Read Online Deadly in New York by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page B

out?”
    â€œYes. One thing. I’m going to ask you a straightforward question and I want an honest answer.”
    Hawker smiled. “You’re not studying to be the first woman priest or something, are you, Ms. Mildemar?”
    Once again, she fought off an amused expression. “No, Mr. Hawker, I am not. What I wanted you to tell me is this: Do you or do you not work for Fister Limited?”
    Hawker couldn’t help himself. Once he had recovered from his surprise, he burst out laughing.
    As he laughed, the woman’s face became redder and redder. “Perhaps you will tell me why you find that question so amusing, Mr. Hawker?” she snapped. “For your information, my parents owned this house for a great many years. I grew up here. While I prefer to live in my apartment in Manhattan, I will stay here just as long as I must to make sure the thugs who work for that company don’t destroy it in an effort to make me sell.” She jammed her hands on her hips. “Now, tell me—why do you find that so funny?”
    Hawker wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “Some day, Brigitte, if you ever drop that ice-water facade of yours, maybe I will tell you. Until then, you can rest easy. I don’t work for Fister Limited, and I don’t work for anyone who’s associated with Fister Corporation.” Hawker motioned toward his canvas knapsack again. “I’m a photographer, remember? And you know how we artists feel about big corporations.”
    â€œWell, then,” the woman said primly, “I guess we have nothing more to discuss. It was … interesting meeting you, Mr. Hawker.”
    As she began to push the door closed, Hawker called out, “And, Brigitte—if anyone comes around here from that corporation to bother you again, let me know, okay?”
    Hawker thought he saw a dry smile touch the woman’s lips before she disappeared inside. “And what would you do, Mr. Hawker?” she answered softly. “Take their photograph and scream for the police? I was raised in New York, and I’m afraid I do know how you artists feel—about big corporations … and other things.”

twelve
    Fister Corporation’s Mafioso goon squad was headquartered in a slummy section of Greenwich Village on the Hudson waterfront in Manhattan.
    The lights of the giant tanker moored there couldn’t compete with the 11 P . M . skyline of New York. The city was like some humpbacked starship that had put down among the stink and squalor.
    But Hawker didn’t spend much time gazing at the scenery. His eyes were glued to the three-story warehouse building that Detective Lieutenant Callis had fingered as the Mafioso stronghold.
    As Callis had put it, “More bodies have disappeared out those windows into the Hudson River than most undertakers handle in a year. The men you see coming in and out that front door are nothing but scum. Some of them are drug addicts and kill to finance their habit. But most of them just have bugs in their brains. They like to kill. It’s how they get their kicks. Hell, the regular Mafia disowned them—that’s how sick these dudes are. But they aren’t too sick for Fister Corporation. It says something about Blake Fister’s methods, doesn’t it?”
    Callis had paused for a moment, reflecting. He said, “Every now and again, we’ll bust two or three of them. But the courts let ninety percent of those we do arrest go free. The other ten percent do three to five years before the parole boards decide they’re fit to hit the streets again.”
    Disgusted, Callis had smacked a big fist into his hand. “I’ll tell you, Hawk, just once I’d like to hunt those bastards the way they deserve to be hunted.”
    So now Hawker was doing just that.
    He sat across from the building inside his van. Lights glowed in the windows of the first and second floors.
    The third floor was dark.
    There