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out of you. That’s the only thing people like you understand—”
    â€œShut up,” Hawker snapped. He considered the wraparound skirt she wore. “And take off that dress— now.”
    â€œAre you mad?”
    â€œI’m beyond mad, lady. I’m genuinely pissed off. So you take off that skirt without another word and give it to that nice girl holding the sheet around her.”
    Adria Bent’s eyes grew wide. “Hey, she’s one of our people. You can’t take her—”
    In one motion, Hawker grabbed the skirt and stripped it off her. The force spun the woman around like a top until she fell heavily against the desk.
    Hawker tossed the skirt to Brenda. “Can you get into that?”
    â€œSure. I can tie it in front.”
    â€œAnd take my jacket too.”
    She let the sheet fall, and Hawker saw once again how badly the whip had scarred her breasts.
    Wearing only a blouse and panties, Adria Bent was turning a deep shade of red—not from embarrassment, from anger. “You touched me, you bastard! No man touches me, do you understand.…”
    Hawker ignored her screaming and opened the front door. “We’d better go,” he said to Brenda Paulie. “Running wouldn’t hurt—if you can run.”
    â€œI’m … I’m so tired.”
    â€œI know. Just hang on for a little while longer. Once we get outside, I’ll call your husband and we’ll get you to a doctor.”
    â€œAnd for you too. You’re sort of limping. I can tell you’re hurt. Did she … did she shoot you?”
    â€œAlmost as bad. Did you see what she was doing when I kicked her?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, I’m not walking funny because she shot me.”
    â€œOh? Oh!”
    From behind them came a feverish pounding on the door. Hawker pushed the girl out into the hall toward the elevator. He stepped through, then peeked back into the office.
    To a fuming Adria Bent he said, “By the way, doll, you can forget about that coffee. I’m just not in the mood anymore.”

FIVE
    â€œHello?”
    â€œWell, well, if it isn’t James Hawker, the famous mystery man.”
    â€œFamous mystery man? Can there be such a thing?”
    â€œMix a vigilante with a porno star and, voilà , you have a famous mystery man.”
    â€œAh!”
    â€œPretty clever, huh?”
    â€œThey don’t call you Detective Sergeant Paul McCarthy for nothing.”
    â€œWhat a coincidence that you should bring up my official position. I’m calling on official business.”
    â€œGee, what an honor. Let me guess: You’ve finished your interview with Brenda Paulie, and now you want me to fill in all the hazy details, all the ambiguous wording so you can take full credit for busting a case that has been puzzling the experts for years.”
    â€œYears?”
    â€œWell, months.”
    â€œNineteen months, to be exact. And it’s still puzzling the experts—but we are glad to get Brenda Paulie back. The press is demanding to know why the details of her escape are so sketchy. For some reason, the idea of an unnamed private citizen pulling off a major rescue operation, then quietly disappearing into the crowd, has captured the public’s imagination. Did you see the Free Press this morning? It called you the ‘phantom hero.’”
    â€œYeah? ‘Phantom hero,’ huh? The guy who said that journalism is the lowest form of prose may have been right. The press isn’t actively searching for this phantom, is it?”
    â€œYou got me. But just for the record, there’s no way in the world I could take credit for the rescue—not that I wouldn’t love to.” He chuckled. “Believe me, I’ve considered all the angles. The Detroit Police Department doesn’t exactly come out smelling like a rose on this one. We could use a morale boost in this case.”
    As they talked,