Deadline, 2 A.M.

Chapter 7

Sunday — 3:00 A.M.

Reardon was having a dream. Under a completely neutral sky that almost looked like a drop cloth rather than a real sky, he drove quickly and confidently down a deserted road that twisted and turned between endless darkened warehouses. Though his neutral sky exhibited neither moon nor stars, and there were no streetlights nor headlamps to his car, somehow there seemed to be ample illumination, and though he did not know where he was going, he was sure he would recognize the place when he got there.

Ahead and slightly below there was a sudden bright cluster of lights, and he slowed the vehicle he was piloting — for now it was a tiny airplane — bringing it carefully through the tangle of overhead wires with skillful slips and edgings and stops and starts, to set the craft gently down alongside the roadway beside a narrow bridge. Then, without consciously alighting from the plane, he found himself with a noisy group at the top of a well-lit flight of stairs that led downward beside the small bridge to the water below. It reminded him of Paris, as seen in the movies, which was the only way he had ever seen Paris, with the Seine twisting through the city and these sets of steps at every bridge leading to the quays below, and suddenly he was in a gay mood, ready for celebration. Among the group with him he recognized Dondero and Captain Tower and Frank Wilkins, although Captain Clark was missing, and he found himself pleased at this. A band was playing from below and he found himself anxious to get down the steps and join the festivities.

He handed over flying goggles and a leather jacket to the waiter from Marty’s who had advised him of the telephone call the night before, and then he was hurrying down the steps to join the others, who presumably had preceded him, but when he reached the bottom he found he had somehow managed to get himself on the opposite side of the narrow channel, and that the music and the tables and Dondero and Tower and the rest were across the water from him, sitting near the band with drinks in their hands and obviously enjoying themselves.

At first he thought it was merely a joke, his having been put across the river from the party; all he had to do was to climb the steps, cross the bridge, and descend on the proper side to join the others, but when he looked up he saw that the steps weren’t the wide stone steps he had descended but were the narrow grating type used on fire escapes, and that they twisted and turned to disappear into infinite blackness, and he knew if he started up them, when he came down the other side, if he could ever find the other side, the restaurant would be gone.

For a moment he wondered if possibly he might be dreaming, one of those endlessly frustrating uncomfortable dreams from which one had to awaken to escape the overwhelming tension; but then he saw there was a small rowboat tied to the jetty on his side of the water, and he knew he was not in any dreaded impossible position, because all he had to do was row across and he would be with the others.

He climbed into the rowboat, pleased to see that it was dry and equipped with oars, and set out, facing the other shore and pushing on the oars as his father had taught him when he wanted to see where he was rowing. But the harder he pushed, the farther away the other side of the narrow stream appeared, and the larger the boat in which he was riding, until he found himself at the prow of a large liner steaming silently through the night. He stared helplessly out into the darkness, searching for the shoreline and the lights, and thought desperately, I’ll have to warn them somehow that I won’t be able to get to the party. Then Mike Holland was at his side, dressed in his police uniform, and he knew that Mike was one of the officers on the ship. And Mike said comfortingly, I’ll warn them with the ship’s whistle. But instead of the deep throaty rumble of the ship’s whistle, what came out of the whistle was the high soprano shrilling of a bell, and it rang and it rang and he wanted Mike to stop it, but it kept on ringing...

Reardon rolled over, annoyed at the racket, coming from his dream slowly and with effort. The ringing would not go away, and he tried to sit up, hampered a bit in his efforts by Jan’s arm across his chest. He lifted it tenderly and placed it to one side, groping in the dark for the telephone. He raised the receiver, still trying to bring himself back from the compelling grip of the dream, from the unknown but frightful dread he had felt on the liner’s deserted deck to the warm security of the darkened bedroom.

“Hello? Yes?”

“Lieutenant Reardon?”

Sleep tried to escape but was checked by the remnants of the dream. Reardon squeezed his eyes tightly shut and then opened them wide, fighting the anesthesia of his almost coma-like sleep. The voice sounded faintly familiar. Probably one of the new men in Communications, Reardon thought sleepily, and yawned deeply, hoping the call was nothing that might drag him from his warm bed, although his subconscious was happy it had brought him from that ghastly liner and that invisible shoreline. Somehow he felt he had been saved from a terrible experience by being wakened. The voice in his ear repeated itself, a bit sharper in tone.

“Lieutenant Reardon!”

“Yeah, this is Reardon...”

“Good. Did I wake you?”

Sleep fled and this time kept its distance. It was a voice Reardon had sworn he would never forget for the rest of his life, and he kicked himself for not having recognized it immediately. He reached up and flicked on the lamp over the bed, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, automatically registering the hour in his mind.

“What do you want?”

There was a dry, humorless chuckle.

“So you’re finally awake and know who you’re speaking to. Good!”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? That’s rather a stupid statement, you know? I told you before what I want. I want Guillermo Lazaretti! I thought I had made that abundantly clear in my tape, but apparently you people thought I was not serious. Well, believe me, I was! If you—”

“How’s Mike Holland?”

The voice continued as if there had been no interruption. It almost sounded like a tape, with the lack of personal inflection. Reardon strained to hear, but the mechanical bumping sound that had been present in the tape was now lacking.

“—search the small ledge under the bridge that crosses the Islais Creek Channel, along the south side of the channel, I think you’ll discover something that may convince you I’m really quite serious. Now, listen to me and listen carefully! I expect you people to stop your foolishness and drop Guillermo Lazaretti off at the bridge at two tomorrow morning. My patience, my friend, is not unlimited. If you search the ledge beneath the bridge you’ll know I mean what I say. The instructions for delivering Lazaretti remain the same. Follow them!”

The telephone was hung up abruptly. Reardon instantly clicked the button until he got a dial tone and then quickly dialed. The telephone at the other end rang once and was answered.

“Police Department. Sergeant Silvestre.”

Reardon was pleased that Silvestre was on duty; at least he knew his orders would be carried out quickly and efficiently. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, leaning over the receiver, blanking his mind to what might be found under the bridge.

“Sergeant — this is Lieutenant Reardon. First, I want to put a tracer on a call that was made to my home number just a minute ago. The call came in at 3:04 exactly. Once you’ve put the tracer in motion, call me back.”

“Right,” Silvestre said, and hung up.

Reardon hung up and slid from bed, padding quietly to the chair in one corner, where his clothes were draped. He dragged on his trousers, pulled his turtleneck over his head, and sat down to put on his shoes and socks. He came to his feet, trying to scrape his hair into some semblance of order with his fingers. Jan was watching him quietly from the bed. “Emergency,” he said, and tried to make the word sound innocuous.

Jan glanced at the clock and then looked at him. “You haven’t had much sleep.”

He smiled. “It’s getting to be the story of my life. A policeman’s lot...” He felt it was better for him to say it, than for her; although since Jan had come back there had been surprisingly little talk about the problems of his job. “I’ll try to catch a nap this afternoon.”

Jan sat up. “Time for coffee?”

“I’ll get some down at the Hall. You go back to sleep.” The phone rang and he walked back to the bed to pick it up. “Yes?”

“Sergeant Silvestre, sir. We’ve put the tracer in motion.”

“Good. Sergeant, which patrol car is nearest Third and Army?”

“Just a second, sir.” Reardon waited, picturing Silvestre and the large electronics locations map on the Communications Center wall. “Potrero Five, sir. It’s at General Hospital.”

“In service or out?”

“Just came back in. They delivered a stab victim to emergency; no ambulance available.”

“All right,” Reardon said. “Tell them to get over to Third Street. There’s a small bridge that crosses Islais Creek Channel just a couple of blocks south of Army. Tell them to get under the bridge, on the south side. There’s a ledge there, and there’s supposed to be a package on the ledge. I want it.”

Silvestre, at his end, frowned.

“Do you have any idea what’s in the package, sir? I mean, is it a job for the bomb squad, maybe?”

“No, it isn’t a bomb—”

Reardon paused, frowning. Could it be a bomb? Was that what the unknown man meant to use to convince the police he was serious? It was highly doubtful, but why take a chance? Also, what the hell! Let the Bomb Squad be dragged out of bed like everybody else.

“You may be right,” he said. “Send Potrero Five plus the squad. Whatever they find, assuming it isn’t a bomb, have them bring to the Hall. I’ll be there when they get there.” In one way, he thought, it would be far better if it were a bomb, rather than what I’m afraid it might be.

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

Reardon thought a moment. The kidnapper had definitely sounded sincere, as if he meant business. And, if he had to be wakened, as well as the members of the Bomb Squad, why not make it a full house?

“Sergeant, can you arrange to tie me into a conference call? To both Chief Boynton and Captain Tower?”

“At this hour? You mean, wake them, sir?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Oh, sure I can do it, sir. Just hang on.”

Reardon waited, wondering if the small bridge bore any resemblance to the bridge he had pictured in his dream, and then put the thought away as voices began to mix on the line.

Sunday — 4:15 A.M.

Four men sat around Chief Boynton’s office on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice: Chief Boynton, Captain Tower, Lieutenant Reardon, and Roy Gentry, head of Laboratory Services. Of the four only the chief appeared to be rested, as if he had had a full night’s sleep, which he obviously had not. The window had been opened to allow some of the cigarette and pipe smoke to escape, and also to avoid the imagined odor that might have emanated from the covered laboratory dish that lay in the middle of the table. Fortunately, the laboratory dish that Gentry had selected was made of frosted Pyrex, so the contents were a mere shadow against the milky walls, but every man in the room could visualize with repugnance the contents of the dish.

From beyond the open window came night noises: the distant hooting of a deep-throated whistle from the bay, the high whine of tires on the pavement below, a sudden burst of laughter from some late revelers passing on Bryant. Inside the room the four men steadily contemplated the laboratory dish, each one with his own thoughts. For inside the closed frosted Pyrex dish lay a human finger, now separated from the wedding ring that had adorned it when the laboratory had first received the bloody specimen for examination.

Gentry crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. He took a deep drag, shoved his glasses up farther on his large bony nose, and spewed smoke as he spoke.

“It’s Mike Holland’s finger, all right. Print checks. The ring—”

He reached into his pocket and brought it out, sliding it across the desk. It came to rest a few inches from the small dish; nobody reached out to pick it up.

“—it’s Mike’s. Initials and dates. From a double-ring ceremony, I guess.”

Boynton grunted. He, as well as the others, had never really doubted the fact since the gruesome package had been recovered and delivered to the Hall. He frowned at Gentry.

“Was it cut from a living man or a dead one?”

“We thought of that,” Gentry said, and pushed his glasses up again. “Dr. Lascowski was down in the morgue on night duty, and I showed it to him. We agreed. We don’t know.”

Reardon had been staring at the little dish without really seeing it. Instead he saw a man being held down while someone else, some faceless person, chopped off one of his fingers. He spoke without raising his eyes from the dish.

“Pop’s alive.”

Boynton swung around to stare at him. “What makes you so sure, Lieutenant?”

“They need him alive, if they have to cut off any more fingers,” Reardon said, and raised his eyes from the dish to look at the chief. “Or they think they do.”

Boynton took Reardon’s stare for a moment and then went back to Gentry, changing the subject.

“Did the amputation indicate any degree of medical knowledge? Was it done by a doctor, for example?”

Gentry shrugged. “We discussed that, Lascowski and me. It doesn’t take any surgical skill to cut off a finger. If you put the finger over the edge of a table, or a wood chopping block, with the other fingers down alongside the edge of the table” — he demonstrated with one hand against the edge of the desk — “then all you need do is take a sharp knife or a hatchet—”

“Understood,” Boynton said abruptly, cutting off the detailed description. He looked at each man in turn, and then sighed. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said heavily. “Still, the situation really hasn’t changed. Our reasons for not acceding to this man’s demands remain exactly the same, as far as I can see.” He looked around the room again, and then shrugged. “However, since it’s obvious you don’t all agree with me, or you think we should make the exchange whether you agree with me or not—”

Reardon’s hope’s rose. By God, the chief was going to do it!

“—I’ll take the matter up with the Board of Commissioners this morning as soon as I can get them together. I’ll abide by their decision. But that’s as far as I can go.”

Reardon’s hopes plummeted. The Board of Commissioners weren’t cops; they couldn’t possibly understand the feelings of the men on the force toward a fellow officer in a jam. Still, they were reasonable people, all with families; they ought to be able to put themselves in Pop’s position. And, after all, letting Lazaretti go wouldn’t be putting some hardened criminal on the street. The man hadn’t committed any great crime, and besides, he would have been on an airplane for Rome, extradited, a few hours after he was released, in any event. So, possibly, if Boynton presented the case to the board in the proper perspective... But, the question was, would Boynton?

The chief might have been reading Reardon’s mind.

“The senior department heads will be present and allowed to give their opinions to the board, as well,” he said dryly, and looked around. “Well, anything else before we break up?”

“What about that tape?” Reardon asked.

Gentry spoke up, reaching for a cigarette and his lighter as he did so.

“First, as to that background noise — that bumping sound. We haven’t been able to identify it. Now, as to the voice and identification of the speaker, we did a little better there. We graphed the voice and fed it into the comparator. You gentlemen realize, I’m sure, that these voice machines are far from definitive; they only compare with other data prerecorded and fed the computer. You also realize they aren’t too accurate.”

“We know,” Chief Boynton said in a tone that urged Gentry to get down to facts.

“Yes, sir. Well, among ourselves we break the possibilities into three areas: a presumptive level, which we consider fairly high; a conjecture level, which is a lower probability of accuracy, and” — Gentry smiled, a brief, humorless smile, quite professorial — “a pure guess level, I guess you could call it.”

“Gentry—”

“Yes, sir,” Gentry said, and hurried on, even foregoing lighting his cigarette. “Well, in regard to this particular tape, Ruth Damrosch ran the tests, and as you know she’s the best technician we have. She’s had the most experience—”

“Gentry!”

“Yes, sir,” Gentry said, and finally got down to cases. “The man, according to our presumptions, has lived in the bay area for most of his life, or at least long enough in his formative years to establish his basic speech pattern and tonal definition. There also seems to be a total lack of probability of any Italian in his background, by which I mean any influence from parents, grandparents, or neighborhood environmental forces. In fact, we would judge his background to be British, most probably with a good degree of Scottish in his ancestry.”

He stopped. Boynton frowned.

“That’s all?”

“That’s all, sir.”

“What about the tape itself?”

“The cassette? There were no prints, as you know. The tape was a Memorex 60, available in about every department store, radio shack, tape house, anywhere. These cassettes have no serial number or factory identification of any kind.”

Chief Boynton fell silent. Reardon spoke up.

“You said you hadn’t been able to identify that funny bumping noise. Are you still trying?”

“We’ll try again today, but we don’t have much hope we’ll find anything.” He finally managed to light his cigarette and puffed on it in relief. “You see,” he said, “we don’t have a large library of sounds for comparative purposes, and if we did, I doubt it would be very useful. Most of the standard sound records are made up of sounds we would all recognize without the help of any machine — birds, railroad sounds, automobile racing sounds, animal sounds, car crashes, baby sounds, that sort of thing; libraries primarily built up to be used on soundtracks of films, or TV tapes. Ruth separated that background sound from the voice and fed it into our comparator against the few sounds we have, and” — again there was the brief, classroom-type smile — “all it did was shake its head.”

The silence that fell now was unbroken. Boynton came to his feet.

“What you’re saying,” he said, “is that the man could be almost anyone in this area — with the possible exception of the Italians living here — and the sound in the background could be anything at all. Great.”

Gentry looked down. “I’m sorry...”

“Nobody’s blaming you. It’s just that we’re not getting anywhere on this damned case, and it’s beginning to get under my skin.” He looked at his watch. “Well, gentlemen, I think that’s enough for tonight. I’m going home and try to get a few hours rest. I suggest you all do the same.”

He nodded abruptly, looked around the room to see if anyone felt like disagreeing with him, and then marched through the door. Gentry started to follow and then remembered his exhibits. He reached across the desk, retrieved them, and muttered a hurried good-bye as he trotted from the room. Captain Tower had been silent throughout the meeting; now he came to his feet, stretched, and looked at Reardon.

“Better go home and get some sleep, Jim.”

Reardon yawned. “I’ll catch a couple hours in the gym,” he said, “as soon as I check Communications.” He drew the telephone closer and pressed the button. Silvestre answered.

“Communications, Sergeant Silvestre.”

“Silvestre, this is Lieutenant Reardon. What about that tracer?”

“No dice, sir. With the new equipment the phone company’s installing, about the only way you can trace a call these days is by having a bug on the line.”

“Great!” Reardon muttered, and hung up. “The phone company’s getting too damn mechanical for its own good,” he said half to himself, and remembered something else. He looked up. “Captain, about that board meeting tomorrow—”

“I know,” Tower said quietly. “I know. And so do the rest of the department heads. Don’t worry, Jim. We’ll speak our piece.”