Reardon

by Robert L. Fish

  “I should have learned not to pick up telephones,” Reardon said sourly. “Who’s around to go with me? Just in case.”

  The sergeant ran his finger down a sheet. “Stan Lundahl’s in. He should be at his desk.”

  “Fine. Check it and if he’s there tell him to meet me at the front entrance.” He waited impatiently while the sergeant took over the switchboard; cords were manipulated, levers pulled. The sergeant spoke into the headset, listened, and then dragged the cord from its socket.

  “He’s leaving now.”

  “Good. If the ambulance calls in before I get there—which means the guy is dead—have them wait for me.”

  “Right.”

  Reardon frowned, biting at his lip, wondering if he had forgotten something. Just my date, he thought with irritation, and, of course, to keep my big mouth shut. He pushed his way brusquely out of the room.

  CHAPTER 3

  Tuesday—9:15 P.M.

  Lundahl was waiting for him in front of the information desk on the first floor. He was a heavy man, inches taller than the lieutenant, with thick black hair and bushy eyebrows that looked as if they could stand combing. As usual he looked as if he needed a shave and, as a matter of fact, did need one. While only in his middle thirties he looked much older. The two men nodded to each other and hurried through the door and down the steps. Reardon’s Charger, together with a dozen other cars, was parked in the No-parking zone before the Hall of Justice; they walked over to it, climbed in, slammed the doors, and started off with a roar of exhaust, speeding down Bryant toward Sixth.

  Lundahl dug a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, offering the package to Reardon. The stocky lieutenant shook his head. Lundahl shook out the match and flipped it away, looking sideways at his superior.

  “What’s it all about?”

  “Somebody stepped in front of a moving automobile,” Reardon said. “And maybe got killed.”

  “Hit-and-run?”

  “No. The driver called it in. He’s not happy about it, but he’s waiting over there now.”

  Ludahl frowned at the other. “So if it’s a regular accident, where do we come in? We ain’t Traffic.”

  “It’s a long story. I don’t want to bore you.”

  Lundahl seemed to read something in the other’s rigid face. He still looked puzzled, but he leaned back in his seat, making himself comfortable. “Well, at least it ain’t hit-and-run. I hate hit-and-run.” He stared out of the window, breathing smoke.

  Reardon glanced in his direction. “I thought you and Dondero had a bet, which one could hold off smoking the longest?”

  “He won.” Lundahl grinned. “Hands down. Me, I got no will power.” He brushed ash from the cigarette against the edge of the closed window. “About this accident, he lose his brakes?”

  “I have no idea.” Reardon dropped the subject, falling into silence, stepping on the gas, speeding down Sixth, turning into Townsend with squealing tires. Like Stan Lundahl he was pleased it was not hit-and-run; that would have properly fallen into their department and the chances were he would have been tied up all night, checking garages, looking for possible witnesses—the whole business. A straight accident wasn’t too bad; he could simply turn it over to the first patrol car that showed up and be on his way. And worry about what to say to Captain Tower in the morning.

  He glanced at the dim oval light of his car clock glowing eerily on the darkened dash; just about now, he calculated, the sukiyaki would be on the hibachi, the kneeling waitress carefully turning the meat and mixing the vegetables with quick and deft chopsticks, the smell would be wonderful, and Jan would be pouring sake into toy cups for the two of them.

  He forced the thought away. It not only was irritating, it made him realize how long it had been since he had eaten. He should have stayed in the meeting, accepted the boredom of it, and merely kept his big mouth shut. One would have figured, he thought bitterly, that his Navy days might have taught him something about volunteering any time, anywhere, for anything; but apparently it hadn’t.

  He came to the end of Townsend, crossed into Kansas, heading for Mariposa, stepping on the gas, wondering why every street in San Francisco he ever wanted to take when he was in a hurry always seemed to be one-way in the wrong direction …

  Tuesday—9:30 P.M.

  The small Charger pulled into Indiana Street from Mariposa, heading south, slowing up for Eighteenth. The block they were on, as well as the one ahead, were normally dark at this hour, lined with shuttered and blank-faced warehouses with an occasional truck drawn into a driveway for the night, but at the moment the block ahead demonstrated the flashing beacon from the ambulance backed up near the center of the block. The headlights of a large car angled into the curb part way down the block added to the illumination. As he slowed for crossing Eighteenth he could see the lights from the Central Basin docks where ships were being unloaded under the blinding glare of spotlights mounted high on the ships’ superstructures and on the huge dock cranes hovering above. In the background the bay looked cold and black, with Alameda faintly lit in the distance. Well, Reardon thought, we won’t have to keep any crowd back or warn any passing motorist to move along and not rubberneck.

  He automatically swerved the Charger to avoid an oil slick that glimmered wetly from the pavement and drew up across the street from the ambulance, leaving his motor running and allowing his headlights to add to the general illumination of the scene. He got out and walked across the street with Lundahl at his side. An ancient heavy black Buick was slued into the curb a few feet from a telephone pole; in the circle of its lights, aided by the additional light from the interior of the ambulance, a bundle that was the body could be seen. It lay on its back, twisted, its feet angled unnaturally. Someone had placed a handkerchief over the head. Two white-uniformed ambulance attendants had been leaning negligently against the side of the ambulance, smoking and speaking quietly, waiting. At sight of Reardon the two straightened up, moving forward. Reardon recognized the elder.

  “Hello, Danny.”

  “Hello, Lieutenant.” Danny was in his fifties, grown gray working the emergency ambulance service from Mission Emergency. He looked down at the bundle with a bit of regret for the wastefulness of it all; he had seen death in all its forms and had never really become accustomed to it. “He’s dead. My guess is he was killed instantly. Anyway, when I called in like you said they told me to hold everything until you got here.”

  “That’s right. An APB car should be here any minute; one is finishing up someplace near here about now.” Reardon stared down at the body. “Who covered his head?”

  “I did,” Danny said. “But I didn’t touch him.” He added with a touch of apology. “I didn’t know but what some car with kids in it might be driving by.”

  “Today I’m sure they’ve all seen worse,” Reardon said. “Anyway, I was just asking. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. I got the message to wait for you, so I figured it had something to do with Homicide. Although it looks pretty straight to me.” He looked at the stocky lieutenant. “Anything fishy about it?”

  “Not that I know of,” Reardon said and knelt beside the body, offering no further explanation. He had a feeling the story of his going out on a Traffic case was going to be the big poop around the Hall of Justice the following day.

  Lundahl and Danny stood watching silently. The face that was exposed by removal of the handkerchief was staring up at them blankly. It had been a relatively young man, well-dressed; a thick mustache covered a good part of a bad scar on his upper lip, but one edge of the twisted skin trailed from the corner of the mustache to fade into the smooth cheek. Despite the scar the face was good-looking and seemed remarkably composed considering the method of his dying. The neck had the twisted unnatural look of being broken; the clothing was hunched about, tightened as if twisted on the body by some huge, powerful hand. A line of blood was etched from the corner of the mouth, following the line of the scar; it was already hardening int
o a black ridge on the skin.

  Reardon looked up. “Where’s the driver?”

  “In the car.”

  Reardon glanced over; through the windshield he could make out a pale face in the darkened interior. “Stan. Get him out and over here.”

  “Right.” Lundahl flipped his cigarette away and walked over, opening the door. There was a moment’s hesitation and then Crocker climbed down. He was tall and thin, handsome in a way, but not at the moment. His jaw was clenched at the unfairness of it all; he obviously didn’t like the idea of being called to the side of the body. He stopped, staring to one side, keeping his eyes fixed on the bumper of the car, speaking to the lieutenant without looking at him or the body. His hands kept opening and closing in a nervous gesture.

  “It was an accident,” he said, his voice dull with constant repetition. “I keep telling everybody but nobody wants to listen. It was an accident. He stepped off the curb without looking—” He seemed to realize the hopelessness of trying to get through to these blank faces surrounding him. “It wasn’t my fault. I shouldn’t have called it in; that was my mistake. I should have kept on going.”

  “Why?” Reardon stared up at him curiously. “You want five-to-ten for hit-and-run? You think vehicular homicide isn’t serious enough?” He shook his head in disgust and changed the subject. “Do you know him? Did you ever see him before?”

  “Ever see—? No; I don’t know him. How should I know him? I was over at some restaurant on Army Street getting a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and I was cutting over on my way home—”

  “If you don’t look at him,” Reardon interrupted quietly, “you’ll never know if you saw him before.”

  “I—I saw enough of him to know …”

  “Why don’t you try once more? It’s either here or at the morgue, and you might see a lot more down there.”

  Crocker closed his eyes and then opened them, forcing himself to stare down at the peaceful face, marred only by the ridge of dried blood on its chin. He swallowed and then turned away. “No. I never saw him before.”

  “All right. Relax.” Reardon laid the handkerchief back over the calm face and came to his feet. “We’ll have to take you in, you and the car both. Let me see your identification. Your driver’s license.”

  “Certainly.” Crocker fumbled in his rear trouser pocket, bringing out his wallet. He removed a folder from one section and handed it over.

  The lieutenant shook his head. “Just your driver’s license, please.”

  Crocker looked surprised. He separated the license from the insurance cards and other material in the small plastic folder and handed it over. Reardon studied it in the light of the Buick’s headlamps and then slipped it into his pocket.

  “Stan; what about the registration?”

  Lundahl nodded and bent into the car. He fumbled for a dash-light and located it, studied the paper on the steering column a moment, and straightened up. “Description on the registration fits. It’s in the name of Ralph Crocker.”

  Reardon looked at the man. “Any other identification?”

  Crocker silently went through his billfold once more, handing over two gasoline credit cards and a receipt for a purchase from a local store. Reardon studied them and then handed them back.

  “All right. I want—” He paused; a second police car was turning into the block, its roof beacon flashing.

  “APB car, Lieutenant,” Lundahl said needlessly.

  “Yes. All right, Stan. When the APB boys are through with the car, you take Crocker back to headquarters in his car and wait until I get there or until you get a message from me. The car goes into the garage.” He considered it a moment and a faint humorless smile touched his lips. “It’ll look good next to that 1935 Packard down there they use for parades.” He drew the detective to one side, speaking quietly. “Keep him company. Take him to the lab and have him blow into the bottle. He says he stopped at a restaurant, but it could have been a bar.”

  “He looks sober enough, but I guess something like this could sober you up in a hurry,” Lundahl said. “Will do.”

  “Right.” Reardon turned to the ambulance crew. “Danny, as soon as the Accident boys release the body, bring him to the morgue at the Hall.”

  “Right, Lieutenant.”

  Sergeant Wilkins of the Accident Prevention Bureau was walking toward them. He was a thickset man in his forties; at one time during his days as a beat patrolman he was putting the arm on a drunk beating his wife, when the wife hauled off with a pan and smashed Wilkins’ nose. It made Wilkins speak with a slight nasal sound, and it made him look as if he were sneering at everyone. Actually, as Reardon well knew, Wilkins was the mildest and most co-operative of men. He was also excellent at his job. Behind him a patrolman, his partner on the APB car, was reaching into the back seat for equipment.

  Wilkins looked mildly surprised. “Hello, Jim. They gave it to me as a traffic accident. Or have you been transferred to Traffic since I came on this afternoon?”

  “Hello, Frank.” Reardon grinned. “You’ll probably hear all about it tomorrow down at the Hall. In fact, after tonight Captain Tower may put me in Traffic just for laughs. Just put it down to the Devil finding something for idle hands to do.” He glanced down at the body a moment and then back to Wilkins. “It looks as if this one stepped off the curb right in front of that vintage Buick and the driver couldn’t stop.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I haven’t had time to even go through his pockets. When you’re finished with him and the car, Lundahl will drive the car back to headquarters with the driver. But I’d like to see the man’s identification. If I’m going to handle a Traffic case, I might as well do it right.”

  Wilkins looked surprised. “Stick around a few minutes and you can have it. Let me take a couple of pictures—”

  “I’ve got another stop to make.”

  “Oh. All right. I’ll bring copies of the reports to your office and put them on your desk if you’re not there.” He grinned. “Hell, Jim—maybe you’ll even get to like Traffic.”

  “I don’t even like to drive in it.”

  “Who does?” Wilkins turned to his assistant. “Okay, Willie, let’s get through with the body so Danny can take him away. Then we’ll have room to work on the skid marks …”

  Reardon walked back to the Charger and climbed into it. It would be a while until Wilkins was back at the Hall of Justice, and if Crocker sat around for a while thinking about the responsibility every driver took each time he climbed behind a wheel, it wouldn’t hurt him a bit. And it would give the lieutenant enough time to get over to the Little Tokyo restaurant and try to put Jan in a better mood than she had been when he left. He had a feeling that even if Dondero was at his most charming, the meal was probably not the happiest event taking place in town that night.

  He turned from Eighteenth into Third, gunning the car down the dock road, cutting over the bridge to Berry and then turning right to the Embarcadero, swinging left, bringing up his speed on the wide, almost deserted road. As always, cars lined the road, parked side by side before the white façades of the piers, glimmering under weak lighting. He bumped over railroad tracks, cutting around the pillars of the Skyway. Ships hugged the docks as he shot past, towering over him; for one brief second he wondered if one of them was the one he had watched that afternoon. He put the thought aside almost forcefully; it reminded him of how pleasant the day had been until that damned telephone call from Dondero.

  He turned from the Embarcadero at Jefferson, speeding past the garish lights of Fisherman’s Wharf, swung to the curb in front of the second-floor restaurant and climbed down, swinging the car door shut behind him in almost the same motion, and went in, taking the carpeted steps two at a time. Mr. Noguchi considered him gravely from his refuge behind an armful of menus and slowly shook his head. His eyes were sad.

  Reardon swung around to inspect the corner table; it was deserted. He frowned, staring at his watch in surprise.

  �
��They left already? They couldn’t have eaten that fast!”

  Mr. Noguchi became even sadder. “They didn’t eat, Lieutenant,” he said in his soft voice, clutching his menus more tightly. “They had two drinks and left. Your young lady said—” He hesitated in embarrassment; it seemed impossible that anyone would say such words, especially in the Little Tokyo, but the truth was the truth and the frowning red-haired lieutenant didn’t look in the mood for anything else.

  “She said what?”

  Mr. Noguchi shrugged fatalistically and pronounced the terrible words. “She said she wasn’t hungry.”

  “How long ago did they leave?”

  Mr. Noguchi frowned in concentration and then consulted the wall clock for help. “Half hour? Forty minutes?”

  “Let me use the phone.” He walked to the cashier’s counter, picked up the telephone, and dialed. His face was expressionless as he waited for the ring at the other end; his gray eyes were flinty chips of granite.

  The telephone was answered almost instantly. “Hello?”

  “Jan? This is Jim: I—”

  “Jim, do you mind terribly if we don’t waste a lot of time talking? I’m very tired and I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow. And I’m sure you must be busy …”

  “Damn it, Jan, I don’t understand you!” Reardon fought to keep his voice down; the Japanese cashier pointedly heard none of the conversation. “I had a meeting at Headquarters! It’s not the first time something has come up and I’ve been stuck for a few hours!”

  Jan’s voice hardened not too subtly.

  “You had a meeting, which you passed up to take an assignment. On an automobile accident case. Which isn’t your department, and you know it. And which would tie you for more than just a few hours and you know that too.” She hesitated a moment. Reardon stared at the telephone, speechless. “Well, Lieutenant? Cat got your tongue?”

  “But how did you know—?”

  “How did I know you took an assignment—volunteered for it when it wasn’t your job?” Her voice was bitter in self-incrimination. “Because I was foolish enough to think you might want to come back and see me after your meeting, so when Sergeant Dondero came, I asked him to call you and tell you we’d wait for you, even if you were delayed a few hours. And he spoke with someone in Communications and they said they couldn’t put the call through because you were on a case. They said—”