The Gremlin’s Grampa

Chapter 11

Friday — 2:15 p.m.

The overall report on the case, intended to clarify his thoughts, bring the facts into focus, and combine all the other multiple reports, lay at the lieutenant’s elbow with its title scrawled on top of the page and very little beneath it. Reardon chewed on the pencil, his gray eyes staring at the paper almost without seeing it, wondering how the devil to start, and then was saved by the ringing of the telephone. He picked it up, grateful for the interruption; a familiar female voice was on the line. However, he somehow could not connect the voice with a particular face.

“Lieutenant Reardon?”

“Speaking.”

“Captain Tower would like to see you in his office, if you’re free.”

“I’m free,” he said, and hung up, coming to his feet. At least I’m free from that blasted report for the moment, he thought; and I wonder what face is behind that well-known voice? Have I ever seen the captain’s secretary at her desk? He walked down the corridor making bets with himself and won the first one handily when he entered the anteroom to the captain’s office to find the secretarial desk, as usual, unoccupied. Well, she’s fast on her feet anyway, he thought, giving credit where credit was due; I wonder what the captain does when he needs to dictate a letter? Call it through the ladies room door? He smiled at the mental picture and tapped on the door to the inner office.

“Come in!”

Captain Tower was seated back of his desk, leaning back in his swivel chair comfortably; sitting on a hard office chair beside the desk was a man whose face was familiar, although at the moment the lieutenant could not recall the name. He studied the man casually a moment and then looked at the captain.

“You wanted me, sir?”

“Lieutenant—” Formality was the rule when the captain spoke to subordinates in front of outsiders. “—we have a request here for police protection...” His voice was conversational, as if such requests were everyday routine, but there was a hidden gleam of humor in his deep blue eyes. “This is Mr. John Sekara.” He glanced at the man beside him. “Any protection would be under Lieutenant Reardon’s direction. He’s in direct charge of the case.”

Reardon almost expected the man to ask, What case? but he didn’t. The stocky lieutenant drew up a chair and sat down, crossing his legs comfortably, frowning slightly at the man across the desk from him.

“You want the police to give you protection?”

“That’s what the police are for, ain’t they?” Sekara was a short, husky man with shoulders that seemed too wide for his body. His voice was harsh; even his hair, graying and cropped short, seemed stiff, tough as wire. He was impeccably dressed in a pinstripe suit His tiny black eyes tried to stare the lieutenant down.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Reardon agreed equably. “I would have thought, though, that you could furnish yourself with better protection than we could give you.”

“You’d have thought wrong,” Sekara said flatly. “You see me here, don’t you?”

“I see you.” Reardon put a look of surprise on his face. “But it’s a bit odd. I heard just this morning, from a very reliable source, that the mob isn’t really angry at anyone...”

“Mob? What mob? You guys are beginning to believe your own stories.” Sekara glared. “I don’t know what mob you’re talking about. All I know is three friends of mine — well, call them acquaintances, better, maybe — get knocked off in short order, and everyone in town knows about Captain Tower and his cute little list with four names on it. Four names, by the way, he ain’t ever been able to pin a thing on, but that’s besides the point. The thing is three of them names is dead and mine’s the fourth, so I’m asking protection, until you guys catch the nut who did in the others.”

“Even if you don’t trust your own muscle, or think you can’t,” Reardon said, “I’m still surprised you’d come to the police. I would have thought a private detective agency, maybe. They rent out protection.”

“What is all this about muscle?” Sekara sounded like any righteous citizen with cause to complain. “Anyhow, why should I shell out for protection when you guys are in business? I’m a taxpayer, and if you think I’m not, just call the Federal Building and check.” He shook his head. “And I don’t mean peanuts, either!”

Captain Tower was watching the interchange benignly. Reardon sighed.

“If you’re asking for police protection, Mr. Sekara, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you a few questions. First, what makes you think you are in any danger?”

“What is this? You trying to kid me?” Sekara glared. “I just got through telling you — Jerry Capp, then Pete Falcone, then Ray Martin. What d’you want?” He sat more erect, leaning over the desk; his voice seemed to become even more harsh. “Look, mister, this whole thing is the responsibility of the cops in the first place. Some nut reads Captain Tower’s famous list in the papers and starts knocking guys off—”

“But Captain Tower’s famous list, as you put it, hasn’t been in the papers for well over a month, now,” Reardon said quietly. “What made the killer wait so long?”

“How do I know what some nut will do? You guys—”

“That’s the third time you’ve said it was a nut,” Reardon commented. “You really think it was some nut?” He waited for an answer and when none was forthcoming, he nodded, as if coming to some conclusion. “Maybe you’re right; maybe the guy was a nut on the alphabet. You notice the three that were killed were in alphabetical order?” He smiled at Sekara. “Maybe you’re lucky you were born with a name beginning with S.”

Sekara was not amused. “I don’t care if it was a nut or not. I—”

“But we do, you see. Because if it wasn’t a nut, it was someone with a good reason for knocking off Capp, and Falcone and Martin. And you seem to think he has a good reason to knock you off, too.” Reardon’s voice hardened. “So you tell us — who wanted you four guys dead?”

Sekara was not intimidated. “I’m not here to tell you anything! I’m here to see I get the protection that I’m entitled to as a tax-paying citizen. And you’re here to see I get it.” He paused a moment and then added quietly, “Whether you want to or not.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right.” Reardon glanced at his watch. “Well, I wonder if you mind waiting another half hour. I’ll have a man coming on duty then I can give you.”

“Only one man?”

Reardon studied the husky, broad-shouldered man as if he were some odd creature washed over the sill of the captain’s office by a tidal wave.

“One days and one nights and that’s all. If you want the army, I’d suggest you go over to the Federal Building yourself. Tell them all about your taxes and how you practically support the Pentagon single-handed. Maybe they’ll give you a platoon. All I can spare is one man per shift, two shifts per day.” And that’s two too many and take it or leave it and I hope you leave it, his tone of voice clearly added.

“I suppose it’ll have to be all right.” Sekara wasn’t happy about the decision and sounded it. He came to his feet, apelike in appearance. “Where do I wait?”

“In the outer office,” Captain Tower said. He waited until the door had closed behind the man and then swung his chair to face Reardon. “What do you think, Jim?”

“I think it’s a damned shame to have to put men on Sekara for protection when we’re up to our neck trying to protect decent people in this town.” Reardon sounded bitter, but also a bit puzzled. “And as I said before, I also think it’s strange as hell. I heard this morning that the mob isn’t involved in these killings; that the top men are actually bothered by them. According to my source, it came as a surprise; they weren’t prepared with replacements. And I believe my source.”

Captain Tower didn’t ask for the source; he knew better.

“It may be that the Syndicate as such isn’t involved,” he said calmly, “but that doesn’t mean that some individual — or individuals — in it aren’t involved. Several things struck me about our conversation with Sekara. One, he has no idea who might be after him, or who was after the others, or he’d take care of it himself without coming to us. And two, it’s fairly clear he doesn’t think any protection he might get from the mob can be trusted one hundred per cent.”

“Besides,” Reardon added, “why take chances? But what I don’t get is why he wants police protection instead of hiring some private agency? They wouldn’t stop at one man a shift; they’d rent him ten if he wanted. And I don’t think it’s because of the dough.”

“It isn’t the money, I’m sure,” Captain Tower said. “The fact is the mob dislikes private detective agencies even more than they do the police. Private agencies sometimes go a bit beyond their job of protection and sometimes dig up things they shouldn’t, and information like that can be dangerous. And often expensive, too.”

“True,” Reardon said. He frowned into space for a while and then came to his feet, moving toward the door. He paused, looking back at the captain. “And also,” he said softly, “coming to the police themselves for protection...”

Captain Tower frowned at him. “What about it?”

“Well,” Reardon said, softly, “you couldn’t really ask for a better demonstration of personal innocence, could you?”

He smiled at the captain’s expression and closed the door behind him.

Friday — 3:10 p.m.

“I don’t like it any more than you men do,” Reardon said sharply. “But those are orders and there’s no point in arguing. Stan, you cover him from three until he goes to bed — which better not be too late or he’ll be on his own from then on. There’s a limit to the amount of overtime I’ll okay protecting that hood. Bennett, you have him from eight in the morning until three in the afternoon. Arrange with him to let you make a call to Stan wherever Stan wants around two thirty every afternoon, and you and Stan can arrange where you’ll meet.”

“How long does this go on?” Bennett asked unhappily. “I’m only supposed to be in Homicide temporary, like.”

“I have no idea. When you’re assigned back to a car you’ll go back and we’ll have to find somebody else, I guess. Anyway, it won’t be too long.” He crossed his fingers. “I hope.”

“Isn’t that something!” Stan Lundahl snorted. “Playing nursemaid to a bum like Johnny Sekara!” He looked at Reardon. “How are we supposed to cover him? From his pocket or a block down the road?”

“Ask him,” Reardon said coldly. “He probably knows more about tailing for protection than we do. Anyway, that’s the story and those are the orders, so there’s no sense in getting in an uproar about it. Because if you’re up tight you’ll be thinking about something else when you ought to be keeping your eyes open.”

“I haven’t done anything like this for a long time, Lieutenant,” Bennett said, still unhappy about the assignment. “Maybe Sergeant Dondero would be better—”

“I’ve got things for Don to do, so why don’t you let me make the assignments around here, eh, Sergeant?” As soon as the words were out Reardon was sorry for the harshness of his tone, but it was too late to do anything about it then. He nodded brusquely, avoiding the sergeant’s red face. “Why don’t you two go down the hall and get acquainted with Mr. Sekara? And if he starts to give you a hard time because there aren’t more men on the job — or if he starts to give you a hard time about anything else, either — just turn around and walk out.”

“With pleasure,” Lundahl said. “And I hope he argues.” He started toward the door, towering over Bennett, and then stopped, realizing something. “Where is he, Lieutenant?”

“In Captain Tower’s outer office,” Reardon said, and watched the two men walk out, closing the door behind them. I should have asked them to see if the secretary was there, he thought suddenly, and then put the bizarre notion away. “All right, Don — what did you find out about Ray Martin?”

“First, let’s talk about that assignment you just handed out, huh, Jim?” Dondero’s voice was low, pleasant, but there was dead seriousness behind it. “You know damn well Tom Bennett isn’t the right man for a cover job on a hood like Sekara. Or are you hoping, maybe, that if there’s a try for Sekara, it’ll come between eight in the morning and three? So you can kill two birds with one stone — see the last of the Big Four on a slab in the morgue downstairs, and also see the old man in trouble for not being able to prevent it?”

Reardon held back his first swift flush of anger, forcing himself to count slowly to ten. He made it as far as seven before the words came out, a near record, but at least he had his tone under control.

“Don, there are very few people in this entire organization, from the chief on down, who can talk to me that way and not get their heads handed to them, and none of those few are sergeants lower than me in the table of organization.” He paused, took a deep breath, and then went on, his voice under better control. “We’ve been friends a long long time — maybe too long, I don’t know — but if you have something to say to me, you ought to know by now that I don’t like snide cracks. If you think I’m giving Bennett a hard time, just say so.”

Dondero looked at him in astonishment.

“Say so? Say so? What the hell have I been doing, for crissakes? I’ve been saying loud and clear that you’re giving Bennett a bum shake. If you haven’t heard me, you got to be deaf. Snide cracks, my ass! I think you got in a fight about those martinis, and the first guy you run into afterwards with liquor on his breath, catches hell for it. Especially when he happens to be a guy you can pull rank on—”

Reardon interrupted. His eyes were narrowed tiny chips of gray granite in a rigid, pale face.

“Can I pull rank on you, Dondero?”

“That’s what I like,” Dondero said approvingly. “A nice, logical, calm discussion. No tempers. Sure you can pull rank on me, Lieutenant. Any time you want.”

“Then I want to right now.” Reardon clamped down on his temper. “Let’s drop the entire subject of Sergeant Bennett, shall we? Let’s talk about Ray Martin.”

“All right,” Dondero said equably. “Let’s.”

He pulled his notebook from his pocket, opened it and studied it. His eyes came up, fathomless.

“Ray Martin spent most of Wednesday at home, and if he got any calls that were unusual or upsetting, his wife doesn’t know of them. He has a room he uses for an office and he’s in there a good part of the time after he gets up — which is usually around noon — until about three when he watches TV for a while. Wednesday, all was normal, according to his wife. They had a dinner engagement with friends at their home, and then all four of them went to the Top of the Mark for a drink. They were there until about eleven, after which they drove home. She says she got out of the car downstairs — their apartment is over the garage — and went upstairs, thinking Martin was going to put the car away, but when he didn’t come up she went downstairs again and found the car was gone.”

“And didn’t think anything of it?”

“She didn’t think too much of it, according to her. She figured he must of had some business to take care of; a lot of his business, she said — as if I didn’t know — is just getting started around midnight, and he’d dropped her off and gone like that quite often before, sometimes without telling her, and sometimes she says he told her and she didn’t even listen, so she says she didn’t think too much of it. She figured he’d be back when he was ready, which could be anytime up to five in the morning.”

He broke off to light a cigarette and refer to his notebook. Reardon waited quietly. Dondero flipped a page and went on.

“Then yesterday morning, when she got up and went into his bedroom — they have separate rooms — and found he still hadn’t come home, she went downstairs to check on the car again, and in daylight she saw it was parked a bit down the street, is all. Then she says she started to worry, but by the time she started calling around to find out if any of his pals had seen him the night before, or if anyone had any idea what might have happened to him, the report was in that he’d been found in the net, and the cops were out there.”

“Who?”

Dondero brushed ash from his cigarette and looked in his book.

“Park Eight was the car that was sent; they were in service and the closest to Twenty-eighth, where Martin lived. They got the same story I got later — not so much detail, but the same story. No known enemies — what a joke! — no prior knowledge of the deaths of Capp and Falcone, etc., etc.”

“He probably wouldn’t have had,” Reardon said. “Capp was stabbed about nine, and Falcone killed about eleven at night.” He shook his head. “This joker, male or female, must have a bicycle! Or he’s lucky with cabs, which is more than I ever am. What else?”

Dondero shrugged. “Well, the killer could have been waiting in the garage and reached in the open window and caught Martin by the throat before he knew what was happening. Then he could have dragged him to his own car and smothered him there. Actually,” Dondero said, letting his imagination soar, “if it was a little guy, or even a woman, I guess, they could have laid him down on the front seat, put a pillow over his face, and sat on him all the way to the Bay Bridge.”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Reardon commented.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Anyway, after Martin was dead, all the guy had to do was put Martin’s car down the street a bit, close the garage doors and be on his merry way.”

“Why not just leave the car in the garage?”

“Probably because if the old lady comes down and finds the car, and no hubby, she starts to howl eight hours early.”

“True,” Reardon conceded. “Couldn’t she hear the garage doors being opened and closed, though?”

“No,” Dondero said a bit smugly, “because I thought of that and checked. They built them apartments pretty well out there.”

“I’m pleased for the tenants,” Reardon said. “What else?”

“That’s it,” Dondero said, and snapped his notebook shut.

“What about the state trooper’s report?”

Dondero pointed. “It’s that one there on your desk. It says about zero. They figure whoever tossed him over must have gotten paint on his clothes, because the bridge was painted that afternoon and the smear on the railing was too big to be accounted for just by the paint on Martin’s body.”

“So what do we look for now?” Reardon asked curiously. “A red plaid lumber jacket with green paint on it?”

“Blue,” Dondero said. “They’re experimenting. Blue is more soothing to motorists, I guess. Next week they’ll probably try yellow, but this week it was blue. And if it makes any difference, the painters say the paint is damn slow drying stuff — still damp after two, three days — but that it lasts a long time in that salt air. Although,” he added, “I don’t see what difference that makes, if they keep changing colors every other week.”

“It could make the difference that it might be hard to get off a lumber jacket, or anything else.”

“Including a skirt?” Dondero asked shrewdly.

“Including anything.” The lieutenant thought a moment. “Does the report say anything about the troopers in the plaza, or the collectors — or anybody — seeing anything? Like a car stopping on the bridge? Or paint on anyone going through the toll stations?”

“No.” Dondero shook his head. “The autopsy puts the death between midnight and three in the morning, and there were no reports of a car stopped on the bridge during those hours — although that means nothing. Maybe someone will call in after they see the papers, but so far there hasn’t been anything. There was a trooper at the toll plaza, but he says he didn’t see anything, and besides, if I were going to pull a stunt like this, I’d use the Exact Change booth—”

“And you figure the killer isn’t any more stupid than you?”

“Right!” Dondero said, and then considered. “Unless he was a nut, of course, and I’m thinking this character was a nut less and less as time goes on.”

“I’m not sure Mr. Sekara agrees with you,” Reardon said, and fell into thought. He looked up at last. “All right, Don. There are a few other people to be checked out, but I’ll go with you on them. Just a second.” He reached for the telephone, dialed for an outside line, and then dialed again. The call was answered almost immediately, the voice exuding helpfulness.

“Telephone company. May I help you, please?”

“Mr. Jamison, please.”

Dondero crushed out his cigarette and leaned back in his chair, watching the lieutenant and waiting. The extension at the other end of the line was finally lifted; a brusque voice answered.

“Jamison, here.”

“Jamie? Jim Reardon—”

“Jimmy, my boy!” The brusqueness disappeared. “What’s on your mind?”

“I need an address and telephone number for an unlisted person on Greenwich Street. The name is Lillian Messer.”

“What’s the matter, James? Jan given up on you?”

“Jamie, when I have time for trading gags with you, I’ll call you at home. This is business. Get off your duff and get me the information I want before I cancel my subscription.”

“Temper, temper,” Jamison said chidingly, and put the telephone on his desk with a click that was audible to Reardon. The lieutenant waited patiently; there was a slight delay before the sound came of the receiver at the other end being lifted from the desk.

“Hello, James? We have a listing for an L. Messer at 539½ Greenwich. Dames are finally getting smart and listing under initials—”

“And the number?”

“The number is 889-5642,” Jamison said, “but if you make any obscene calls, I ought to warn you we catch them pretty quick. And, besides, I’ll tell Jan. I’ve had my eye on her for a long time—”

“Good-by, you old goat. And I suppose I should say thanks.”

“Don’t strain,” Jamison said. “Take care.” The line was disconnected.

“Visit number one,” Reardon said with satisfaction, and glanced at his watch. “Assuming we catch L. Messer in, we can wrap this one up before dinner, and handle the other one afterwards.”

“Jim—”

Reardon had started to rise, pleased with the information he had received and with the fact that at long last at least there was someone to interview, if nothing else; but something in Dondero’s tone made him pause. He sank down into his chair again.

“Yes?”

“About tonight—” Dondero seemed a bit embarrassed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to call off our double date. If you want, I’ll call Jan and explain in person, but I’m sorry. I can’t make it.”

“Why? Just because we disagreed about something?” Reardon shook his head. “Come on, Don! Forget it. Sure, sometimes I think you talk out of turn, but I’ve got a lousy temper and we both know it. You know I don’t mean anything by it. Hell, you’re entitled to your opinion.” He suddenly grinned. “As long as you don’t voice it, that is...”

Dondero didn’t respond to the grin.

“It isn’t that, Jim. It’s... well, it’s just that something else has come up. Something I feel I ought to do.”

“Oh? What?”

“Well,” Dondero said, looking his superior in the eye, “if you really must know, Tom Bennett is having a surprise birthday party tossed for him tonight—”

Reardon stared at him. “How did you find out?”

“He told me.” Dondero shrugged, but there was a bit of defiance in the shrug, as well. “You keep thinking the old man is stupid, Jim, and I keep telling you he isn’t. He figured it out because his daughter is staying home from work today — undoubtedly to do the cooking — and because when he checked the cupboard where they keep the birthday candles, they weren’t there.” He smiled suddenly. “And also, I guess, because they’ve had a surprise party for him each birthday for the past five years.”

“Logical,” Reardon said, his face and voice expressionless.

“Anyway,” Dondero said, “he asked me to drop in and — well, I said I would.” He looked rueful. “I’ll make my excuses to Jan. And whoever she had lined up for me.”

“You make it tough for me,” Reardon said soberly, and came to his feet. “However, Jan instructed me to pull rank on you, if necessary, to get you to come; and you feel I pull rank around here too much as it is. Well, it might be a good lesson for you both if I don’t insist.” He smiled forgivingly. “Anyway, that’s tonight. Right now we have a job to do...”

He put a friendly arm on Dondero’s shoulder and led the way from the room, grinning inwardly.