Deadline, 2 A.M.

Chapter 5

Saturday — 9:45 A.M.

“No fingerprints on the cassette itself, which figures, but we have a lovely bunch from the package,” Reardon said. He sounded more sanguine about them than he felt, since the chances were they belonged to the wino who had planted the package. Still, it was a slip-up on the part of the kidnapper, if only a tiny one; first, not to have instructed his messenger about leaving prints, and secondly, using one of the few kinds of paper that retained fingerprints easily. Maybe old happy-voice wasn’t as smart as he seemed. “If Stan doesn’t pick up the drunk, maybe we’ll be able to identify him through the prints.”

“If the prints don’t belong to the mailman,” Clark said dourly.

“The mailman didn’t touch that package,” Reardon said confidently. “He didn’t even know he had it. Anyway, the package and the paper and the string are all down in the lab, on the offhand chance they’ll tell us something. In the meantime, let’s hear what the tape has to say.”

He pulled the tape recorder he had borrowed from the sound lab closer; the men in the room crowded nearer, tense now that the tape was about to be played. Boynton gave a terse nod and Reardon slid the cassette into place and pushed the proper buttons. He stared at the slowly unwinding tape, willing himself a picture of the kidnapper from the voice he was awaiting, a picture that could lead him to the man quickly. Once located, Reardon was fairly sure he could drag some facts from the man, possibly even painfully.

There were several seconds of scratchy silence, followed by a sudden aliveness in the tape, as if it had been slumbering and was now awake and ready to go to work. In the background there was a rhythmic bumping sound, muffled, and then the scratchiness disappeared and the familiar cheery voice broke in on them, too loud. Reardon hastily twisted the knob, the volume dropped until they were straining to hear; he twisted again, bringing the sound to a reasonable level. They apparently had missed little.

“...lo, hello, hello. Testing, one, two, three. Testing, one, two, three. Are you there? Are you ready? No, I’m Reddy’s brother. Old joke.” There was a break in the voice pattern, during which the strange rhythmic background sound dominated, then even that stopped. Reardon was about to reach for the recorder when the voice returned. “It played back reasonably well, folks. I’d hate to have my deathless prose lost to posterity — or to you folks — simply because I haven’t learned how to properly work this ridiculous little gadget, yet. But I’m sure you’re not interested in my problems, so let’s get down to yours.”

There was another brief pause, during which someone in the room was heard to mutter, “He talks too gaddamn much!” Then the voice returned. Now, however, the tone was subtly changed. The lightness still seemed to be there on the surface, but it was only a thin veneer over a deadly purpose. The men around the table stared at the small tape recorder with hard, expressionless faces.

“Gentlemen, we are holding Sergeant Holland as our prisoner, as you know. In order to obtain his release, you will release a prisoner you are now holding in your cell block on the top floor of the Hall of Justice. This prisoner is awaiting trial on a minor charge, and possibly extradition. He means nothing to you, but I want him. His name is Guillermo Lazaretti. You will release this prisoner to us at exactly two o’clock tomorrow morning. You will not be cute and try to follow him once you drop him off at the proper place, nor will you try to put any gizmo on him that might enable you to track him electronically, or any other way. Not that any such gadgetry would work, since we honestly are not fools, but primarily because Sergeant Holland would suffer for any such stupidity on your part.

“Incidentally, I should hate to hear the sound of any helicopter or any low-flying aircraft in the vicinity of the release point, so I suggest you inform the necessary officials of any airports. Two in the morning is scarcely the time for low-flying pleasure craft, so for Sergeant Holland’s sake, I hope everyone remembers this point.

“Now, for the release point. Your car, containing just the driver and Lazaretti, will leave the Hall of Justice at precisely one-thirty in the morning. If you wish to keep Lazaretti cuffed during the ride, you may do so, as the cuffs will present no problem, but a third person in the car is strictly prohibited. You will have the driver take Third Street south past China Basin and along the docks. He will pass Central Basin and continue. Just beyond the point where Army Street dead-ends into Third, there is a small bridge that crosses Islais Creek Channel. You will drop your man off at the center of the bridge and immediately drive on and out of sight. And I mean on, and I mean out of sight, and I mean immediately. Nor would I suggest planting anyone either under or even near the bridge beforehand. The only one who would suffer would be Sergeant Holland.

“It’s just that simple. Until two o’clock tomorrow morning, then.”

There was a stop in the voice recording, although the background thumping sound continued. Reardon stared at the little the machine as the tape grated on; then the voice was suddenly back and Reardon knew what he had been waiting for. Now the old jollity was back again.

“Oh, yes, I almost forgot, didn’t I? If you are all good little boys and do what Papa says, your Sergeant Holland will be freed — relatively unharmed — exactly twenty-four hours later. We haven’t decided just where at the moment, but if he needs a dime for a phone call, we’ll loan him one. We’re not all bad, you know.

“And that, I’m afraid, is really that.”

This time there was an air of finality about the voice stopping. The background sound returned, fainter now; the tape ran on for several more revolutions and then ended. Reardon leaned over and pressed the STOP button. There were several moments of dead silence in the room; then Captain Tower of Homicide spoke. He sounded puzzled.

“And just who in hell,” he asked wonderingly, “is Guillermo Lazaretti?”

There was dead silence as the men at the table all looked at one another in equal bewilderment; then all eyes seemed to turn at the same time to contemplate Lieutenant Zelinski, of Detention.

“Well, Jeez,” Zelinski said sullenly. “You know how many guys we got in the tank upstairs? You guys got any idea? What am I supposed to do? Keep track of each one of them individually? Kee-ri!” He reached out a hamlike hand and dragged one of the telephones on the table closer, dialed an internal number, and growled into it when it was answered. He waited and the others waited with him. A moment later Zelinski had the information he wanted and was bobbing his bullet-head up and down as he hung up. “Yeah, now I remember. Sure, now I remember. A foreign guy—”

“We don’t extradite many nationals,” someone said dryly.

“I remember,” Zelinski said, paying no attention to the interruption. “A tough guy. Weighs a hundred pounds dripping wet and because he had a couple weapons on him, he thinks he’s Joe Louis. He was picked up in a scrap with another guy, another foreigner, both of them armed. Guns and knives. They were going after each other with the shivs when a plainclothes cop busted it up and called the wagon. Yeah, now I remember. They both come up in front of Judge Melchor either next Wednesday or Thursday, I forget which.”

Boynton frowned. “What was all that about extradition?”

“I remember,” Zelinski said, as if to flaunt his now-operative memory. “Yeah, now I remember. They both refused lawyers A guy come out from the Italian Consulate. Said something when he left about how they’d both probably be extradited.”

“They’re wanted in Italy?”

Zelinski grinned. “Naw.” His face straightened. “I mean, no, sir. Not that I know of. I guess it’s just that the consulate guy figured they wouldn’t be wanted over here. I mean, concealed weapons, attempted assault with a deadly weapon—”

“And they’re not even citizens,” someone said sardonically.

“Yeah,” Zelinski said, pleased someone understood.

Chief Boynton brought the meeting back to order.

“Italian eh? The other one, too?”

“Yes, sir. His name is Vito Patrone.”

“Were they drunk when they were brought in?”

“No, sir. Sober as a judge, the two of them.”

“Did they say what the fight was about?”

“No, sir. Matter of fact,” Zelinski said honestly, “neither one of them speaks a word of English, and after we got an interpreter from the courts downstairs, they both clammed up. Haven’t said a word since, either one of them.”

Boynton drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. “No English, eh?”

“No, sir. Not a word. Or if they have, we don’t know it.”

“What about their passports?”

“All in order, sir. Tourist visas good for ninety days, issued in Rome a month or so ago.”

“Had they ever been in the States before?”

“If they did,” Zelinski said, his memory now prodded into working on all twelve cylinders, “it had to be more than four years ago, if they come into the country legally, that is. I remember all about them two guys, now. Yeah. We got their passports upstairs if you want to see them, but I remember them passports. Four years old and no trips to the United States in that time. Other places, I don’t remember where, but not here.”

“Any other identification on them?”

“Well, their passports, and they each had a wallet and each one had plenty of cash on him, but” — he frowned — “now you mention it, sir, no other I.D. in the wallets.” Zelinski had a sudden thought. He pointed toward the tape recorder. “But that guy, he knew Lazaretti, at least by name.”

“True,” Boynton said, not greatly impressed. “What about their passage? Their plane tickets?”

“They didn’t have them on them, sir.” Zelinski tried to answer what he considered an unspoken criticism. “We figured, what the hell, they’d be out of our hair in three, four days, Chief. We didn’t really get very involved with them. They were just in for a street scrap. We get a lot more serious stuff coming through all the time.”

If Boynton had been contemplating criticism, he didn’t voice it.

“Were they staying in town?”

Zelinski reddened a bit. “Like I said, sir, they didn’t hand out any information.” He brightened a bit. “But if they were staying in a hotel under their own names — and they probably would be, because maybe they figured they had to turn in their passports here like they do in Europe — it shouldn’t be too tough to trace them.” A thought came to him. “But we don’t have to trace them sir. We got them.”

“Except you say they haven’t been overly communicative.” Boynton shrugged. “Besides, staying in a hotel without speaking a word of English? My own guess is they’d be with friends or relatives. Not,” he added half to himself, “where I can see it makes one damn bit of difference.” He drummed his fingers on the table, while he stared off into space, thinking.

Reardon suddenly spoke without really knowing why. Only a faint memory of something Porky Frank had said — or hadn’t said, he didn’t recall which at the moment — seemed to prompt him.

“Was there anything in the newspapers about these two characters? Being picked up by the police, I mean?”

Zelinski shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. If there was, I didn’t see it. I can’t imagine who would be interested, but there’s always reporters hanging around, and one of them maybe might have put in a squib. Easy enough to find out, I suppose. Just ask the reporters.”

“Yeah,” Reardon said, and fell silent.

Captain Vinocur, of Communications, spoke up. He had been Mike Holland’s latest superior, and had been lying back in the bushes, waiting to see what would develop. He was a giant of a man, with spiky black hair that jetted from his wrists and arms, as well as his head, removed to Communications after ten years, eight citations, and three trips to the hospital as head of Narcotics.

“All right,” he said in his booming voice. “In the meantime, what do we do about Mike?” He glared around the room. “Damn it, he’s a good man!”

“Well, damn it yourself,” Clark said with even more than his usual irritation. “We sure as hell don’t let ourselves get blackmailed, that’s for damned sure!” He seemed to have forgotten that moments before he had been positive the entire thing had been a tempest in a teapot. “Look like bloody idiots if we did!”

“Except that it might make it a little tough on Mike, don’t you think?” It was Captain Tower, huge in a suit that seemed, as usual, far too small for him. He spoke in a deceptively mild voice.

There was a brief silence, broken by Chief Boynton.

“Captain Clark has a point,” he said. He had forced all emotion from his voice and was speaking in the flat, impersonal tones of a person responsible for the Police Department, and not as an individual. He paused in his finger-drumming and looked at Tower, but he was addressing each man in the room independently, and each man knew it. “Let’s face it — if we let one prisoner be exchanged for a kidnapped police officer, there wouldn’t be a police officer safe on his beat, or in his patrol car, or in his home, or anywhere else, from then on.”

Vinocur started up in his chair, prepared to argue, his big pockmarked face reddening. He was in no mood to watch his language at the moment, chief or no chief.

“Now, let’s wait a goddamn second! You mean we just sit around on our big fat duffs and let Mike Holland go down the drain? What the hell gives around here? A couple guys get into an argument on the street, so they get pulled in! So what? So they were armed. Who in hell isn’t, in this town, for Christ’s sake? Ten-year-old kids got guns in this town! And these two guys, they didn’t kill anybody — nobody even got hurt! So we let one of them go in exchange for Mike, for a police officer! What’s the difference we let him go or Judge Melchor fines him fifty bucks next Wednesday or Thursday and then kicks his ass out of the country? You tell me, what’s the difference? Except maybe Mike gets taken out of the play in the meantime!”

“It’s the principle of the thing, dummy...!” Clark began, but Boynton cut him off abruptly.

“Let’s all calm down. And watch our language.” He frowned and began drumming on the table again, speaking in a low voice, as if more to himself than to the meeting. “And it isn’t the principle of the thing, at all. Principles are great when they’re practical, but otherwise they’re just so much shouting down a rain barrel.”

He swung around to look Vinocur in the eye.

“Let’s keep remembering one thing — the crime here isn’t a street fight, where we can make up our mind easily to let a hood go. The crime here is kidnapping. And you ought to know as well as anyone how often the victim of a kidnapping is ever freed after the demands are met. Especially if he’s in a position to identify his kidnapper. You know as well as I do that the percentage is that Mike Holland is dead right now, whether you want to face that fact or not.”

Vinocur couldn’t wait for the chief to finish before he burst out:

“Then what in hell is to be lost by letting this Lazaretti go?” He looked around the table, as if soliciting support. “Anyway, maybe you kill a kidnap victim if big dough is involved, but just to get some two-bit punk out of hock? Why would any guy kill a cop just to get a man out of jail who’ll be out in three, four days anyway?”

“I don’t know why the man on that tape wants this Lazaretti out right now,” Boynton said quietly, “Probably because he may well be extradited to Italy at once, and not be available. But that’s not the point. The fact is this man has kidnapped a police officer who can identify him. And you can talk around it all you want, you still know what the chances are for the victim in cases like that.”

“Maybe,” Vinocur said. He had cooled down somewhat during the chief’s last statement. Then he added a bit desperately, “But on the other hand, sir, maybe Mike’s still alive. And even if you’re right, like I said before, what’s the big loss in letting some smalltime punk go just on the tiny chance that maybe Mike is still all right and will be all right? A couple of lousy days in the time of some nobody tough guy — that’s all that would be lost.” He stared at Boynton. “Maximum.”

“It’s still the principle of the thing, I say,” Clark started.

Boynton cooled him with a look. He turned back to Vinocur, considered the scowling face a moment, and then looked around the circle of frozen faces slowly, pausing a moment at each man’s face to consider him individually.

“All right,” he said at last, without any expression in his deep voice. “Let’s spread this thing around. What do the rest of you think?” He held up a broad palm, interrupting the four or five voices that had instantly broken out. “Wait a second. Before you speak, just remember a few things. One — in the entire history of this world, nobody ever reduced terror by giving in to it. Nobody. Ever. And that’s what we’d be doing. Two — a police officer — and for the purpose of this discussion Mike Holland is still a police officer, retired or not — automatically accepts certain risks when he signs up for the job. Among those risks are to do whatever is necessary, at whatever personal risk, to protect innocent people, and this includes his fellow officers. If we give in to this man’s demands, I tell you again in my honest opinion, no cop will ever be safe in this town again. Three — this Lazaretti is the only connection we have at the moment with the kidnapper. If we let Lazaretti go, we’ll probably be releasing our only chance of ever catching the man who kidnapped Mike Holland. And last but not least—”

He paused a moment before continuing, adding emphasis to his words.

“—if Mike Holland is still alive, the chances are he’ll only stay alive as long as this man’s demands are not met. The minute his demands are met he’ll have every reason to eliminate Mike. Remember, kidnapping comes under the Lindbergh law, whether the ransom demanded is a small-time tough guy or a billion dollars.” There was another pause; then Boynton said in a quieter tone, “All right, that’s how I feel. Now, let’s have your opinions.”

There was dead silence. Even Vinocur had nothing to say. Boynton sighed.

“All right. Then this Lazaretti stays in his cell, and beyond Wednesday or Thursday, too. Until we get the man who wants him out; until we get Mike Holland” — he did not feel it necessary to repeat the possibility of Holland being dead — “and the man who kidnapped him.”

Captain Tower cleared his throat. “Which department gets it?”

“All departments. I’ll co-ordinate myself.” He turned to Roy Gentry, all business now that the decision had been made. “From the laboratory, the first thing I want is a complete study of that tape. Voice patterns and graphs. Possible places of purchase; all efforts to trace. Call on any department you want for legwork, or hands; call on outside tape experts if you need them. Maybe some of those people who studied the eighteen-minute gap in the Watergate thing, if necessary. Since Lazaretti just came from Italy and hadn’t been here before that we know, we’ll also want to know if there might be any indication the speaker on the tape could be of Italian extraction, or anything else you can determine. Age, if possible, or education—”

“Also any idea as to what that funny background sound could be,” Reardon said, interrupting.

Boynton frowned at the interruption and went back to Gentry.

“Also any ideas on anything. Including the package it came in, string, paper, inside box; everything.” He swung around to Clark. “I want Traffic to concentrate on Holland’s car. The bridges; maybe the toll-booth attendants will remember something, if he crossed a bridge. All garages, the streets, public parking lots. The car may be parked someplace overtime.” His voice turned conversational. “I remember one time we looked all over for a car, damn thing was downstairs in the police garage, pulled in for scofflawing. Everyplace.”

He turned to the man at his elbow, still scribbling.

“Mark, I want the stations to have their footmen check out drugstores, public buildings, movie theaters — any places that have interior telephone booths, and see if anyone might have seen a man with a tape recorder in a booth last night. Bus stations, the airport — everywhere. They’ll also be keeping their eyes open for Holland’s car. What kind was by the way?”

“Black Chevy, four-door sedan,” Clark said. “1965. Plate number 6Y-286.” Reardon looked across at him in surprise and then shrugged. A bastard he was, but he was still a cop.

“Mark it down,” Boynton said. “All of you.” He turned to another man, busy scribbling the license number in his notebook. “Dave—”

Davidson, of Robbery, looked up.

“I want your men to go out to Holland’s house and go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Not just the top, but under the rugs. Look for a safe, or secret compartments. Look in the cellar. Look for betting slips, or a possible tie-in with gambling—” A hush had fallen on the room. Boynton was aware of it. “I know,” he said quietly, “but we do this all the way.” He turned back to Davidson. “Also check the driveway and the garage for any hint as to what might have happened. Hit the neighbors again, any enemies Holland might have had we don’t know about. And don’t stop at one block either side of the house — go two blocks, or three. And check the stores near there, where he bought stuff, the butcher, the liquor stores, the bars. You know what I want.”

He turned again. “Sam—”

Captain Tower looked at the chief without expression. “Chief?”

“Well, nobody’s been murdered yet in this affair, at least that we know, and I know you’ve got your hands full...” The chief considered a moment. “Well, since your men have started out after the drunk who put the package in the mailman’s bag, you might as well continue on that. And then maybe you ought to have a man down at Third at that channel bridge tonight...” He paused to think a moment. “No, that’s not such a good idea. Let’s play it his way, at least for the time being. In fact, Clark, you better tell the patrol cars to steer clear of that area from one to three in the morning, at least.”

Clark leaned forward.

“Maybe we could still keep an eye on the bridge, sir. From the water. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised he plans on picking up this Lazaretti by boat — that’s why he wanted it at that channel bridge, sir!” The more he thought about the idea the better he liked it. “Yes, sir! We could get hold of the Harbor Patrol—”

“That’s an idea,” Boynton said, and turned to the man at his side. “Mark, be sure and contact the Harbor Patrol and tell them to keep their goddamn boats away from the Islais Channel Bridge — in fact, tell them to keep the hell away from that whole side of the bay unless the city is burning down. Okay? From one to three in the morning. After that they can go back to fishing for gropers.” He gave Clark one look and then turned back to the room in general. “Who do we have who speaks Italian?”

Reardon spoke up quickly.

“Sergeant Dondero, sir.” Damned if Homicide was going to be left out of the case altogether! He knew Dondero spoke some Italian — he was positive he swore in it fluently — but he wasn’t sure about the normal vocabulary. He only hoped it was enough; it would be a pity to hang Don because of his own big mouth.

“Fine. Well, he can be detached from Homicide, temporarily. I want him to try to check on all the hotels to see if Lazaretti stayed at any of them — Lazaretti or the other one, whatever his name is. I want him to try and find out who Lazaretti was in contact with, what phone calls he got, and so forth and so on. I want him to check with the Italian Consulate, with Interpol, or with anyone else he can think of, to see if he was known. He can try the neighborhood clubs; they’re strong in old-country family relationships. Maybe there was a vendetta of some sort.” He nodded. “Have him look for any possible connection with the Organization here, although I doubt the Organization would fool with kidnapping a cop. Or that they would tolerate a long-winded joker like that on their payroll. And have him interview the man—”

Captain Tower leaned over to speak quietly into Reardon’s ear. “And you stick with Dondero, understand?”

Reardon grinned and then straightened his face. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Tower rolled back.

Boynton turned to Lieutenant Giordano, of the Loft Squad.

“Tim—”

He was interrupted by a brief but loud series of rappings on the door, after which it was opened diffidently. Stan Lundahl stuck his head in, looked around until he located Reardon, and then straightened up, holding the door open with one hand. Boynton looked at him severely, not pleased by having his instructions interrupted.

“Is there something you want?”

“Sir, I was looking for—”

Lieutenant Reardon stood up. “It’s Detective Lundahl, sir, from our department. He went after that wino.” He looked at Lundahl, fearing the worst from the doleful expression on Stan’s face. “Well? What happened? Did you find him?”

“Yeah,” Lundahl said, to Reardon’s surprise. He took a deep breath and went on. “He’s downstairs in the morgue. He was run down and killed up in Potrero, out at the end of a dead-end street on top of the hill. No witnesses, at least so far. We found the car that hit him abandoned less than a block away. Frank Wilkins is finishing up with it now; he should have it down in the garage in an hour or so at the most.”

He saw the look on Reardon’s face and nodded lugubriously.

“Yeah,” he said heavily. “Yeah. We also found Mike Holland’s car. It did the job. And if they used it to kill one guy, why should they play tippy-toe with Mike...?”