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already gotten her into therapy. That poor girl has taken more abuse and been through more shit in the last three months than most of us get in a lifetime. She’s going to need help. Lots of it. Her husband seems to be a nice guy. He’s hanging right in there.”
    Hawker said, “Did she tell you any more about Queen Faith? Anything at all?”
    â€œThat’s what I’m calling you about. I may have a chance to nail that bitch. Any possibility of your meeting us for dinner this evening?”
    â€œUs?”
    â€œYeah. Detective Sergeant Riddock and me.”
    â€œI haven’t met Detective Riddock, have I?”
    â€œNo, but you will tonight. Do you like ritzy food or cheap?”
    â€œI like all food. Let’s make it ritzy—on me.”
    â€œA freebee? You know we’re not allowed to accept any gifts.”
    â€œIs that a ‘no’?”
    â€œNo, it’s a ‘yes.’” Paul McCarthy laughed. “Hey, I guess it’s true what they say. Once a cop goes bad, it just keeps getting easier and easier.”

SIX
    Wearing sweatpants and a stocking cap, Hawker went for a long run. He stuck to the beach as far as he could, then had to cut up and get on the back streets because of the rugged shoreline.
    It was late afternoon, a time of eerie, desert light. A raw northeast wind whirled the snow into dust devils and blew the tops off the endless rows of waves. Seagulls on the drab sky soared out of control.
    As Hawker ran, he tried to think of a way to get inside the Queen Faith organization. He had been lucky once. But he couldn’t count on luck to see him through again.
    He needed facts. Cold, hard data. And the sooner he got it, the better.
    Back in his bungalow, Hawker put more wood on the fire then stripped off his running clothes. The floor was tile, cold beneath his feet. He wrapped a towel around himself, opened a Tuborg dark, and carried it to the shower.
    Half an hour later, he was driving in fast traffic on Woodward Avenue, headed out of the city. Detroit was getting ready for Christmas. Plastic Santas waved from used car lots, and the anticrime vapor lights were strung with red ribbon and topped with candy canes to proclaim the season of love and goodwill. On every busy street corner, women of strong faith, virginal in their dark cloaks, stood by Salvation Army kettles and clanked bells for the souls of the lost and homeless—winos, mostly.
    The snow had turned to cold drizzle. Gray clouds permeated all space between sky and earth, so smokestacks and skyscrapers were only partially visible, like the tops of mountains. Traffic was an unbroken blur of headlights; the road glistened; driving was treacherous. Hawker kept his hands at the ten-and-two position on the steering wheel of his midnight-blue Corvette fastback. He spun the radio dial past a dozen different screaming rock-and-soul stations until he finally came to an oldies program. WOWO, Fort Wayne, Indiana. Farm country.
    His spirit had begun to match the drabness of the evening. But then the WOWO disc jockey played a knockout threesome: “Don’t Worry Baby” by The Beach Boys; “Popsicles, Icicles” by The Mermaids; “Once in My Life” by The Righteous Brothers.
    By the middle of the first song. Hawker was tapping his foot. By the end of the third song, he was singing out loud, pounding out the bass part on the steering wheel.
    He turned the oldies program up full blast, and by the time he got to the restaurant he was feeling good again, grinning even.
    The name of the restaurant was The Three Sisters. To Hawker’s surprise, it was in a converted barn with a converted barnyard for a parking lot. It was a Wednesday night but the lot was nearly filled. Hawker took it as a good sign.
    The interior of the restaurant was right out of a Saturday Evening Post pictorial. Rough-hewn oak tables were covered with clean white tablecloths and there were bales of hay in