“Lieutenant? This is Potrero Four. We’re on Carroll. Parked.”
Reardon closed his eyes, picturing the streets, making a map of them in his mind. His eyes opened. “Start this way. Call again when you get near Army.”
“Right.”
“Lieutenant? Mission Three. We’re at Hawthorne and Folsom.”
“What are you doing there? That’s not your district.”
“Liquor store heist. We were the closest. We’re free now.”
“Stay there.” He made up his mind. “Calling Potrero Four.”
“Here, Lieutenant.”
“From Army start zigzagging. Over Connecticut, up Twenty-Fifth, over Carolina, up Twenty-Second, and all the way over to Mariposa that way. Then hit the main streets. We’re looking for a 1940 Buick, black, with one man in it. Keep your eyes open.”
“Right.”
“Jim? This is Sergeant Johns. I’m in Potrero Eight. I’m at the China Basin.”
“Good! Did you hear what I told Potrero Four?”
“I heard.”
“Then you fill in what he has to miss. I know you can’t hit it all by a mile, but we have to try. Mission Three?”
“Here.”
“You start zigzagging too. Come up Folsom to Fourth, over Fourth to Harrison, up Harrison to Fifth, Fifth to Bryant, and keep that up. But I’m sure he’s a long way from here right now, unless he’s hit a flock of red lights.”
“Southern Two here, Lieutenant. Embarcadero at Mission.”
“Southern Two—stay there and keep your eyes open. That’s a good spot to see five or six streets. You hear what we’re looking for?”
“Yes, sir. We had it before from Communications.”
“Good. Communications—are you on?”
“We’re here, Lieutenant.”
“How about the Highway Patrol? On the freeways?”
“They were number one we contacted, Lieutenant. Then the bridge police.”
“Good.”
“Highway Patrol car Sixty-Five.” Even over the impersonal sameness imposed by the speaker system the voice was speaking quickly and with the tenseness of important news. “We’re on the 101 Freeway, heading south. A black car just passed us heading the other way. Man with me knows cars, says it’s a Buick either 1939 or 1940. One man driving.”
Reardon realized the car might or might not be the one he wanted, but he knew he’d have to take a chance.
“He could go almost anywhere from there. If the bridge police get him, fine, but he’ll think of that. Mission Three, where’s the nearest exit from the Freeway from where you are now?”
“First Street. We’ll get over there and cover.”
“Good. Everyone else keep on with what you’re doing.” He turned to Pilcher. “Let’s go. Get on the Freeway, open up the siren, and let’s see how fast we can get to the end of it.” He returned to the microphone. “Communications, who do you have who can take the exits from the Embarcadero Freeway?”
“Southern Two is the closest.”
“I want them to stay where they are. Who else?”
“Central Seven is at California and Powell. That’s too far.” There was a brief hesitation. “I’ll see what I can do with the bike men.”
“Good.”
Pilcher had taken the patrol car up Bryant against the traffic, his siren beginning to howl. He had to cut sharply to make the Skyway entrance; he mounted the ramp with increasing speed, cutting into traffic at the upper level without slackening speed, raising the shrill whine of the siren higher, shooting past cars that automatically pulled to one side, slowing down. Reardon returned to the microphone.
“Communications: get as many patrol cars and bikes on the north side of Market going down the main streets toward the bay: Stockton, Powell, even Van Ness. He might manage to get that far west if we don’t spot him before. Tell them to keep their eyes open. Mission Three, anything new?”
“If he came down here, we missed him, Lieutenant.”
“Then start scouring the area down to the bay. Southern Two, stay where you are until you hear us pass. We’ve got the siren on full.”
“We can hear you now.”
“Once we pass, head for the Washington exit from the Freeway. We’ll take the Broadway exit. And everyone listening, don’t just look for moving cars—he may have parked someplace, nosed into the curb, or even a parking lot. It would be easy enough to spot if you were looking for it, and easy enough to miss if you weren’t.”
“We’ll pass the word.” That was Communications.
“Good.” Reardon lowered the microphone, staring ahead through the windshield. Pilcher was an excellent driver, and Reardon knew good driving from his own experience. The sergeant spoke from the corner of his mouth without taking his eyes from the wet road.
“Up Broadway or down Sansome when we get off at the end?”
“Take Broadway.” He raised the microphone. “Southern Two, start down Sansome after we pass Washington.”
“Right, Lieutenant.”
Reardon realized trying to spot a moving car in a city the size of San Francisco with only a few patrol cars on the watch, was almost impossible; not for the first time he wished walkie-talkies were in use for the footmen. He stared at the cars they were rapidly passing, automatically checking them and dropping them even as he tried to calculate where the Buick might have gone to. They curved into the final stretch of the Freeway, shooting past the old Ferry Building, curved with the roadway once again, and then dropped like a plummet toward the street. Pilcher had the brakes on, barely pausing at the bottom of the ramp, and in the same instant started up again, heading up Broadway toward the tunnel. Reardon reached over and cut the siren; Pilcher responded by reducing his speed to match the normal traffic. In the fog and mist of the morning the tawdry strip joints and topless bars looked even less appetizing than usual. They drew up at a red light, the engine panting to be off.
Reardon frowned unhappily. Somehow the Buick had managed to escape the confines of the Freeway; now it had half the city to hide in. It had begun to drizzle again; Pilcher started the windshield wipers going. They clicked softly and hypnotically. Reardon ran his window up and stared ahead, his eyes moving from one side of the street to the other, looking at the parked cars. There was a sudden burst of static from the speaker, followed by a voice.
“Lieutenant!”
The microphone was raised instantly. “Yes?”
“Southern Two. I think we have him, or anyway the one that was on the Freeway, probably. We’re on Sansome; he’s ahead of us heading for the Embarcadero. I’m putting on the siren.”
“Right.” He lifted his head to Pilcher. “Let’s get over there as fast as we can!”
“He’s turning into the Embarcadero, Lieutenant. It’s got to be him or somebody else with a guilty conscience, because he knows we’re after him and he’s pouring on the coal. That bastard can move too!”
“Stay with him!” Reardon felt the old feeling of triumph return. No innocent driver of an old Buick—or any other car—would be running from a police car. His eyes came up from the microphone. “Take Columbus. We’ll cut him off down below.”
Pilcher swung the car even as the Lieutenant spoke. His hand moved to the dashboard; the siren came on again, drowning out the rhythmic clicking of the windshield wipers. Below them the bay was covered with fog; it crept partially up the hill they were on, dissipating itself in the light rain that was falling. The pavement glistened beneath them, treacherous, waiting for the slightest mistake on the part of the driver. Pilcher’s face was a mask, his blue eyes icy. He stepped on the gas, taking the diagonal street faster than he wished, but determined not to slow down.
Southern Two came back on. “That idiot will get us all killed! It’s slippery as hell here.” The disembodied voice sounded almost admiring. “He can travel, but we’re gaining.”
Reardon leaned forward as if to help the patrol car’s speed. They shot through the triangular intersections with t
heir siren clearing the slower traffic to one side, weaving about cars who paid the warning little or no attention.
“He’s turning into Bay. I might get a shot at his tires. We’re only a couple of blocks back of him now.”
“No shooting! Not in the city! You’d ricochet and kill somebody!”
“Right.”
Pilcher swayed violently as the patrol car shot around a cable car turning into Columbus from Mason. The faintest sheen of sweat touched his forehead. Reardon swallowed and then peered ahead.
“We’ve got him now.” His voice was taut. Bay Street lay only four blocks below them. He raised the microphone. “We’re on Columbus crossing Lombard. We’re going to try and cut him off at Bay.”
“Right.”
Reardon put the microphone in place and glanced at Pilcher. “When we get there, block the road.” Pilcher’s leathery face revealed nothing; he merely nodded. Reardon looked at him a moment in silence. “And when we do, be ready to jump.”
“Yes, sir.” No muscle moved in his face.
Reardon brought his eyes back to the road. One hand grasped the door handle for instant action; the other braced itself against the dashboard. His heart began to beat more rapidly, adrenaline induced. Below them Bay Street rushed toward them out of the fog.…
CHAPTER 14
Thursday—11:20 A.M.
They crossed Chestnut with Pilcher already beginning to slow down his suicidal speed; at Francisco he began applying the brakes, easily at first, and then more firmly, controlling the tendency of the car to skid with strong hands responding instantly with countermoves on the steering wheel. Below them the fog boiled over the intersection of Bay and Columbus, hiding it. They approached the crossing at a reasonable speed, but before Pilcher could take the patrol car into the intersection, an ancient black car hurled itself past, its driver hunched over the wheel, unrecognizable at that speed.
Automatically and without thinking Pilcher tramped on the gas again, a muttered curse on his breath, swinging up the incline into Bay Street behind it. The noise of his siren cut out the similar warning from Southern Two, hurtling up Bay in pursuit of the fleeing Buick. Even as he did so Pilcher realized his error; he tried to swing to the near side of the street to allow room for the other car, but it was too late. There was the squeal of useless brakes, a shriek of wet tires fighting the slippery pavement for purchase, and then a heavy crash, audible over the sirens, metal on metal, a brief pause and then another crash. Pilcher braked instantly, looking into his rearview mirror. Reardon looked back over his shoulder, twisting in the seat. Southern Two in attempting to avoid them had sideswiped a parked car, bounced off, twisted across the street and struck another. Its siren sobbed itself to silence. Nobody emerged from the wrecked car.
Reardon swung his body back. “Get going!” His voice was tight. “We’re not going to lose him now!” He raised the microphone as Pilcher brought his eyes back to the road, stamping on the accelerator, regaining speed. His eyes searched the fog ahead for the outline of the black car even as he spoke into the perforated disc. “Communications! Rush an ambulance to Bay and Columbus. Southern Two had a bad accident. Send the nearest car to help. We’ve got Crocker ahead of us and we can’t stop.”
“Yes, sir.”
He put the microphone back in place and sat still, his eyes glued on their quarry, now faintly visible ahead of them. They were gaining on the black car, slowly but perceptibly. Reardon realized their siren was clearing traffic from the path of the Buick as well as their own, but he didn’t want Crocker to die in a car crash. He wanted him alive where he could answer questions before he went to the gas chamber.
They passed Fort Mason at a reckless speed, their windshield wipers flashing before their eyes, clicking madly, their entire world now the scream of the siren and the swaying back of the car ahead, framed in the swirling fog. Reardon was thankful it was not rush hour; their quarry would almost certainly have been able to make it impossible to be followed. Reardon reached for the microphone again.
“Communications. Notify the Golden Gate Bridge police as well. It looks like that’s where he’s heading. Either there or the Presidio.”
“We already have, Lieutenant.”
“Good.”
The microphone went back in place. The Buick ahead of them cut sharply into Cervantes, turned at the end to parallel the water of the bay on Marina Boulevard without slackening speed, and then suddenly swayed violently, weaving across the road. For a split second Reardon wondered what could possibly be in Crocker’s mind to handle the car so dangerously; then his brain began functioning again.
“Blowout,” he said briefly, but with deep satisfaction.
Pilcher hit his brakes at once; at those speeds it took distance to bring a car to a safe halt. Ahead of them the Buick slued around in a circle and slammed into a telephone pole, crushing in the side opposite the driver. Crocker was out of it before it had stopped rocking; he paused long enough to throw two quick shots in their direction and then he had disappeared down one of the wooden ramps leading to the Marina yacht harbor. The patrol car came to a halt beside the crashed car, its siren cut. Both Reardon and Pilcher were out at once, running toward the water’s edge, guns in hand. There was the roar of a motor and the loud shout of someone’s voice raised in outraged anger. They came to the edge of the grass to see a young man in his early twenties screaming after a small speed boat disappearing into the fog.
Reardon and Pilcher trotted down the ramp to the pier. The young man turned at the sound and noted Pilcher’s uniform.
“Hey!” He pointed. “That guy swiped a boat!”
“And I’m going to swipe another,” Reardon said flatly. “Police.” He turned to Pilcher, speaking rapidly, putting his gun back into his belt holster. “Get back to the car and have Communications advise the harbor police. And see what they can do about trying to keep an eye on places he might possibly land.” This latter was a completely hopeless task and he knew it; the bay with its surrounding arms encompassed hundreds of miles of shore line. “And then stick around and wait for me.” He turned to the young man. “Which is the fastest one here?”
“This one; it’s mine.” The boy’s voice hardened. “But I go with it.”
Reardon hesitated only a fraction of a second and then dropped into the bottom of the boat. There was no time to argue and he realized he knew nothing of the bay. That body of water, as familiar to him in sunlight as the back of his hand, was a mysterious wasteland in the fog.
“All right, then. Let’s go.”
The young man threw off the mooring and slipped behind the wheel, grinding the starter. The twin engines caught with a roar; the boat fairly jumped from the dock, throwing Reardon back into his seat. Ahead of them the opening into the bay presented itself faintly in the thickening mist; beyond, the white curtain formed a solid wall, pierced by the hundred voices of as many foghorns. Reardon was suddenly very glad he had allowed the boy to take charge of the boat; alone he knew he would have been forced to return to shore—assuming he could locate it—and pray that eventually the harbor police or some lucky patrolman on shore would pick Crocker up. Not that he could see any great hope for himself to do it, but at least on the water there was a chance. And Crocker, he felt, was his personal quarry.
The young man slowed the large engines once they had passed the Marina entrance; the partially muted motors contained their roar to a growl. The boat rocked in the rougher waters of the bay. The boy spoke without taking his eyes from the wall of mist they were penetrating.
“What’s he wanted for?”
“Murder. He ran a man down with a car. Purposely.” Reardon looked at the boy. “He’s armed, you know.”
“I know. I thought for a minute there he was going to take a shot at me back on the dock. That’s my girl’s boat he took; she’ll give me hell for not stopping him, as it is.” He seemed to realize the purpose behind the statement; his grin faded. “I spent my year in Vietnam. I’ve seen a gun.”
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“I’m sure.”
The boy thought of something. “Does this character know the bay?”
“I have no idea. Why?”
“Does he know one foghorn from another?”
“I don’t know that either. Why?”
“Because if he doesn’t, he can get hurt.” The boy’s tone indicated he was more worried about the boat the other was riding than his personal safety. “You have to know the horns.”
“He could get hurt, all right.” Reardon stared out into the faintly yellow mist. His ears picked up and tried to separate the dozens of echoes filtering through the fog. “There must be a hundred boats out there, judging by their foghorns. I never saw that many on a clear day.”
“Those aren’t boats. Some are, but the majority aren’t.” The boy tilted his head. “Hear that real deep one? Lasts about two seconds and then waits about ten and then comes back? That’s the bridge, the north pier. And that quick one, higher—goes boop-boop, and then waits.…” They waited. “There it goes. That one, off to our left. That’s the southeast part of Alcatraz. The northeast corner goes grummm—” He waited, counting. “—grummm. Like that.” The Alcatraz foghorns accommodated by not disagreeing with him. Boop-boop—Grummm-grummm.…
Reardon glanced at him. “You don’t have a horn?”
“Speedboats usually don’t go out in weather like this. In fact, they aren’t supposed to.”
Reardon stared about him in growing hopelessness. The boy swung the wheel as the sound of a horn grew in intensity, coming in their direction. “Moving,” he said succinctly and eased up on the throttles. Through the wall of fog the rusted side of a medium-sized freighter could be seen rocking slowly by, Plimsoll line indicating the owners would soon go broke if they couldn’t book more cargo. The boy suddenly cut his engine to the faintest of purrs consistent with continued ignition. He listened intently. Reardon stared at him curiously.
“What is it?”
“I thought I heard a speedboat motor. Everything else on the bay in a fog comes and goes, except big ships. You can hear their screws, but it’s different. A speedboat …” He paused, bending forward slightly.
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