Reardon

Chapter 10

Wednesday — 4:30 P.M.

Dondero was sitting on the edge of an empty desk tossing paper clips into a waste basket across the room when Lieutenant Reardon returned to his office from the basement garage. The sergeant put the balance of the paper clips neatly back in the desk drawer and closed it, suggesting his recognition of the fact that one should not waste tax-payer’s money in plain view of a superior. He nodded, smiling pleasantly.

“I am informed through channels that I’m supposed to work with you a couple of days. A distinct pleasure. I imagine it’s because of my extensive experience in Traffic...”

Reardon stood beside his desk and checked his watch. He disregarded the sarcasm. His eyebrows went up. “I didn’t expect you back so soon, but I’m glad you’re here. We have a lot to do.”

“You told me to hurry back, and you know me. The Faithful Servant.” Dondero sighed. “But don’t think it was easy. My lousy luck I got green lights all the way out to her place. If I was going somewhere I was in a hurry to get to, it wouldn’t work that way.” His voice because serious; he almost sounded on the defensive. “She’s quite a girl, you know? We’re having dinner tonight. It’s just that — well, she’s sort of lost. She needs not to be alone for a while, not to think about what happened.”

“And you’re going to help her.”

“Well, sure.”

Reardon grinned. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say no, did I? You’re both consenting adults.”

“You got it all wrong!” Dondero was insulted and sounded it. “She loses her boy friend one night, I make a pass the next? What kind of a guy do you think I am?” He took a deep breath and calmed down. “Tell you what — maybe we could all have dinner together, you and Jan and Penny and me. How about it?”

“It’s all right with me, and I’m sure Jan won’t mind. I’m meeting her at eight.”

“Swell,” Dondero said, pleased. “I told Penny eight to eight-thirty, so it’ll work out fine. I won’t even tag you for that meal you owe me from last night.” His face fell; he sounded on the defensive once again. “It’s not that I’m trying to saddle you and Jan with another couple if you want to be by yourselves, only I figure my first date with the girl, we oughtn’t to be alone. I don’t want her to think—”

“Quit apologizing,” Reardon said with a smile. He shook his head, running his fingers through his unruly mop of hair. “Dondero, the faithful and shy servant. That’ll be the day!” He forestalled any further comment with a raised hand. “We won’t be ready by either eight or eight-thirty if we keep on jabbering. We’ve got work to do.”

“What work?”

“Just tag along. You’ll find out.” Reardon fished Wilkins’ report from the pile of papers on his desk, folded it and creased it with complete disregard for the effect on the glossy photographs, wrapped a rubber band around it to prevent the bundle from spreading open, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“First to a used-car lot—” The telephone interrupted him. “Damn! Well never get started!” He reached over, dragging it closer by the cord, lifting the receiver. “Hello?”

“Lieutenant Reardon?”

“That’s me.”

“I didn’t recognize your voice. This is Harry Thompson of the magnificent S.S. Mandarin.”

Reardon settled himself on the corner of the desk. “Hello.”

“I went through all the passenger lists on the ship since she was commissioned, and nobody by the name of Crocker ever rode this bucket. The closest was a Mr. and Mrs. Corker, and I remember them. They were a couple in their sixties from Winnemucca, Nevada, wherever that is.” His voice seemed to indicate the Corkers hadn’t been a bad couple, considering their roots and the fact they had been passengers.

Reardon sighed. “Well, that’s how it goes. Thanks, anyhow.”

“Tell you what else I found, though,” Thompson said helpfully. “Just in case you’re looking for somebody who wasn’t using his right name — a shocking state of affairs that happens more often than you might think — I’ve got a mess of photographs from the night of the Captain’s Party. Got them from our photographer. We’ve got a photographer on this cruise ship who saves everything. A pack rat. Someday we’re going to have to leave off cargo or passengers so we’ll have room for his files. May it be passengers! Anyway, do you want to look through them?”

“How many are there?”

“Roughly a trillion.” Thompson paused and then revamped his figures, realizing a trillion might be considered inaccuracy above and beyond the call of exaggeration. “Well, to be a little more exact, he takes about a hundred and fifty each trip on the night of the Captain’s Party, and in eighteen years at three trips a year, that’s—”

“It wouldn’t be eighteen years,” Reardon said, thinking about it. “Eighteen years ago Crocker would have been a kid of fifteen, scarcely taking cruises. Besides, I’m only interested in the years since Bob Cooke has been on the ship.”

“That cuts it down considerably.” Thompson did some mental calculations. “A thousand or so pictures. You want to see them?”

“Hold on a second.” Reardon cupped the receiver. “Don, see if Lundahl is around.”

Dondero shook his head. “He’s out on that mugger-killing over near Haight. I know; I was supposed to working with the Park Station boys and him on it.”

Reardon shrugged and got back on the phone. “Well, we’ve gone this far we might as well go all the way. I’ll either have someone who’s seen Crocker and recognizes him come to the ship in the morning or I’ll come myself. Are the pictures clear?”

“The ones from the Captain’s Party are,” Thompson said. “Our photographer takes his time with those; he catches people shaking hands with the captain in the main salon. The other ones he takes — masquerade parties and people at the pool — you wouldn’t recognize your own mother in one of those.”

“Good enough. Will you be there all morning?”

“Will I be here? Me? You’ve got to be kidding! Our office just sent over a tentative passenger list and their bookings, and they’ve got about six couples in one stateroom, not to mention various other assorted discrepancies. This is a well-run organization, I’ll have you know. I’ll be here, don’t worry.” Thompson’s glum voice brightened. “Why not come over and have lunch? With the passengers gone it’s about the only time you can eat in peace.”

Reardon smiled. “I’ll let you know. What’s the telephone number on board?” He pulled Wilkins’ report from his pocket, marked the number down on the back, and tucked the report back. “I’ll call you in the morning and let you know definitely. All right?”

“Sure. But try to make it. One thing this scow has is decent food. The only thing, I might mention. And bring your girl friend. I’ll tell her tales that will keep her from even riding ferry boats for life.”

Reardon laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Thanks, Mr. Thompson.”

“Just call me Happy Harry. Service with a growl, that’s us.” Thompson chuckled and hung up.

Reardon came to his feet, his smile disappearing, glancing at his watch, wishing Thompson wasn’t quite so longwinded. Still, the way a policeman learned was listening, especially to long-winded people. He moved toward the door.

“Don! Let’s go!”

Wednesday — 5:15 P.M.

Middleton Motors was a large used-car lot on Folsom. The edges of the large lot were strung with a daisy chain of colored light bulbs that sagged over an assorted line of highly polished come-ons. The rows of cars in the rear looked more like used cars, tired and weary, wondering why they still had to serve who had served so much. A high sign in blue and gold rotated above the lot, proclaiming that the place was open until ten each night, and suggesting that bargains such as those offered by Middleton Motors were impossible to obtain elsewhere. At least, Reardon thought reasonably — as he pulled into the lot and parked beside the small shack that apparently served as office — at least the owner didn’t call himself Mad-Man Middle-ton, which was a point in his favor.

They had barely closed the doors of the Charger behind them when a spruce young man wearing a wide, striped necktie and tight pants was standing at their side, smiling at them with the brightness of a toothpaste ad. His one hand was patting the fender of the Charger tenderly, as if it were the flanks of a young girl.

“Not bad!” he said admiringly, appearing to look the Charger over carefully, appreciatively, but actually seeing only the two men from the corner of his eye. “Not bad at all. I’d say you took damned good care of it.” He dropped his voice a bit, taking them into his confidence. “Frankly, that’s more than I can say for the majority of our customers. But on this Charger — hmmm!” His smile widened in congratulation. “Well, I’m sure we can give you a trade-in you’ll find impossible to resist. What kind of a car are you thinking of trading for? Caddy? T-bird? I’ve got a three-year-old Caddy like new. They don’t build them new like that boat. It was owned by an old lady won it in a raffle and never learned to drive. I’m telling you — a steal.”

Dondero was getting more than tired of the spiel. “Look, son. We—”

Reardon interrupted smoothly.

“I’m afraid you got us wrong, friend. We’re looking to trade down, not up. Got us this spread up in the hills back of Big Sur and we need something high off the ground, like they don’t make any more. Old Packard, maybe, or Oldsmobile. Twenty-five, thirty years old. In condition to run, of course, and cheap — if possible.”

Dondero finally woke up, getting into the act. “Can’t be a Jeep, either. I’ve got this hernia, see, and the doctor says no hard rides.”

The young man shook his head. “That’s funny, you know?” For the moment his false cheerfulness and brassy salesmanship had been put aside; he seemed honestly surprised at what had to be, to him, a remarkable coincidence. In another business, Reardon suddenly thought with compassion, the young fellow would be quite a nice guy.

“What’s funny?”

“We had one like that, or almost like that, for almost a year and we figured we were stuck with it. You come in here a week ago, you could have made a real deal. I’m serious.” He nodded. “We took it in from some old character had a farm back off the main road up near Nicasio in Marin County. It was a 1940 Buick, just the sort of thing you guys want. It was the only thing high enough to get him around his farm. But he was moving to town, and I doubt if the thing was ever on concrete until he was driving it down here, so the thing didn’t have many miles on it. Actually, it was in damned good shape, so we took it in trade on a two-year-old LTD. We gave him a damned good deal on it, considering we figured we’re going to be stuck with it. We knew it wasn’t anywhere near old enough for the real old-car buffs, not by at least twenty years, and who else would ever want it?”

“You’re right about the age of old cars,” Reardon said approvingly. “I’ve got a magazine about them. Can’t afford them, but I like to read about the guys who can. So what happened?”

“Well, so about a week ago this guy walks in and grabs it. Says it’s just what he’s been looking for. He had to be some sort of collector.” He shrugged. “I never heard of collecting thirty-year-old cars, but maybe it’s something new.”

“A couple of guys are doing it for the future. Anyway, that’s that. Tough.” Reardon turned to Dondero giving him a wink. “Looks like we missed the boat.” He turned back. “You wouldn’t happen to know of any other used-car lot that might have what we want?”

“Not in a million years.” The young man sounded disdainful. “The 1940 cars go on the junk heap. Who wants them? I mean, other than guys with bad roads like you fellows, and most of them want Jeeps. This was a freak. Sat around in plain sight for over a year too. Better than plain sight. We put it in the front row between a couple of practically new Caddys, with a spotlight on it. Figured it would be a gag and make the Caddys look good. I’m surprised you guys never saw it. I thought everybody and his brother saw it, but nobody ever wanted to buy it. Until that character, and then a week later, you two.” He shook his head at the remarkable coincidence.

“Tough,” Reardon said, repeating himself for Dondero’s sake. He only refrained from kicking the sergeant with an effort. “Looks like it’s gone. Gone forever.”

“Oh!” Dondero suddenly woke up. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe this character would be willing to sell.”

“I don’t know if he’d sell, but I doubt if you fellows could buy,” the young man said with a grin. “The old man handled the deal himself; he wouldn’t let me near it. What he charged for that Buick I don’t know — but I can tell you the old man charged him for an antique, and not for a plain, ordinary thirty-year-old Buick.”

“And you mean this guy didn’t argue?” Dondero sounded incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Oh he argued,” the young salesman said, “but his heart wasn’t in it. You can tell when a guy really wants something in this business. That’s the way it is with all collectors; we’ve dealt with them before. Price doesn’t mean a thing to them.”

“According to this magazine I read every now and then, the only collector with enough dough to throw away on a car that isn’t a real antique, is some nut named Crocker,” Reardon said idly.

“Hey! That’s him! That’s the guy!” The young man sounded as if they had discovered mutual relatives.

“Then we can forget about it. Money he don’t need,” Reardon said unhappily and opened the door of the Charger. He climbed in while Dondero got in the other side. They closed the doors; Reardon looked up at the young salesman. “By the way, I don’t suppose this Crocker traded in anything we might be interested in for our spread? Although I suppose guys with his dough don’t trade in.”

“He traded in a VW a year old. Probably a car he wanted to get rid of anyway.” The young man shook his head sadly, unhappy at having to give such nice young men bad news. “Nothing for you, I’m afraid.”

“I’m afraid not.” The Charger’s engine was started. “Well, thanks anyways. Sorry to take up your time.”

“That’s all right. Take my card; I’m John Middleton, Jr.” A card was handed over and tucked into a pocket. “If you ever change your mind about the Charger and want to step up a bit, I’ve got an Eldorado in top shape, only two years old. Belonged to a preacher, never drove it over twenty miles an hour, but his flock thought it was too flashy—”

“I’ll remember,” Reardon said and drove from the lot.

They turned down Folsom. Dondero looked across the car; Reardon was smiling grimly. Dondero started patting his pockets, looking for a cigarette, and then remembered he had given them up. He leaned back resignedly, studying his superior.

“I’d feel better about these impromptu performances,” he said, “if a) I knew they were coming, and b) if I knew what the hell they were all about. And while we’re on questions and answers, Lieutenant, let me give you c): Why didn’t we simply flash our badges and ask the man whatever questions we wanted? Why complicate life?”

“Because we probably found out more this way.” Reardon handled the car easily, automatically, his face engraved with the same grim smile. “All salesmen are natural-born talkers, and used-car salesman are the worst — or the best. Take your pick. Give them a chance to brag and they’ll bend your ear, especially about anything to do with cars. Unless, of course, they have a good reason for keeping buttoned up — like a police badge, for instance.”

“And now we come to the sixty-four-dollar question,” Dondero said, not wasting time arguing Reardon’s theory. “What’s it all about?”

“That accident last night,” Reardon said with deep satisfaction. “I knew damned well it wasn’t an accident.” He swung the car into First, heading toward the Embarcadero. “I told you!”

“You didn’t tell me anything,” Dondero said stubbornly.

Reardon turned into the Embarcadero, heading south in the direction of Army Street. He frowned without looking at the other. “You didn’t read Wilkins’ report?”

“Sure I read it. You showed it to me in your office this morning. But until you started that sister act in the used-car lot, I had no idea we were even working on the same case. I didn’t know what was going on until that youngster mentioned a Buick, and then a big light came on in a circle over my head.”

“So now you know.”

“But I don’t see what you gained with that charade back there. Hell, you knew he bought the Buick, and if you had the registration, you knew when he bought it. So what was that all about back there?”

“I didn’t know he traded a Volks for it, and I didn’t know he didn’t argue price. That’s what that was all about.”

“I see,” Dondero said in a voice that clearly indicated he didn’t see at all. “If we’re talking about the same case, then Wilkins must have written two reports and I only read one, because the one I read certainly didn’t make it sound like anything but an accident. And I’m pretty sure it didn’t to Judge Jorgensen this afternoon either.” He glanced out the window; they were rattling across the bridge on Third Street, with the docks all about them. “And where are we going now? It happened just down below, didn’t it?”

“It did, but we’ll stop back there later. Right now we’re going over to that restaurant on Army Street.”

“What restaurant?” Dondero asked, mystified. “There wasn’t anything in Wilkins’ report about a restaurant. Are you sure we’re talking about the same case?”

“Pretty sure.” Reardon tilted his head; they had crossed Mariposa and were approaching Eighteenth Street. “It happened just up there.” He brought his attention back to the road. “About the restaurant; Crocker said he was at a restaurant over on Army Street, said he knew the counterman there. We’re going over there to find out if he really did stop there last night.”

“Man, you’ve got to be out of your mind!” Dondero stared across the car. “Why would he lie about stopping at a restaurant, for Christ’s sake? What would that gain him?”

“He had to explain what he was doing, driving down Indiana,” Reardon said patiently. “And in order to do it, he had to be coming from somewhere on the South side heading home, someplace that would give him a reasonable excuse for driving down that street.”

Dondero turned sarcastic. “And how did he know Bob Cooke would conveniently be walking down that street?”

“I don’t know.” Reardon frowned, trying to think of possibilities, but no really good ones occurred to him. “Maybe Crocker figured he’d drive up and down a few streets until he saw him. He’d be heading back for civilization from the Central Basin docks.” He shrugged. “Crocker just happened to catch up with him on Indiana, is all.”

Dondero raised his eyes to heaven. “Oh brother!”

“I’m right, I tell you!” Reardon’s jaw tightened. “Damn it, weren’t you listening back there at that used-car lot? Do you honestly think that Crocker bought that old Buick because he’s a collector? To begin with, nobody collects thirty-year-old cars, and the last guy who would — or could — would be someone who’s out of work.”

“What the hell!” Dondero said, scotching that argument. “Lyndon Johnson’s out of work too.”

“I know, but he doesn’t live at the Martinique Apartments,” Reardon said darkly.

“That doesn’t mean a thing. Some guys spend their dough on one thing, some on another. You don’t know what Crocker’s bank balance is, or if he has a fortune stashed away in a safe-deposit box someplace.” Dondero stopped suddenly, remembering, and then went on slowly. “About this collector angle, now that I remember, Crocker never said he was a collector. You started that routine yourself, after the kid said he was a collector. You’re beginning to believe your own propaganda now.” He thought of something else. “And you also don’t know what he actually paid for that old Buick. All you’ve got is the word of a salesman you wouldn’t normally trust an inch, and even then you don’t have the figures.”

“We can get them,” Reardon said grimly.

“Well,” Dondero advised evenly, “you better get them before two o’clock Friday, or five will get you ten he drives out of there in his collector’s-item Buick a free man.” He smiled humorlessly. “You also better get a lot more than what you’ve got, friend, or he’s just apt to take you out with him.”

Reardon remained silent, but not Dondero.

“And one final point: you claim you knew it was no accident even before we visited the used-car lot. So how do you explain that to anyone by using his buying the Buick just a week ago as an argument?”

“That I don’t know,” Reardon admitted unhappily. “There’s something in my mind trying to tell me something I don’t know I know. If you know what I mean.” His voice hardened perceptibly at the look of incredulity on the other’s face. “This buying the Buick a week ago is only the starter. Now it’s simply a matter of building up a case, of getting evidence. But that car bit is solid.”

Dondero shook his head wonderingly.

“You’ve really flipped! A guy buys a heavy car in order to kill somebody. Somebody definite, you say, but somebody he doesn’t know, for reasons nobody can guess at, at a place and time he isn’t sure the other guy will be.” He considered his statement a minute and nodded. “Yeah. That ought to practically sell itself to Judge Jorgensen as an argument. I hear he bought a pretty heavy car himself the other day.” His voice became musing. “I wonder who he’s planning to knock off?”

“That man Crocker bought that heavy car to kill somebody — Bob Cooke, to be exact,” Reardon said with no emotion in his voice. He turned the Charger into Army Street, bringing his speed up again. “You can’t kill a man with a Volkswagen without taking a big chance of getting killed yourself. They’re just too fragile.”

“Well,” Dondero said, “nobody will argue with you on that, but then, the VW people don’t advertise their cars as weapons. On the other hand,” he added, thinking about it, “neither do the Buick people.”

He leaned back, staring at the warehouses and occasional factory that flashed by on the deserted street, shaking his head at his friend’s stubbornness, and the potential danger to his career by his ridiculous insistence that the Cooke case was no accident...