“If you’ve got the time,” Reardon said. He led the way back into his darkened office, flipping the light switch, dropping into his chair back of the desk. Behind him, through the window, the lights of San Francisco at night climbed the hills in strings of pearls. Captain Tower took a chair beside the desk, watching the younger man.
“Well?”
Reardon picked up a pencil and began to play with it absently, thinking.
“For one thing, Captain,” he said slowly, “the man who was killed didn’t carry any identification. He had money on him in a money clip, and he had keys and the normal things you carry in your pockets, but he didn’t have a wallet. He didn’t have anything with his name on it.”
“Well,” Captain Tower said thoughtfully, “I can picture one circumstance at least when a man might not have his wallet on him. Haven’t you ever gone across the street for a pack of cigarettes or a paper and not bothered taking your wallet with you? When you have change, or money like he did?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” Reardon said evenly. “My badge is in my wallet, and my I.D. card. I doubt if you ever have, Captain. But I could still understand what you mean, except this accident took place on Indiana near Eighteenth, down near the docks. It isn’t a residential neighborhood by a long shot—not a house in sight. And no stores around to buy anything. And the way this man was dressed—the victim—he looked as if he was on his way to a night on the town.” He frowned. “That’s also odd. He had twenty-eight dollars on him, plus some change. That doesn’t pay for much of a night on this town.”
“So maybe he wasn’t on his way to a night on the town. What else?”
“Well, this Ralph Crocker—he was driving the car—was on Army Street in a restaurant and on his way home to the Martinique Apartments on Second between Harrison and Folsom. Now the Skyway runs from almost where he was to where he was going, but he was driving those dark, dockside roads, full of holes and half of them blocked with construction. I asked him why, and he said he was scared of the traffic on the freeways …”
“Lots of people are, you know,” Captain Tower said.
“But at that hour they’re practically empty. Somehow it just struck me as odd. And another thing, when I finished questioning him I suggested he stay in a cell here for the night—a trustee’s cell with the door open, but a cell just the same—and not call his lawyer until after his hearing in Municipal Court tomorrow afternoon. And he agreed. Or at least he didn’t call a lawyer.”
Reardon leaned forward, putting the pencil aside, staring at the captain.
“Now, that is odd. To me, that is extremely odd. I know I haven’t been on the force half as long as a lot of others, but I’ve been on it long enough to know that no man involved in an accident—especially one where a life is lost—is not going to call for help no matter what the time of the day or night, and no matter how much it inconveniences anyone. But Crocker let it go at that.”
“Did you book him?”
“No, sir. As I said, he’s in an open cell. Just spending the night as our guest.”
“Who was on the APB car?”
“Frank Wilkins, sir. Sergeant Wilkins.”
“He’s a good man. Did he give you any reason to believe it wasn’t an accident?” He paused significantly. “In other words, any reason our department should be involved?”
“No. As a matter of fact, Frank is convinced it was an accident.”
“Do you have any reason to disagree with him?”
Reardon hesitated a moment and then shook his head. “Just the ones I’ve given you, sir.”
Captain Tower came to his feet with an air of finality.
“In that case, Jim, I suggest you release the man on his own cognizance and turn the whole business over to Traffic. They’ll have him in court tomorrow and it’s their baby.” He shook his head. “Captain Clark in Traffic is going to be unhappy enough with your sticking your nose into their business, but that’s the least of it. Some reporter fresh out of journalism school could get hold of a story like this and make a big thing out of nothing at all. A man in a cell without a charge in a case where our own accident squad sergeant says it’s a clear-cut accident—well, it’s precisely the sort of publicity the police department doesn’t need. Especially in these days.”
Reardon picked up his pencil, twiddling it.
“All right, Captain. But I’d like to see that old Buick impounded—”
“Is that the accident car? Didn’t Wilkins examine it?”
“He didn’t have time tonight. But I’d like a real checkup on that car, not just a quick one-two-three.” He caught the captain’s quizzical eye on him and smiled faintly. “No, sir; I don’t know why.”
“Jim,” Captain Tower said, “let me tell you something. First, I think you’re trying to justify doing something tonight that was against regulations; if you can make even the slightest case for anything other than accident, even if it doesn’t stick in court, you figure you’re off the hook. Well, you won’t be—not with Captain Clark nor with me. Second, I also think you’re mad at the driver because his accident managed to get you in a scrape with Jan.” The captain was serious and Reardon knew it. “Well, the first is bad police work and the second is frivolous. You send Crocker home and tell him to be here for Municipal Court at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in the morning talk to Traffic and drop it. And right now go home and get some sleep.” The captain’s voice was no longer stern; he sounded sympathetic. “You look as if you could use some.”
“Yes, sir,” Reardon said and proved the captain’s contention with a sudden yawn. He allowed it to carry into an extensive stretch and grinned, coming to his feet. “Yes, sir …”
CHAPTER 5
Tuesday—11:45 P.M.
Lieutenant James Reardon buttoned his jacket and started down the hall, glad to finally be on his way home, glad the evening was finally finished, glad that Captain Tower had made the decision to have Crocker sent home, and also glad that Crocker and his hopeless, helpless “It wasn’t my fault, it was an accident” was finally out of his hair. If he got called to Municipal Court the following afternoon as a witness, it would be his own fault. He’d have to go, of course, which was a cramp in the elbow, but he’d have no one to blame but himself.
He frowned, remembering Captain Tower’s words. Was it possible he had subconsciously tried to make a homicide case out of a simple accident just to justify his interference? If so, it was pretty sad. He knew men who had done things like that, but he didn’t respect them, and he had always thought of himself as being far too good a cop for anything like that. And if he had, of course, he owed Crocker an apology. It was a tough rap having some character step off the curb in front of you without having some hard-nosed cop try to make a patsy out of you for no good reason. Besides, Reardon thought, there but for the grace of God goes Lieutenant Jimmy Reardon. I certainly handle a car faster than fifteen or twenty miles an hour, and my mind isn’t always on what I’m doing or where I’m going. I’d hate like hell to have been coming down Indiana Street tonight, just at that exact moment!
He came down the corridor leading past Room 454, Missing Persons, and then suddenly had to sidestep as the door to the Bureau swung back and a girl emerged without looking, almost bumping into him. She looked worried, preoccupied, and his first reaction was automatically to apologize even though none of the fault was his. Then he stopped, a big smile crossing his face. The girl he had nearly collided with was his beautiful stewardess friend from the ocean liner that afternoon. She had changed her uniform for an evening dress, and she carried a small white beaded bag in her gloved hands, but her face and figure were as fascinating as ever.
“Well, well!” Reardon said. “Hello, there!”
Somehow his having studied her so intently through the binoculars only a few hours ago seemed to him to constitute an introduction of sorts, though he was honest enough to recognize she might not f
eel the same way about it. And he was sure the “competition” Jan had mentioned almost certainly would take a different attitude.
The young lady stared at him a moment without seeing him, and then frowned as she realized a complete stranger was addressing her. True, he was an interesting-looking stranger, but still a stranger. The look she gave him stated quite clearly that she had met fresh men before and undoubtedly would again, but only an idiot would try a pass in the Hall of Justice where, presumably, one call would have him under lock and key. She turned, a look of disdain on her face, and marched down the corridor in the direction of the elevators. For a moment Reardon thought to follow her and explain, but instead he allowed his curiosity to take him into the Bureau.
There was a lieutenant standing back of the counter, searching in a typewriter desk drawer for something. He looked up as the door opened, and his look of irritation changed to a grin.
“Hello, Jimmy,” he said and gave a wink. “You should have seen what was just in here. Wow! Meat!”
“I saw her,” Reardon said and smiled back. “How did she get under the rope downstairs? I thought anyone after 6 P.M. got sent to Southern Police Station automatically?”
“The man on the desk downstairs knew I was working. And I guess if she just smiled at him, he’d have let her into the chief’s safe.”
“What did she lose?”
“A boy friend. He stood her up on a date.” The lieutenant shrugged. “It takes all kinds, I guess. A guy has to be like out of his head to stand that up, is all I can say.”
“When did she lose him?”
“That’s the reason I’m not getting overly excited,” the lieutenant said. “He’s a couple of hours late for a date they had, and already she’s worrying. She’s called four hospitals before she come in, she said. True,” he added, wanting to be fair, “any guy shows up late for a date with that piece, he’s got to be missing something, like his brains at the very least. What probably happened, he stopped in a bar someplace for a quick one, had a couple, and forgot the time.”
“It’s possible.”
“Or else his wife wouldn’t let him out,” the lieutenant said with a grin.
“That’s possible, too, I suppose. What’s her name?”
“Penny Wilkinson. What a name, Penny! She looks more like one million bucks to me. Here’s the whole bit, Jim.” The lieutenant grinned and swung the report around so Reardon could read it. “It also has her address and telephone number, if that could be of the slightest interest to you. I hear you had a slight scrap with your own girl tonight …”
Reardon stared at him. “Man! Word certainly gets around in a hurry! Our intelligence should be so good in police work!”
“Yeah,” the lieutenant said and winked. “I also heard you got tired of Homicide and asked for a transfer to Captain Clark.”
Reardon laughed. “No; he asked for me. I’m still considering it.” He looked down at the form. “What was the guy’s name?”
The lieutenant’s thick finger pointed. “Cooke. Bob Cooke. Works with her on the ships. A deck officer.”
Reardon started reading the form, muttering the missing man’s description under his breath. “Cooke. Age twenty-eight. Height—she thinks—about five feet eleven. Weight one hundred seventy-five—”
“She was sure about that,” the lieutenant said. “Seen him on a scale.” He grinned. “I wonder where?”
Reardon kept going. “Hair, dark brown. Eyes, dark brown. Distinguishing marks—” He straightened up, frowning. “Scar on upper lip from shipboard accident, partially covered with mustache, dark brown …” He looked up. “Jesus Christ!”
“What’s the matter?”
“That’s that accident case we just picked up!”
The lieutenant lost his humor. His hand went out to the telephone, instantly all business, preparing to dial. “Which hospital?”
“Our own,” Reardon said flatly. “Downstairs!”
He hurried from the room, trotting down the corridor, punching the elevator button fiercely. To his amazement the door swung open almost instantly; he shoved the button for the first floor and stood waiting at the door. As soon as it opened he trotted across the lobby and ducked under the ropes, looking at the patrolman on duty at the information desk.
“Where did she go?”
“The girl just came down? Outside.” The patrolman pointed to the front doors.
Reardon ran down the steps and looked in both directions. About a block down Bryant he saw a girl getting into a cab; at that distance and in that light he couldn’t be sure it was his quarry, but there was no sign of anyone else in the immediate vicinity. He started to shout, realized the futility of it, and ran to his car.
He climbed in hurriedly, putting the key into the ignition and twisting it even as he slammed the door and turned the wheel to clear the car ahead. He cut into the street with the blare of startled horns from other traffic, starting in pursuit of the taxi. The cab pulled into Fifth, heading for Market Street and the brighter lights there. Reardon put on a burst of speed, flashing his high beams up and down, pressing one hand insistently on the horn. Other traffic gave way until he was behind the cab; inside the car ahead he could see the driver tilt his head backward, obviously saying something to his passenger. Whatever she said in reply only made the driver speed up. Not for the first time Reardon wished he was driving a patrol car with a flasher beacon and a siren.
They both crossed Tahama and Howard with the light; Reardon waited for a car in the other direction to pass and then jammed down on the accelerator, passing the cab and cutting in sharply. Even as he did so he wondered fleetingly what would have happened if some pedestrian had stepped from the curb as he hit those speeds, and quickly put the thought out of his mind. The taxi squealed to a shuddering halt, its left front fender nudging the Charger, the tires jammed against the curb. The driver came down in a hurry, big, tough, and angry. A short piece of one-inch pipe dangled menacingly from his right hand.
“All right, buster! What are you, some kind of nut?”
“Police,” Reardon said shortly and flashed his wallet. His voice was ice-cold. “And don’t tell me you didn’t know it.”
The driver stopped dead, his tone instantly defensive. The pipe sagged. “How the hell should I know? Anyway I ain’t done nothing.”
“I didn’t say you did. I just want to talk to your passenger.” He opened the taxi door, bending in, relieved to see the girl. “Police, Miss. Do you mind getting out?”
For a brief moment it appeared as if she might refuse, but then she climbed down, angry. And more beautiful because of it, Reardon thought.
“What is this?” She recognized him from the corridor outside of the Missing Persons Bureau, but it didn’t seem to lessen her annoyance. “What do you want?”
“I’ll tell you in my car.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No, Miss. I’d appreciate it, though, if you’d come with me.”
He handed a bill to the driver without looking at the girl, and then turned back, taking her arm. The fait accompli seemed to work; she allowed him to lead her to the Charger. A crowd had formed on the curb, watching with the hidden hostility of those who know nothing of the matter watching an arrest. They climbed in; he straightened the wheels and pulled away from the curb, turning into Mission, heading back toward the Hall of Justice, his speed reduced as if in apology for his previous mad dash. The girl clasped her purse tightly, her face expressionless.
“All right,” she said. “What is it?”
“You reported a Missing Person.” Reardon kept his voice quiet. “I want you to look at somebody.”
She stared at him disdainfully. “Are you trying to tell me that Bob was picked up for something? That he’s in jail? That’s utterly ridiculous. He’s the last man in the world to get into trouble. If you’re holding him for anything, you’re making a mistake.” The continued lack of expression on Reardon’s face seemed to finally break through her veneer,
to cause her some concern. Her voice lost some of its contempt. “Well, tell me! What is he supposed to have done?”
“You’ll see.”
Her disdain returned. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
Reardon lapsed into silence, concentrating on his driving. He had turned down Sixth; he reached Harrison, waited for the light, and then turned into it, pulling to the left to swing into the public parking lot behind the Hall of Justice. He drove past the automatic ticket window without taking a ticket, and pulled around, parking for easy exit as was his habit. And if I get a ticket, he thought to himself with an inner smile, I can always tell the judge I’m working in Traffic tonight. He glanced over at the girl and his inner smile vanished. She was sitting forward, as if leaning back in comfort might constitute some sort of betrayal to Bob in his trouble.
Reardon turned off the ignition. For a moment they sat quietly, the two of them, a tableau, while her eyes climbed the smooth walls of the building to dwell on the fifth floor, where a row of lights demonstrated that the city jail was in business twenty-four hours a day whether the other offices were or not. Reardon broke the spell; he opened the door and climbed out. They walked side by side across the parking lot and through the narrow gap facing the covered arcade that led to the rear entrance to the Hall. Suddenly she held back, her eyes staring upward. Her voice was suddenly doubtful.
“Where is Bob? In one of those cells?”
Reardon took her arm but she still held back.
“Has he called a lawyer? He—he doesn’t know any here, you know.”
“He’s not in a cell. And he doesn’t need a lawyer.” He led her along the arcade and then stopped. Her forward progress was halted unevenly; she stumbled and then looked at him in surprise. Her eyes studied his face and then passed it to look at the door to their side. On it were the simple words, “Coroner’s Office.”
The girl’s face blanched; her fists locked themselves convulsively about her beaded bag. Her large eyes came to his face, asking him, begging him, and then hating him for his subterfuge.
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