"Could be, but I doubt it," Bear opined. "Parelli likes the personal touch and every vibe we're picking up says it's going down tonight, whatever 'it' is. You're moving fast, big guy. You'll nail his ass."
Bolan blinked away the awful images he had seen on Parelli's VCR screen.
He thought of the children...
"That's not enough. I want him, I want his whole operation down the tubes, but I've got to get him in time and time could already have run out."
"Explain, Striker," said Bear, using Bolan's Stony Man code name.
"No time," Bolan growled. "Anything on Lana Garner?"
"Still working on that one, but the other two, now you're talking accessible."
"The Porsche?"
"The connection we may have been looking for all along between Parelli and Washington," said Bear. "That Porsche is the private property of Senator Mark Dutton of Chicago."
"Bingo," growled Bolan, and then he thought of the sedan with the bumper sticker he had spotted outside the Parelli estate. "And that other license plate number?"
A short pause.
"Belongs to Detective Sergeant Lester Griff," Bear said uneasily. "Griff is assigned to the Cook County Org Crime Task Force."
"Uh-huh. And there was one more thing, Bear."
"No connection I could find between Parelli and kid porn," Kurtzman reported glumly. "Parelli owns a string of escort services, whorehouses and porno dives, but kids... nothing yet." Bear's voice was deeply troubled across the wire. "Kid porn. That's got to be the bottom of the barrel even for these scumbags. What is it all about, Striker?"
"I'll let you know when I find out. Keep trying on that Garner woman, if that's her name. I'll be in touch. Right now I think I'll pay a call on Detective Griff."
"You can visit Senator Dutton, too, if you've a mind to," said Kurtzman. "There's a fund-raising dinner tonight at the Sheraton. Hey, wait a mo. That fund-raiser... it's for a new bunch of day-care centers. Kids, again. You think..."
"I'll damn well find out," Bolan assured him, "but the senator can wait. He's a politico hobnobbing with his constituents. He won't leave that dinner for a while. Dutton is more notable than Griff, but if Griff is on the Org Crime unit, he'll be closer to the dirt and that puts him closer to Parelli in one way. I'll dig there first."
"I hope he's a clean cop," said Kurtzman uneasily.
"I'll damn well find that out, too," Bolan promised grimly.
6
Sergeant Lester Griff was bone weary and irritable.
As if there wasn't enough on his plate already, that bastard Bolan had to come crashing back onto the scene.
He was off duty now, though, and he was going to do his best to put Mack the Bastard Bolan, the so-called Man from Blood, out of his mind. He would spend some time tomorrow with Kathleen, have some lunch together at a restaurant, maybe a trip to the zoo would be nice.
Who the hell was he trying to kid?
There was no way Lester Griff could stop himself from thinking about Bolan.
Not when the guy was likely to get him killed.
Kathleen came out of the kitchen.
Griff came into the house and shrugged out of his overcoat.
Kathleen's face lit up with a smile of greeting; as usual, she came into his arms. When they held each other for their customary brief hug, he wished more than ever that his life was different, that he could be like other men, come home and leave his job behind, because no matter how often they hugged, he always felt real love for this woman.
She was the girl next door grown up into a forty-plus beauty who still moved him, yes.
She pulled back, remaining in his arms, to look long and deep into her husband's eyes.
"Something's wrong," she said.
He shook his head, forcing a smile.
"Nothing's wrong."
He let a hand stray down affectionately to the curve of her hip.
The lie came out uneasily.
He did not want her worrying about him.
If she had asked him about Bolan, he would have shrugged and said, "The guy's got nothing to do with me."
And that would have been a lie, too.
The Executioner's interest in an up-and-coming Mafia don named David Parelli made that a certainty. When the blowout came, there might be blood spilled. With Bolan, blood spilling was a sure thing. And some of that blood might belong to Griff. If anything happened to him, where would that leave Kathleen?
He had to stay alive.
Not for his own sake, but for hers.
Griff was third-generation Chicago Irish cop. Now he was a detective. He had the kind of civil service job most of the Irish and Polish ethnics in his neighborhood envied.
These days he had something else, too.
Trouble.
Big trouble.
In her quiet way, Kathleen had been pleading with him lately to share his problems, whatever they were.
With both kids raised and out of the house, she had little to do but concern herself with her husband.
So she was extra sensitive to his moods, to any changes he might be going through.
Griff had to smile bitterly to himself.
It was just like her to worry her pretty Irish head about him, when she herself should be the focus of her concern.
The rheumatic fever of her girlhood, when she'd been the best-looking girl at St. Michael's, still took its toll even today.
Her cardiovascular system needed yet another operation to function properly. She was due to enter the hospital next week for the fourth such operation in the past three years, and this was not only dangerous but expensive as well.
He appreciated the fact now that she accepted his refusal to talk about what was troubling him. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and eased out of his arms, moving toward the kitchen of their small home, saying, "I'll get you something to eat, Les."
After she was gone, Griff moved to the window set into the door and looked out at his front yard and the street illuminated by lamplight and the headlights of passing cars.
He liked the neighborhood, liked looking it over. It was a good place to live.
The neighbors did not mind having a cop as one of them. If there was any trouble, you ran and got Griff. He'd handle things.
No, it wasn't the fanciest place in the world but he liked it.
And he hoped that what he was doing would not take him away from there forever.
The radio had said it might snow later tonight, but a little snow would not stop Bolan.
Griff could not get the Executioner out of his head. He lit a cigarette and tried to think of other things but the specter of the Bastard in Black kept rising unbidden.
Movement in the street drew his attention.
A nondescript midsize sedan was pulling up in front of the Griff house.
He did not recognize it.
He watched, the cigarette dangling from his lips, forgotten.
A man wearing an overcoat emerged from the car, but Griff's trained eyes spotted the combat boots on the guy's feet fast enough and that started prickly warning quivers icing their way up and down his spine.
The dude left the car, coming up the Griffs' walkway.
A mountain of muscle; a husky six-foot package of cool, detached alertness.
Griff knew who the man was without being told.
It was time for the payback...
And Griff's only thought was, God help us, Kathleen. I'm sorry.
The big man walked up to the front door as bold as brass and rang the bell.
With his mouth open, Detective Sergeant Lester Griff looked a little like a fish as he stood in the opened doorway of his house, thought Bolan. A scared, very surprised fish.