House Dick

Praise For the Novels of E. HOWARD HUNT

“Hunt is an exceptional storyteller who leads readers through more twists and turns than a laboratory maze.”

—Roanoke Times

“A dramatic story...jaded but credible.”

—New York Times

“Hunt handles dialogue well, moves the action even better, and provides a good bit of verisimilitude...It’s also fun for Washington readers to see how well, or ill, he captures our town and its environs.”

—Washington Post Book World

“Brisk entertainment with nice spins.”

—New York Daily News

“Moves fast, is fun to read, and ends smartly.”

—Cleveland Plain Dealer

“A slam-bang crime buster... [Hunt is] in great form.”

—West Orange (Florida) Times

“An urbane, romantic tale of suspense...jam-packed with.hard-hitting prose and clipped dialogue.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Drawing upon his insider knowledge of Washington [Hunt] has crafted a thriller that is certain to be enjoyed...plenty of high-testosterone action here.”

—Library Journal

A sound knifed through his thoughts, halting him suddenly. Not from inside the Boyd suite, but not far away. Muffled by a thick door. A woman’s scream.

Novak sprinted down the corridor, halting in front of 516. One hand fingered the master key in his pocket as he pressed an ear against the door panel. From inside, a man’s voice snarling indistinguishable words, a woman whimpering. Then the hard crack of flesh on flesh.

Novak thumbed the door button and his hands folded into fists.

The door opened. A man peered out. “Yeah?” he bristled. “Beat it.”

He made an effort to slam the door but Novak’s foot blocked it. Leaning forward, Novak heaved his shoulder and the door burst inward. The man staggered back cursing.

“I’m Novak. Hotel Security. Where’s the woman?”

To see her, all he had to do was glance sideways and down. Her back was braced against the edge of a chair, her legs folded under her thighs. She wore a filmy white dressing gown, one sleeve ripped. Her cheeks showed ugly patches of red, the rest of her face was bloodless. She must have been in the shower when the guy came in because the dressing gown was all she wore. The legs were nicely muscled and they melted into slim thighs. Her stomach was taut and she had never been a nursing mother.

The man dropped his head and lunged...

SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

SONGS OF INNOCENCE by Richard Aleas

FRIGHT by Cornell Woolrich

KILL NOW, PAY LATER by Robert Terrall

SLIDE by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr

DEAD STREET by Mickey Spillane

DEADLY BELOVED by Max Allan Collins

A DIET OF TREACLE by Lawrence Block

MONEY SHOT by Christa Faust

ZERO COOL by John Lange

SHOOTING STAR/SPIDERWEB by Robert Bloch

THE MURDERER VINE by Shepard Rifkin

SOMEBODY OWES ME MONEY by Donald E. Westlake

NO HOUSE LIMIT by Steve Fisher

BABY MOLL by John Farris

THE MAX by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr

THE FIRST QUARRY by Max Allan Collins

GUN WORK by David J. Schow

FIFTY-TO-ONE by Charles Ardai

KILLING CASTRO by Lawrence Block

THE DEAD MAN’S BROTHER by Roger Zelazny

THE CUTIE by Donald E. Westlake

House DICK

by E. Howard Hunt

A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

(HCC-054)

1

Pete Novak eased his six-foot, hundred-and-eighty-four-pound frame through the revolving entrance door of the Hotel Tilden and saw a girl in a platinum mink coat walking toward the reception desk. Beside her a bellhop struggled with three gray leather bags. The girl was an ash blonde and Novak could catch the scent of light perfume following in her wake. From her gray-gloved hand a gray leather leash slanted down to the collar of a toy Skye terrier. The girl walked with her head thrown back, her heels making subdued clicking sounds on the marble floor of the lobby. What little of her legs could be seen looked promising. The terrier stopped short, braced his paws and yipped protestingly. The girl looked down at him and Novak saw that her eyes were as gray as the furs she wore. As the leash around her wrist. As the luggage Jimmy Grant was wrestling with. Novak sniffed her perfume once more, patted a small package in his side pocket, grinned and decided to stick around.

Novak took out a cigarette, lighted it and watched her register. The clerk flattened his palms on the marble counter, stood on tiptoes and peered over at the terrier. He said something to the girl and Novak saw her frown. He decided to move closer.

The girl was saying, “...but I can’t possibly stay without Toby. Can’t you make an exception just this once?”

“No, ma’am,” the clerk said firmly. “No animals at the Tilden. Not even a canary.”

Novak grinned and said, “Not even a bedbug, miss.”

Her head moved quickly to one side, and cool gray eyes appraised him. Her red lips were full and even, her nose straight and her cheekbones high. The gray eyes were almond-shaped, as though at some time, generations back, Indian blood had entered the family strain. Her tawny skin supported the thought.

He glanced down at the registration card and saw that she had written: Paula Norton, Muncie, Ind. The Mr. and Mrs. boxes had been x-ed out. That made her a Miss. For the record.

Slowly and with an edge her voice articulated, “I guess there’s one in every hotel.”

“Bedbug?”

Ash blonde hair swirled as she turned away. To the clerk she snapped, “We were talking about my dog.”

The clerk started to sputter but Novak cut in. “Let’s put him up at Dr. Robinson’s, Miss Norton. The doc’s got a fine place not two blocks away—just a short walk—in case you miss Toby and want to run over and visit him.”