"H-how did you find me?" Griff asked in a quiet, dry voice.
Bolan kept his hand on the Beretta in his overcoat pocket. He wasn't going to take any chances, regardless of what Griff looked like.
"It wasn't hard, just knowing the right questions, the right people to ask."
Griff swallowed.
"I should be placing you under arrest."
Bolan shook his head.
"I don't think so."
Griff's eyes dropped to the pocket where Bolan's hand was concealed and he saw the outline of the Beretta.
"Don't hurt my wife, please..."
"Don't worry, I won't. What say we step inside and talk?"
The cop stayed where he was, blocking the doorway.
"I don't want you in my house."
"Maybe you'd rather come with me, then."
"What do you want?"
"Answers," said Bolan. "There are things I need to know."
"This is crazy," Griff muttered. "I was just thinking about you."
Before Griff could answer, his wife emerged from the kitchen door to stand behind her husband.
"I feel a draft, honey..." she began, then, "well, no wonder, with you standing in the open doorway like that."
The policeman's already pale face lost even more color.
Kathleen Griff edged closer to her husband and looked past him at their visitor.
"Uh, it's business, Kathleen. Come in... Captain Blanski," Griff said to Bolan.
Bolan stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He smiled at the woman.
"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Griff."
"Just some routine business, hon," Griff told her. "We'll go in the den. Shouldn't take but a few minutes."
Bolan heard hope in that last statement.
"Nice to have met you, Captain."
"Ma'am."
With a smile, she went back into the kitchen, but Bolan could read the uncertainty in her eyes.
Mrs. Griff had enough intuitive power, and probably knew her man well enough, to sense the tension that crackled between Griff and "Captain Blanski."
Bolan hoped the sergeant's wife would write it off as the pressure of some important case about to break, and that she would stay out of his way.
He had to know about Griff, and what this cop knew about a child-molesting animal like David Parelli.
"This way," Griff grumbled.
He pushed open some folding doors and led the way into a room with books on the walls, a decent carpet on the floor and a small television set on a rolling stand in one corner. The furnishings had a masculine air, and on one wall there were several mounted fish and some bowling trophies. A comfortable room, not a fancy one.
Again, Bolan shut the door behind him.
"What do you want?" Griff demanded in a harsh, lowered voice, making no move to sit down.
"I want Parelli."
Griff snorted.
"So do I, pal. Only I can't get him."
"Where is he tonight?"
"I'm off duty," Griff snarled. "I don't tuck the guy into bed."
"Maybe not," said Bolan in a voice cold as the Arctic, "but maybe you sleep together just the same."
Griff's face flushed.
"Who the hell you been talking to?"
"I keep my eyes open. You were at Parelli's tonight."
Griff could not suppress a snort of derision.
"I'm not a crooked cop," he said softly. "I don't guess I expect you to believe me, but it's true."
"What were you doing at Parelli's house?"
Griff shook his head. "I can't tell you that."
Bolan stared icy eyed at him.
"You tell me you're not in Parelli's pocket, but you won't tell me why you were at his house. Give me something solid, Griff, or I'll have to draw my own conclusions."
The cop stared at him, anger and fear mixed in his eyes.
"Go ahead and draw your damn conclusions. Nothing I can say is going to change your mind, anyway."
"Try me."
"Go ahead and shoot if that's what you want to do."
Bolan studied the stubborn cop.
Griff was afraid, sure, but Bolan had looked over his gun sights at many frightened men over the long bloody years, and he had learned that there were different kinds of fear.
Dirty cops lived every day with the fear that their sins would be discovered, fearing exposure as much as or more than they did death.
Bolan saw none of that shamed fear in Griff's taut countenance. But he did not release the Beretta in his pocket.
"You don't seem too surprised to see me."
"Maybe I'm not."
"Care to tell me about that?"
Griff shrugged. "No mystery there. I may be off duty but I'm not out of touch. That hit a little while ago at the health club Parelli runs... you left your calling cards... a pile of dead hoods and a marksman's medal."
"Dead hoods," Bolan confirmed with a nod. "That should put us on the same side of the fence."
Griff snorted again.
"Far as I'm concerned, dude, you're every bit the public enemy that Parelli is. I don't think much of vigilantes taking it upon themselves to shoot up my town just because they don't like the way the law works."
"Sometimes the law doesn't work, Griff."
"There's just one thing," Griff went on. "Whatever's between you and me, Kathleen's got no part in it. You leave her out of it."
"What makes you think you can trust me?"
"They say you keep your word."
Bolan took the Beretta out of his pocket.
He pushed the overcoat aside and slid the little automatic home into shoulder leather.
"All right, guy. If that's the way you want to play it, I'll cut you a little slack. For now."
Griff nodded, snaking his tongue over dry lips.
"Uh, okay, that's fine, but don't think you'll change my mind. I'm a law and order man and you're not, Bolan, and that's the way it is. Your coming in here waving hardware around won't change my mind, but I won't give you trouble, at least not here in my home."
Bolan went with what his gut told him about this man.
"I'm not so sure I'd want to change you," he told the cop, "and I didn't want to bring this into your home, but it won't wait."
"So talk," Griff growled steadily.
Bolan asked, "What do you know about a man named Randy Owens?"
Something flared in Griff's eyes at the mention of the name.
"I know him. At least I know of him."
"Tell me about him."
"Beyond the fact that he's a slimebucket? Not a hell of a lot to tell. He makes movies."
"I thought it was tv commercials."
"The stuff that Owens makes they don't even show on cable," Griff insisted adamantly. "Strictly dirty movies, all the way. Real dirty."
"You're sure?"
"I used to work in Vice, pal. I know what I'm talking about."
"Did you ever bust Owens?"
Griff shook his head.
"You know how it works. The guys who make the stuff never get busted and most often the distributors never do, either.''
Bolan nodded. "The ones who get thrown in jail are the college kids who work as clerks and ticket takers for minimum wage at the porn joints."
"They're the ones who get busted," Griff continued. "The higher-ups don't give a shit. There's always another college kid hard up for money who'll take the job."
Bolan had to admit that Griff did not sound like a crooked cop, but he had also known a lot of officers who railed against the injustices of the system, but felt that they might as well sell it out and get a piece of the pie for themselves.