Read Online Don Pendleton - Civil War II by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online
Authors: Don Pendleton
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Same pictures on the walls, same mottled carpeting. New girl, though, and a beaut. He presented his identification and stated his business.
She examined him from beneath partly-lowered lashes and eyes that told him she'd heard of him, oh yes, I've heard of you, Mike Winston. "The Chief cannot be disturbed right now, Commissioner," she told him. "H you'd like to have a seat, I'll see if I can get you in shortly."
Get him in? Winston was not that far down the Washington totem. He told her, "You announce me right now, young lady, and let Fairchild make that decision."
She wasn't to be bullied. The pretty lips hardened and she told him, "The Chief cannot be disturbed at this moment, Commissioner."
Winston said, "The hell he can't." He vaulted the railing and pushed into the FBI Chief's inner sanctum with a grimly struggling secretary hanging on one arm.
A handsomely graying man with surprised eyes n>v hastily from his desk and turned off a tape deck. He Nr/eil up the situation in a single glance, waved the girl out of tho office, and walked toward Winston with outstretched hand. "Damn, it's good to see you again, Mike," he said amiably. "How long has it been ... three years? Four?"
"About halfway between the two," Winston replied, smiling tightly. "This isn't a personal call, Tom. I have urgent business."
Fairchild waved him to a chair and stepped over to a sideboard bar. "Name your poison," he suggested.
Winston said, "Uncle Tom."
The police chief chuckled, somewhat nervously and said, "No, I meant liquid poison. Oh hell I forgot, you don't. Or have you started?"
"Not yet, but I'm getting closer to it every day. No, nothing for me Tom, thanks."
The Chief swirled some liquids into a glass and took it to his desk to perch there on the corner and inspect his onetime friend with a measuring gaze. "You haven't changed much," he decided. "Bit of silver at the ears, there." He laughed. "I guess it's catching up to all of us, eh. The years, I mean."
Winston nodded. "Maybe more so than we realize. That's what I want to talk about. I guess old cops never die, nor even fade away. I've stumbled onto something, Tom. My boss is in the cups again, and it's like talking to the roaring surf. I'd like to get your opinion."
Fairchild grinned and replied, "If it's cop business, I'm all ears. You know that."
'Try the eyes," Winston replied. He leaned forward and thrust the cross-check summary into the policeman's hand. "I won't talk. You draw your own conclusions."
Fairchild studied the paper for several minutes, pausing occasionally to sip at his drink, sloshing the liquid now and then, clinking the ice against the side of the glass. As he read, his face hardened. lines of amiability vanished. The brows began forming peaks above the eyes and the eyes themselves became murky, almost seeming to change color and to recede somewhat into the head. Winston knew the look and knew it well. Once he had even thought it a sign of the whirring cogs of an acutely tuned police mind. He had learned, though, that it was a sign of other mental activities as well.
Without looking at his visitor, Fairchild pushed a button on his desk. A door opened and a pretty young woman came in. Her glance took in Winston and flashed quickly to Fairchild. He handed her Winston's paper and told her, "Get me a copy of that, doll."
She nodded, showed Winston another curious look, and went back the way she'd come.
"Nice," Winston softly commented.
"Very," Fairchild agreed. "Well—that's a nice piece of work there, Mike. For an urban commissioner. Thanks very much for your interest. You can pick up your original in the outer office, if you want it."
Winston growled, "What the hell are you saying?"
The cop finished his drink and went around behind the desk and sat down. "I said it. Thanks. Good seeing you again, Mike. I'm busy as hell. You understand that, I'm sure. Drop in again when you have more time."
In a voice working very hard at remaining level, Winston
She examined him from beneath partly-lowered lashes and eyes that told him she'd heard of him, oh yes, I've heard of you, Mike Winston. "The Chief cannot be disturbed right now, Commissioner," she told him. "H you'd like to have a seat, I'll see if I can get you in shortly."
Get him in? Winston was not that far down the Washington totem. He told her, "You announce me right now, young lady, and let Fairchild make that decision."
She wasn't to be bullied. The pretty lips hardened and she told him, "The Chief cannot be disturbed at this moment, Commissioner."
Winston said, "The hell he can't." He vaulted the railing and pushed into the FBI Chief's inner sanctum with a grimly struggling secretary hanging on one arm.
A handsomely graying man with surprised eyes n>v hastily from his desk and turned off a tape deck. He Nr/eil up the situation in a single glance, waved the girl out of tho office, and walked toward Winston with outstretched hand. "Damn, it's good to see you again, Mike," he said amiably. "How long has it been ... three years? Four?"
"About halfway between the two," Winston replied, smiling tightly. "This isn't a personal call, Tom. I have urgent business."
Fairchild waved him to a chair and stepped over to a sideboard bar. "Name your poison," he suggested.
Winston said, "Uncle Tom."
The police chief chuckled, somewhat nervously and said, "No, I meant liquid poison. Oh hell I forgot, you don't. Or have you started?"
"Not yet, but I'm getting closer to it every day. No, nothing for me Tom, thanks."
The Chief swirled some liquids into a glass and took it to his desk to perch there on the corner and inspect his onetime friend with a measuring gaze. "You haven't changed much," he decided. "Bit of silver at the ears, there." He laughed. "I guess it's catching up to all of us, eh. The years, I mean."
Winston nodded. "Maybe more so than we realize. That's what I want to talk about. I guess old cops never die, nor even fade away. I've stumbled onto something, Tom. My boss is in the cups again, and it's like talking to the roaring surf. I'd like to get your opinion."
Fairchild grinned and replied, "If it's cop business, I'm all ears. You know that."
'Try the eyes," Winston replied. He leaned forward and thrust the cross-check summary into the policeman's hand. "I won't talk. You draw your own conclusions."
Fairchild studied the paper for several minutes, pausing occasionally to sip at his drink, sloshing the liquid now and then, clinking the ice against the side of the glass. As he read, his face hardened. lines of amiability vanished. The brows began forming peaks above the eyes and the eyes themselves became murky, almost seeming to change color and to recede somewhat into the head. Winston knew the look and knew it well. Once he had even thought it a sign of the whirring cogs of an acutely tuned police mind. He had learned, though, that it was a sign of other mental activities as well.
Without looking at his visitor, Fairchild pushed a button on his desk. A door opened and a pretty young woman came in. Her glance took in Winston and flashed quickly to Fairchild. He handed her Winston's paper and told her, "Get me a copy of that, doll."
She nodded, showed Winston another curious look, and went back the way she'd come.
"Nice," Winston softly commented.
"Very," Fairchild agreed. "Well—that's a nice piece of work there, Mike. For an urban commissioner. Thanks very much for your interest. You can pick up your original in the outer office, if you want it."
Winston growled, "What the hell are you saying?"
The cop finished his drink and went around behind the desk and sat down. "I said it. Thanks. Good seeing you again, Mike. I'm busy as hell. You understand that, I'm sure. Drop in again when you have more time."
In a voice working very hard at remaining level, Winston
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