No way was he going to let anybody know that there had been personal contact between himself and Bolan.
If he did that, he'd be under pressure from the Commissioner, Internal Affairs, maybe even the FBI, and with all of that coming down, he would hardly be able to do what he had to do.
For Kathleen...
He glanced around the squad room.
Everybody was busy, trying to get a handle on the seemingly nonstop, disconnected reports on Bolan and his latest campaign.
It seemed as if the whole city had turned into a war zone since the Executioner hit town, but nobody in the Org Crime unit was really accomplishing anything, Griff had realized shortly after reporting in.
He opened the middle drawer of his desk, took out a bottle of antacid tablets and started popping them into his mouth one at a time as he stared blankly at the dirty linoleum on the floor, wondering what he should do next. Griff shook his head, amazed at the ease with which everything in a man's life could turn to crap all at once...
Detective sergeant Harry Laymon sat at his desk, facing his partner, Lester Griff.
Laymon had reports spread out on the metal top of his desk but he was not really paying any attention to them. He was watching Griff eat the stomach pills as if they were candy.
Laymon was a short, stocky man with close-cut blond hair. He had been a cop for seven years, a lot less time than his partner, but he knew when something was wrong, like now, with Griff.
Laymon pushed the paperwork to the side and stood.
"I'm going to get some coffee, Les. You want some?"
Griff shook his head and threw another tablet into his mouth.
"No thanks." He chewed on the pill. "Bad for my stomach."
"Sure," Laymon grunted.
It wasn't coffee that was eating away at Griff's stomach, though. Laymon was certain of that.
A coffee maker sat atop one of the file cabinets in the corner.
He strolled over to it, got a Styrofoam cup from the stack next to the machine and poured a cup of strong black. He made a face as he sipped from it.
Cops had to make lousy coffee, Laymon thought sourly. It was part of their job description.
Across the room, Laymon watched as Griff lifted his desk phone and started to dial.
Laymon stayed where he was.
Griff seemed more nervous than usual, edgy. He had an almost furtive look on his face as he spoke quickly into the receiver, as if afraid he was going to be overheard.
Laymon wished he had seen the number Griff had dialed.
Holding his cup carefully so that the hot liquid would not slosh out onto his hand, he threaded his way back across the busy headquarters office, dodging some of the other scurrying Org Crime unit detectives.
Griff saw him coming and hung up the phone.
Laymon felt a surge of anger.
The guy was his partner, dammit, he thought. Griff didn't have any right to keep secrets from him. It wasn't like they were married, but when you worked with a partner for several years, the relationship was damn close to a marriage, at least as far as being honest with each other was concerned. A cop's life could and often did depend on his partner and that meant trust was the name of the game.
Maybe it was just some sort of personal problem, Laymon thought. He knew Griff's wife wasn't in the best of health; maybe she was having trouble again. But if that was the case, why was there such a guilty look on Griff's face, Laymon wondered as he found his seat again.
"This Bolan business is no damn good for a cop's sleep, is it?" Laymon said, trying to make conversation more than anything else.
"Yeah," Griff grunted.
"Seems like every time the guy comes to Chicago it gets worse," Laymon went on. "That Bolan's like a blizzard. You hope for the best and wait for it to move on."
"I wish he had just left us alone," Griff said with sudden vehemence.
Laymon glanced sharply at his partner, then gazed across the room of ringing phones and men taking in new reports at the map of central Chicago on the wall, multicolored pins denoting the scenes of action since Bolan had made his presence known earlier that night at the New Age Center.
"At least he hasn't wasted anybody yet who didn't deserve it."
Griff reached for his roll of antacid tablets again.
"Ah, hell," he rumbled. "What does it really matter, anyway?"
Laymon had never heard Griff talk like that. There was a fatalistic tone in the older man's voice that surprised Laymon, and worried him.
"Uh, look Les," he ventured, "if something's bothering you, if there's anything you want to talk about..."
Griff cut him off with an abrupt wave of his hand.
"Nothing to worry about, kid. Everything's under control, really. Except for this damn Bolan situation, and there's not a whole lot we can do about that, much as we'd like to. You say it's like a blizzard. I say a whirlwind is more like it. There's no way in hell of knowing where he'll strike next, damn him."
"Right." Laymon nodded, trying to sound casual. "Say, who was that you were talking to on the phone a minute ago?"
Might as well ask it straight out, he thought.
Griff grimaced, trying to hide the expression.
"Uh, I was just checking in with Kathleen, making sure she was all right. Thought I'd better tell her it looks like we'll be here most of the night."
A plausible enough answer, Laymon thought.
It was also a lie.
He wasn't sure how he knew, but his gut told him that Griff was lying. Les hadn't been talking to his wife.
Laymon started to wonder if he should go downstairs and have a long talk with the guys in Internal Affairs.
But if he did, what would he tell them? Hey, guys, my partner's acting screwy? What cop didn't act screwy from time to time, especially an Org Crime cop with the Executioner chewing up everything in sight? There could be a good reason for Les's unusual behavior and not necessarily an illegal one, Laymon assured himself.
Laymon was not sure he wanted to place his life in Griff's hands anymore, not the way he had been acting, all moody and sullen and preoccupied during the past few weeks.
It was a hell of a thing to contemplate, all right, especially coming at the same time as all this Bolan trouble.
But it was a decision Laymon knew he was going to have to make.
"What do you think you are doing? ''
Denise Parelli looked up from the desk, over the stacks of files and record books piled there.
"I'm getting this material together so we can destroy it," she snapped. "And that's no way to talk to your mother."
David Parelli swaggered into the room that served as his mother's office on the ground floor of the Parelli home.
Denise Parelli was proud of her son's good looks. As she stared at him, she saw the close resemblance he bore to the only man she had ever really loved, his father, her deceased husband, Vito.
Well, maybe it wasn't exactly love, Denise reflected, but Vito was the only man who had ever come close to earning her respect. David did not have the animal something inside that Vito had had. David tried, and he was feared by others, but not by her.
"Don't tell me you're afraid of the cops getting hold of that," David sneered, parking himself on the corner of the desk. "We've been running rings around the law and we'll keep right on doing it."
"It's not the police I'm worried about."
"Bolan?" David laughed. "The guy's overrated."
She stared at him for a long moment.
"Son or no son, David, sometimes I wonder where you got your brain. I told you that Bolan was here tonight."
His eyes dropped before her glare.
"Uh, yeah, well, I'm sorry about that, Ma, I should have had the security here beefed up."
"What was the trouble tonight at the yacht club?" she asked him. "That was Bolan, too, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, it was."
"He must have gone there right after he left this house. Why would he do that unless he picked up some sort of clue from here? He didn't find you at the yacht club, did he?"