He did it slowly, and Frankie presently found himself involved in another excruciating posture from some manual of satanic yoga.
His mouth nearly touching Frankie’s ear, Simon breathed, “Where’s Monica Varing?”
“Let go of me! You goddam—”
“Shh! Lieutenant Kearney’s out in front, Frankie. Don’t give him any ideas.”
The Saint wrenched slightly, eliciting a howl of pain from Frankie, and brought him back to his feet with dislocating solicitude.
“Everyone get that?” he asked. “Now let’s try another one. This is harder.”
He collared Frankie and tied him in an even more complex knot.
“ What about Monica? ”
“You son of a — ”
“If you think I won’t break your arm,” the Saint whispered icily, “you’re crazy. I can say it was an accident. I can even break your neck.”