numb.

  "I don't know what you're talking about, mister."

  The federale's smile was back in place.

  "Okay. I'll be in touch in case you change your mind."

  And Fawcett was still trying to think up a snappy retort to that when he noticed that the big guy was gone. He craned his neck, catching a brief glimpse of the man's retreating back in the rear-view mirror before he disappeared entirely. After another long moment, Fawcett came to himself and put the cruiser in casual, aimless motion.

  I understand you've got yourself a headcase.

  Jack Fawcett cursed, softly and fluently. It would be the homicide lieutenant's job to find out how much this guy knew and where he was getting his information.

  And along the way, he might have to check up and see just who Mr. No-Name La Mancha really was. That Justice Department ID looked okay at first glance, and yet...

  Another thought came to Jack Fawcett, banishing all others in an instant.

  He would have to get in touch with the commissioner, no doubt about that. And no delaying it, either.

  He checked his watch, wincing at what it told him.

  The commissioner wouldn't like being roused from a sound sleep this early in the morning. When you reached his station in life, you were accustomed to something like bankers' hours.

  Fawcett grinned mirthlessly to himself. If I don't sleep, nobody sleeps, he thought.

  But he didn't feel the bravado, not down inside where his guts were still quaking and shifting.

  And he wasn't looking forward to his next encounter of the morning. Not one damned bit.

  8

  Mack Bolan, alias John Phoenix and lately Frank La Mancha of Washington, came away from his meeting with Jack Fawcett convinced that the homicide lieutenant was hiding a great deal.

  But what?

  Bolan had clearly touched a raw nerve with his "headcase" remarks. And while it was a long way from proving the veteran cop's involvement in a murder cover-up, Fawcett's reaction to that probe definitely warranted a deeper look.

  The big guy touched base with Pol Blancanales via the compact radio transceiver. He raised his old friend on the second try.

  "Able One," Pol's tinny voice responded. "I read you, Stony Man, over."

  "What's the condition of our patient?" Bolan asked.

  "Anything but," came the answer. "She's climbing the walls here."

  "Keep the lid on, Able. I'm rattling cages right now."

  "Uh, you may be hitting paydirt, Stony Man," his old friend said. "We just heard from the lady law, and she wants a parley with La Mancha, soonest.''

  "Name the place," Bolan said.

  Blancanales gave him the address of a twenty-four-hour restaurant just off Kellogg Boulevard. He said Fran Traynor had left a number and was waiting to roll when she received Bolan's callback.

  The Executioner checked his wristwatch.

  "Have her there in fifteen, Able."

  "Roger that," Pol acknowledged. "Fifteen it is."

  "Any feelings on the lady?"

  After a pause, the metallic voice came back.

  "Nothing firm. She sounded shaky, though. Right down to the ground."

  "Okay. How do you stand with the people at Motor Vehicles?"

  "I've got an in," Blancanales said. "Got some numbers for me?"

  "Affirmative."

  Bolan rattled off the license numbers of the chase car they had wrecked earlier that morning, and the Cadillac crew wagon he had found at Fran's residence.

  "I need that soonest," he added.

  "I'm on it now. Able out."

  Bolan laid the little radio aside and put his rented car into a tight U-turn at the next intersection.

  He wondered what had happened since their brief encounter, to shake up Fran Traynor any more than the appearance of three gunmen bent on murder in the small hours of the morning. Finally, unable to divine the answer, he quit trying.

  If the lady came through with the information he needed, it might just be Bolan's turn to do some shaking in the Twin Cities. And he was ready to shake somebody at that moment, shake them hard.

  Right down to the ground.

  * * *

  Assistant Police Commissioner Roger Smalley was awake earlier than usual, and he was disgruntled by the call from Detective Lieutenant Jack Fawcett.

  Fawcett had sounded nervous on the phone, hardly making sense, in fact, so Smalley had reluctantly told him to come on over and relate his problem in person. Now, with his wife sleeping upstairs, Smalley sat in his rather luxurious study, smoking his first cigar of the new day.

  Commissioner Smalley was not unfamiliar with wake-up calls, both from his superiors and, less often, from his subordinates. But now, at age fifty-two, one step removed from the pinnacle of power in St. Paul's police establishment, the superiors were fewer in number, and subordinates were well advised to hold their calls until office hours.

  It would have to be something special, really extraordinary, for Jack Fawcett to call and wake him at sunrise, demanding a face-to-face meeting. And because it would be something special, something extraordinary, Roger Smalley was not only feeling disgruntled. He was feeling nervous.

  The assistant commissioner would humor Jack Fawcett — to a point. But he hoped for the lieutenant's sake that Fawcett wasn't letting the strain of his job get the better of him.

  Yeah, it had damned well better be something extraordinary.

  Smalley heard the soft knock on the side door and padded through the house to greet Fawcett in the kitchen. In the pale morning light, the detective looked calmer than he had sounded on the phone — but only just.

  "Good morning, sir," Fawcett began hastily. "I am sorry about the time."

  Smalley forced a smile before turning his back. "This way," he said curtly. "And catch th
e door, will you?"

  Fawcett followed his superior into the study, and they sat down facing each other in leather upholstered chairs. Smalley pushed a humidor toward his nervous guest.

  "Cigar?"

  Fawcett shook his head.

  "No, thanks. I'm trying to quit... again."

  "What's so urgent at..." Smalley paused to consult a wall clock. "...Five-forty in the morning?"

  "I think we got trouble," Fawcett said.

  Smalley arched an iron-gray eyebrow.

  "So you said on the phone, Jack. Can we have some specifics?"

  "I don't know where to start, sir," the detective said. "Well... I mean, I don't even know what it means."

  Smalley sighed resignedly, expelling a blue cloud of fragrant cigar smoke.

  "Take your time, Jack. Try starting at the beginning."

  Fawcett took a deep breath, held it an instant to steady his nerves, then let it go in a long, whistling sigh. The ritual complete, he began telling Smalley about the predawn shooting, his meeting and cryptic discussion with a man named La Mancha, and the subsequent discovery of three more leaking stiffs, exactly where the big stranger said they would be found. When he had finished, the two men regarded each other in silence for several moments through the haze from Smalley's cigar.

  At last it was the commissioner who broke the silence.

  "You believe there may be some connection between these killings and our other problem?"

  Fawcett shrugged. "This guy, La Mancha, seems to think so, and he sure called it right on the second carload of meat. Frankly, I don't know what the hell to think."

  "He's chasing the wind," Smalley said confidently. "What tie-in could there be, Jack?"

  The lieutenant shook his head, obviously confused.

  "I don't know, unless... There has to be an angle, Chief. The feds wouldn't touch a sex crime case unless they thought they were onto something bigger."

  "Bigger, Jack? What could they have?"

  There was another long pause as the detective mulled that one over.

  "If somebody's running his mouth overtime..." he began.

  Roger Smalley leaned forward, elbows on knees, jabbing his cigar toward Fawcett's face.

  "Nobody knows, dammit," he said. "Nobody who's going to spill his guts, anyway. Everyone has too much to lose at this point."

  "I suppose you're right, but..."

  Fawcett left the statement unfinished. He plainly was unconvinced.

  "Go on," Smalley prodded.

  "Well, Traynor suspects something," Fawcett said. "I know it."

  The commissioner smiled patiently. "She's out of it, Jack. How many times must I tell you? Forget her."

  "She could still hurt us," Fawcett countered.

  "Relax, Lieutenant," Smalley said, making it sound like an order. "You're borrowing trouble. Leave the lady to me."

  "What about the fed, this La Mancha character?"

  Smalley shrugged.

  "I'll ask around. In the meantime, play it cool and let me know if he contacts you again."

  Fawcett nodded. "Sure, Chief. Okay."

  "Is that other matter under control now?" Smalley asked.

  "Huh? Oh, that. Yeah, I think so."

  "You think so, Jack?"

  Fawcett stiffened, hastening to make amends.

  "Well, uh, I mean, the girl is still being stubborn, but the freeze is on. Anyway, what does she know?"

  Smalley shrugged.

  "She's a witness, right? She could get lucky."

  Fawcett shook his head in a firm negative.

  "No chance. I've had the identikit sketches recalled, and her verbal description could fit a couple thousand punks here in St. Paul alone."

  "I hope you're right, Lieutenant."

  The ice was back in Smalley's voice, unmistakable.

  "I hold up my end," Fawcett countered. "You know that."

  Smalley looked hard at him for a long moment, then visibly relaxed.

  "Okay, I'll leave you to it. I have several calls to make."

  "Are you going to bring the Man in on it?" Fawcett asked.

  Smalley offered a thin smile to his subordinate.

  "Why not? It's his mess, after all. If somebody has to sweat, who better?"

  They shared a brief chuckle at that, and then Jack Fawcett rose to leave.

  "Don't get up, Chief," he said quickly, when Smalley made no move to do so. "I can let myself out."

  "Goodbye, Jack. And remember — stay cool."

  When Fawcett had gone, the commissioner snared the ornate telephone receiver from its cradle at his elbow. He listened to the droning dial tone for a long moment, thinking.

  Fawcett was in a sweat, no doubt about that. Smalley didn't know yet whether his concern was justified, but he had every intention of playing it safe. The federal angle was a puzzler, and coming on top of the shootings that morning, it could mean trouble, but Roger Smalley was not about to panic before he had exhausted all logical possibilities.

  He would make some calls. You didn't get to be the assistant P.C. in a city the size of St. Paul without making some high-level contacts at Justice. And if La Mancha — or whoever the hell he was — was working in Smalley's backyard, someone would know about it.

  And finally, saving the best for last, he would call the Man.

  Roger Smalley smiled at the thought, his first open, genuine smile of the day as he began dialing the telephone.

  Hell yes, he told himself, there was already plenty of sweat to go around on that warm summer morning. And who better to do the sweating than the man who had started the whole frigging mess in the first place?

  Roger Smalley's face froze in the smile. It was the grin of a predatory animal, carved in stone.

  9

  The scheduled meeting place was one of those plasticized restaurants, part of a chain, that always look and smell the same no matter where you find them. Bolan took a corner booth away from the broad front window and sat facing the doors. He was working on his first cup of mediocre coffee when Fran Traynor entered.

  She glanced around the cafe, then spotted Bolan and crossed quickly to his booth. She slid in opposite him, and they sat quietly until a waitress delivered Fran's coffee.

  She sipped at it and finally spoke.

  "I've been thinking about what you said," she told him.

  "What did you decide?"

  She hesitated. "At first, nothing, but I wanted to keep digging on my own. Now... well... I'm thinking that you may be right."

  Bolan was curious. "What changed your mind?"

  Bolan noticed the slightest tremble in her hands as she set her cup down.

  "After you left," she began, "I put through a call to a friend of mine on the rape squad. She really helped me get the unit started in the first place. She told me that all the eyewitness sketches of our Blancanales rape suspect have been withdrawn."

  Bolan's frown was deep with anger.

  "You have an idea who's behind this?"

  The lady cop was nodding energetically.

  "Jack Fawcett," she snapped, "it has to be. But I can't prove it right now. I know it sounds foolish. Women's intuition, and all that..."

  "Not necessarily," Bolan said. "How much trouble would it be to have another sketch made?''

  "No need," she said, flashing him a conspiratorial smile, and with a flourish she pulled a small rectangular card from her handbag, sliding it across the Formica table top to Bolan.

  He examined the sketch closely, taking in the portrait of a long-faced young man, eyes set wide apart on either side of an aquiline nose, the mouth a narrow, almost lipless slit. The entire face was framed by hair worn fashionably long, hiding the ears.

  There were no distinguishing marks or scars of any kind. Nothing to set that face apart from any of several thousand others on the streets of St. Paul and neighboring communities.

  Bolan stared long and hard at the facsimile face, trying to see inside and behind it, to get a feel of its owner, but there
was nothing there. The lifeless face stared blankly back at him.

  Fran Traynor seemed to read his secret thoughts.

  "Not a lot, is it?" she said.

  "Not much."

  "Except," she said, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, "I think I may have narrowed it down a bit."

  Bolan stared at her.

  "I have a friend on the unit who's been trying to call me since about the time you... that we went to the motel. The canvass of local sanitariums was completed last night ahead of schedule."

  Bolan felt excitement growing in him.

  "We have four possibilities," she revealed, "all of them committed to institutions within the past two years and escaped during the relevant periods."

  "I wouldn't have thought that many." Bolan frowned.

  "Wait a second," she continued. "We can narrow it further. One of the four is dead, and two others are back inside. That leaves one."

  She looked pleased with herself. Fran sat back in the booth and drained her cup.

  Bolan kept his tone deliberate and cautious.

  "You're assuming the Blancanales rapist and your lady-killer are one and the same," he said. "But if that assumption is wrong, the two survivors still inside stay on the suspect list. Without a positive tie-in, either one could be your murderer."

  Fran shook her head in a firm negative.

  "No chance, La Mancha," she said stubbornly. "I know this is our man."

  "All right, let's have it."

  She gave him the recitation without consulting her notebook, holding his eyes with hers as she reeled off the facts from memory, chapter and verse.

  "Courtney Gilman, age twenty-three, originally committed by his family two and a half years ago. That's soon after the first murder. He took a walk eleven months later — just before the second and third killings. Within a month he was back inside, for another eighteen months. He escaped again, and we had murders four and five before the family brought him back."

  "Where is he now?" Bolan asked, certain he already knew the answer.

  "Nobody knows," Fran told him. "He decked an attendant and hit the streets eleven days ago. That's one week before the attack on Toni Blancanales."

  "Okay," Bolan said. "This does sound promising. But it's still from a circumstantial viewpoint. What would Fawcett or anyone else have to gain by covering for your suspect?"