'A mob hit?' the younger man asked, sounding excited.
Fawcett shrugged wearily. 'What else?'
It was the young cop's turn to frown.
'Well... maybe radicals... or...'
Fawcett snorted. 'When was the last time you saw radicals riding around after midnight in fancy suits? Jesus.'
The young man's face reddened; he half turned away from the lieutenant, trying to hide his embarrassment from his superior officer. Fawcett sensed that he was on the verge of making an enemy and pulled back, his tone softening.
'Listen,' he said more gently, 'why don't you finish inspecting the scene and get started on your report. You know how to handle it?'
The young detective brightened immediately as he realized he was being placed in temporary charge of the investigation.
'Yes, sir,' he snapped, almost standing at attention. 'I'll get right on it.'
He hurried off, barking orders at a pair of uniformed patrolmen and bustling around personally to examine the ruined hulk of an automobile.
Fawcett ambled over to where the middle-aged coroner's assistant, an old acquaintance and sometime friend, was crouched beside the dead man from the car. As he approached, the M.E. glanced up and shot him a sarcastic grin of welcome.
'Well, now,' he said, 'I thought you were working days.'
Fawcett treated the guy to one of his best scowls.
'I'm working when they call me. Somebody thinks this one's special, I guess.'
The medical examiner cocked an eyebrow.
'Somebody could be right. I haven't seen one like this in... oh, two, three years.'
'Do I need to ask the cause of death?' Fawcett inquired listlessly.
The M. E. straightened up, knee joints popping like small-arms fire.
'Take your pick,' he said amiably. 'Multiple bullet wounds to head and chest, obvious internal injuries from the crash. They had a rough night, Jack.'
'You read this as an organization thing?' Fawcett asked, lowering his voice slightly.
The medical examiner nodded. 'Gotta be. Who else plays these kinds of games?'
'Nobody,' Fawcett answered wearily. 'I'll need a copy of that report.'
The examiner smiled and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke in Fawcett's direction.
'Right now, or just immediately?'
'Everybody's a comedian,' the homicide lieutenant growled, turning away and walking back to his unmarked cruiser.
He had reached the vehicle and had one hand on the door when a big man dressed with expensive good taste materialized beside him, as if out of thin air. Fawcett blinked twice, glancing rapidly around the scene and wondering where in hell the guy had come from.
'Jack Fawcett?' the big guy asked, smiling thinly.
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed with instinctive suspicion.
'Who's asking?'
The big guy flashed an official-looking card, then pocketed it again before Fawcett could focus on it.
'La Mancha, Justice Department,' he said, smile fading. 'We need to talk.'
Fawcett exhaled heavily. 'It figures.'
The big guy raised a curious eyebrow. 'How's that?'
'Sure, whenever the wise guys start to burn each other, the federates are never far behind.'
The man called La Mancha nodded toward the cluster of officers and rubberneckers around the battered crew wagon.
'You're calling this a syndicate hit?' he asked.
'Hell, yes,' Fawcett snapped. 'It's got all the signs.'
The big guy was circling Fawcett's cruiser, already climbing in on the passenger side as he said, 'Let's take a ride. I'm parked around the corner.'
Cursing softly, angered by the fed's take-charge attitude, Lieutenant Fawcett slid behind the wheel, fired the cruiser's engine, and put the unmarked car in motion.
'The Twin Cities are supposed to be quiet, Jack,' La Mancha said when they were rolling.
Fawcett shrugged, further annoyed by the first name familiarity.
'Sure, sure, but hell, who can figure these animals? Probably they got mixed up in some damned vendetta or something.'
'Maybe.'
The big fed's tone was clearly skeptical.
Fawcett bristled, shooting a sidelong glance toward his uninvited passenger.
'You don't think so?'
La Mancha avoided the question, changing the subject.
'How's business in homicide, Jack?'
Taken by surprise, Fawcett blinked rapidly, putting his thoughts in working order.
'Huh? Aw, nothing special. Why?'
'I understand you've got yourself a headcase who doesn't like the ladies.'
Just like that, cool as you please. Fawcett stiffened in the driver's seat, hoping at once that it didn't show. He felt his guts going into a slow barrel roll.
'First I've heard of it,' he answered after a moment, fighting to keep the tightness and hostility out of his voice.
'Really?'
The goddamned guy next to him was all cool, calm, and collected, sitting there calling Jack Fawcett a liar without really saying so. The lieutenant began to see red and fought the feeling down. He swung the cruiser in to curbside and stood on the brake, forcing an even tone into his voice as he turned toward La Mancha.
'What the hell is this all about?' he demanded. 'What does the organized crime unit want with a headcase?'
'Who said I work the org crime unit?'
The damned guy was smiling at him!
Fawcett's insides completed their roll. He felt dizzy.
'Well... I just assumed...'
The federal man's smile broadened, without gaining any warmth.
'You know what they say about assumptions, Jack.'
'Well, what do you want?'
'I'm with SOG,' La Mancha said simply. 'Sensitive Operations Group.'
Fawcett was nonplussed.
'I, uh, guess I'm not familiar with that unit,' he said.
'It's need-to-know, Jack. You don't.'
Fawcett felt as if he had been slapped.
'So, okay,' he said, forcing a casual tone he didn't feel, 'why are we having this conversation?'
'I was asking you about your problem. The headcase.'
'And I'm telling you that there isn't any goddamned headcase. I don't know where you get your information...'
'That's right,' the big guy cut him off, still smiling. 'You don't.'
Jack Fawcett felt like a tire with the air slowly leaking out of it.
'Listen, La Mancha, somebody's been feeding you a line. There's no way I wouldn't know about something like that.'
'That's what I thought,' La Mancha said, nodding.
Fawcett's hands fidgeted on the steering wheel like nervous spiders.
