The Killing Connection (Dirty Harry, Book 9)
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Anything goes in San Francisco, but now it's gone too far! Somebody is carving up beautiful lesbians — and that somebody has the right friends. Only Harry can stop the slaughter, but now both the gays and the cops stand in his way. Will he have time? The answer is at the end of a barrel — a .44 Magnum barrel!
the TV news again. So now, whenever a camera or mike is turned his way, all he does is make faces, obscene gestures, and swear grievously. Someone could try to embarrass him by printing the goofy pictures, but he’d slap a suit on them which would bring their ethics in question. And a paper or network could lose its license on a question of ethics far faster than it could on almost anything but pornography. Harry ran up the steps without interruption and just made it out the seventh floor
panic, his strength and fiery leadership in the bag of powder he clasped in his sweaty hand. “I swear,” the redhead said, looking at him go. “He’s nothing without you, is he?” “Never mind that now,” the other female said. “Let’s just keep this pig from following him.” “You lead the way,” the redhead said. “He’ll be more interested in you anyway.” “No, no,” Kim disagreed. “You do the talking. I’ll just stay in the back, looking available. The redhead giggled. “Good idea. I’ll give him the old
of the clean white labs in the Justice Building’s cellar. He was wearing a hole in the tile. “Could it have been a chain?” Harry asked. The inspector was leaning up against the second of three slabs in the room, placed neatly between the lab counter and the wall refrigerator units. White stopped for a second, looking up from his shiny metal clipboard. “Could have been a chain,” he offered, “among other things. This girl was hit with everything but the kitchen sink. I was picking out pieces of
hair and lifted the blade to her neck. “You want it, don’t you?” he asked, pushing his crotch against hers. “Tell me you want it.” What emerged from her filled mouth was a meaningless jumble of noises. But the tone was enough to get her meaning across. “Come on, bitch,” he said threateningly, pushing the knife harder against her throat. “Tell me you want it.” Kim nodded abruptly—twice. “That’s my girl,” the man said with satisfaction. Pulling her off the table by her hair, he pulled the knife
palm landed on his adversary’s chest. “McConnell,” he said into the darkness. He was answered by silence at first, but finally a familiar voice replied with as much relief as irritation. “Well, it’s not the Avon Lady.” Harry pulled the black curtain off the vice cop and helped her to her feet. She dusted off the back of her jeans and straightened the dark red and blue plaid shirt she was wearing. They were standing in a small clearing to the side of the hanging scrims. Harry could see a series