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out the porno angle. We made the rounds of the sleazy joints and didn’t come up with much. I heard the name Queen Faith mentioned a couple of times, but I got the impression she ran some kind of second-class whorehouse. A small-timer. But then I heard about her again—when I was checking the late Sol Goldblatz’s record.”
    â€œYeah?”
    McCarthy looked troubled. “Yeah. One of the kids Goldblatz assaulted gave the police a fair amount of detailed information before the parents decided the kid should have nothing to do with prosecuting the bastard. In the text of the statement, the kid mentioned a woman … a woman called ‘Queenie.’ According to the kid, Queenie was worse than just sick. She was a real freak. She got her hands on the kid before Goldblatz did. And what Queenie did really hits the nausea button.” He looked at Hawker carefully. “Maybe I should wait until after dinner to tell you.”
    Hawker shook his head. “No. Let’s hear it now.”
    As McCarthy described the sexual proclivities of Queen Faith, Hawker stared coldly into his beer. When McCarthy was done, Hawker drained the bottle and set it down harder than he had planned. “And you think Queenie and Queen Faith are the same woman?”
    â€œThat would be my guess,” McCarthy said. “The chances of there being two women named Queen in the porno business, both of whom know Goldblatz, are pretty damn slim.”
    â€œYeah,” said Hawker thoughtfully. After a long silence, he finally asked, “Paul, that kid you told me about. The one Queen Faith got her hands on. Was the kid a—”
    â€œThe kid was a seven-year-old girl, Hawk. And what was done to that baby would be enough to put a female adult into the loonie bin for a year. And to have it done to her by a woman …” He let his voice trail off.
    All traces of emotion had left James Hawker’s face. McCarthy observed with a chill the degree of coldness in the searing blue eyes, and he realized with some surprise that they were the eyes of a killer, a perfect, machinelike killer.
    Upon reflection, McCarthy wondered why he had been surprised.
    James Hawker said softly, “When I find Queen Faith, I will mention that little girl to her. It will be the last thing the bitch hears before she dies.…”

SEVEN
    Peering at their menus, the two men were about to order when Hawker noticed a woman talking to the hostess. She was pointing at them.
    â€œExpecting a date to join you?” Hawker asked.
    McCarthy chuckled. “Nope. Not a date.”
    The woman nodded and walked toward their table. Hawker couldn’t help watching her. She was medium height, about five six, maybe a little taller. She had long golden-blond hair, a stern Germanic face that softened somewhat around the eyes and lips—the effect of which was to make her look like a very pretty teenager concerned with the world situation. Hawker guessed her to be about twenty-seven. She wore a pale tweed skirt that came to her knees, a sweater over a white blouse, and a handsome Irish woven suit jacket. Her purse was tucked under her arm like a briefcase, and she walked purposefully, as if trying to subdue the natural roll and sway of her hips. Her body was an intriguing combination of long legs, graceful arms, slim hips, wide shoulders, and full breasts. Hawker couldn’t remember when he had seen a woman for whom he felt a stronger and more immediate physical wanting.
    â€œYou’re sure you’re not expecting anyone but Detective Riddock?”
    McCarthy was watching the blond now. “Absolutely sure.”
    Hawker returned to his menu. “Too bad. But you’d hardly expect a cop to attract a woman like that. She’s strictly Learjets and Mediterranean vacations.”
    McCarthy smiled. “Yeah. And she’s probably a bitch anyway.”
    Hawker chuckled. It was the old bull-session version of sour grapes.