CHAPTER 4

Thursday—4:15 P.M.

Lieutenant Reardon pulled the Charger to the curb beside a street phone booth and braked to a stop. Dondero looked over at him.

“Phone call I have to make,” Reardon said unnecessarily, and switched off the ignition.

Dondero nodded. “Give Jan my regards.”

“I can call Jan from the Hall,” Reardon said cryptically, and slid from behind the wheel without further explanation. He closed the door of the booth behind him, dropped his dime, and dialed a number. The phone was answered after a reasonable amount of ringing; the voice at the other end sounded as if the owner had a broken windpipe. Actually, it came from being punched in the neck too often.

The gravel-voice said, “Sawicki Pool Hall.”

“Is Porky Oliver there?”

“Hang on.” Reardon winced as the receiver at the other end was apparently dropped onto some hard surface, most probably the glass of a cigar counter. Over the click of billiard balls he heard the same rasping voice, muted. “Hey, Porky. Phone.”

There was a brief wait and then Oliver was on the line. Porky Oliver was a bookmaker by profession, running a small but honest book. However, since his regular profession often resulted in his hearing things of interest to third parties, often the law, Porky was a stoolpigeon by avocation. Porky’s mother had taught him, “Waste not, want not,” and so Porky quite naturally cashed in on this extracurricular dividend. However, anyone picturing Porky Oliver as a cringing little soul who spent his life glancing fearfully over his hunched shoulders, had an entirely wrong view of stoolpigeons. Cringing souls seldom gather fruitful information. In fact, Porky was young, handsome, and a bon vivant whose company and conversation Reardon usually enjoyed. At times, however, especially when time was short, Porky’s insouciance had a tendency to waste precious seconds, but as a general rule Reardon felt it was worth it.

Porky’s voice, as always on the phone, was polite, suave, but cautious.

“Yes?”

“Porky? An old friend here.”

“Ah, yes, old friend.” Porky’s voice dropped. “I’m afraid, however, I’m not in a position to speak as freely from this telephone as one might wish. Would you like to meet someplace?”

“Very much,” Reardon said, “but I can’t at the moment. I’ll set up a meet later. Right now I’d just like to ask a few questions. Your answers shouldn’t mean anything to anyone listening.”

“Very little means anything to these characters,” Porky conceded, “other than ‘eight-ball’ and, of course, ‘scratch.’ However, I shall be circumspect in the extreme. Continue.”

“First, have you been listening to the news?”

“The last news I heard was about noonish, when I rose from a rest well earned,” Porky said, “and I might mention it did little to make breakfast more appetizing. Since that time my listening has been limited to a few small wagers, plus billiard balls striking each other. And of course, the pleasant tinkle of ice striking glass, muffled by gin—”

“Shut up, Porky,” Reardon said pleasantly.

“Sorry. You were saying?”

Reardon said, “An hour ago the Farmers & Mercantile Bank branch on Jerrold Avenue over in the Bay View district was held up—”

“I appreciate your concern,” Porky said politely, “but, fortunately, my account is elsewhere. Besides, aren’t those things insured?”

“Shut up and listen,” Reardon said, and this time his tone was not so pleasant. “During the holdup there was a shoot-out and a cop was killed.”

“Oh!” Porky’s voice became somber, not because of the chastisement, but because he honestly hated violence in any form and had an almost overrespect for death. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Never mind,” Reardon said. “Just listen. There were four men in on the deal: three inside men and a driver. One of the men was shot—not the driver—and, we think, seriously hurt. The men were masked, full-head plastic pullover jobs; they wore gloves, wide-brimmed hats, and gray double-breasted suits. Medium height; no other identification, except one of them had a southern accent. They got away with a quarter of a million dollars—”

Reardon paused while Porky whistled politely and then went on.

“—a shipyard payroll, driving a dark colored sedan, maybe black, maybe a Ford, no other description. They acted completely professional, as if they had worked together before—”

Reardon knew the facts he was reciting were being etched on Porky Oliver’s brain. Porky would have made an excellent policeman, Reardon had often thought, except that it was illegal for policemen to make book while on the force, and Porky was more or less dedicated to making book. True, this fact did not stop all police officers, but there was also the thing Porky had about violence; and even a cop making book on the side couldn’t avoid the rough stuff one hundred per cent of the time. Reardon brought his mind back to business.

“Our guess is the man with the southern accent is the one that was hit. At least according to witnesses in the bank he was the one holding a gun when they ran out, and according to outside witnesses, the one with the gun was the one who was hit.”

“I see,” Porky said slowly. “These men: white or black?”

“White.”

“But if they were all covered up—?”

“You can tell from their voices. Also, the skin tone is visible through those plastic masks,” Reardon said.

“Which is what happens when you use an inferior product,” Porky said, and then changed his tone of voice. It was obvious someone was at his shoulder, probably wanting to use the phone. “Well,” Porky said regretfully, “I don’t quote odds over the phone.”

“I just wanted you to keep your eyes and ears open,” Reardon said. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

“Not too early,” Porky said, and hung up.

Reardon dropped the receiver back on the hook and pushed from the booth, going back to the Charger, sliding under the wheel. Dondero had slid down in his seat, resting his head, his eyes closed. He opened them and came more erect as Reardon started the engine.

“Did he hear anything?”

“He hadn’t heard about it—” Reardon began, and then looked at Dondero sharply. The second-grade grinned back at him cheerfully.

“Who else would you be calling if not your pigeon?” he asked.

Reardon smiled. “Sometimes you make sounds almost like a detective,” he said and pulled from the curb.

Thursday—4:45 P.M.

From the office of the Chief of Homicide on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street, the hills of downtown San Francisco could be seen, reflecting the western sun from a thousand staggered windows, each competing for a better view of the bay or the bridges or Marin County over the water to the north. Captain Tower and Lieutenant Reardon had just returned from seeing a rerun of the instant-replay tapes downstairs in the sound laboratory. Captain Tower dropped into the oversized swivel chair back of his desk, reached up to adjust the venetian blinds against the reflected glare, and swung back, facing the office. Reardon sat down across the wide desk from his superior. Tower leaned over, pressing a button that activated a small cassette tape-recorder. He sat back again, studying the younger officer across from him.

“Well, Jim, what do you think?”

Reardon took his time before answering.

“Several things, Captain,” he said at last. “Not that it means anything, but the first time I saw that tape at the bank, I noticed their clothes. Typical of the old Cagney movies thirty years ago. Real gangster outfits; wide-brimmed hats, double-breasted suits … I figured somebody in the gang had a sense of humor.”

“And?”

Reardon smiled. “I said it didn’t mean anything. But the way the three men acted also reminded me of something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time. After seeing the tape a second time, though, I think it was the precision of their movements. The whole operation made me think of some of our exercises in the Rangers during the Korean war. And that ‘Let’s move out’ had an awfully familiar ring to it. I’d say they were veterans, but as I said before, it probably doesn’t mean anything.”

Tower remained silent, watching Reardon from under grizzled brows. Reardon sighed and went on.

“From the pictures, I’d say they were in their twenties. Late twenties, maybe, but not more. That’s a judgment based on their co-ordination, speed of movement, tone of voice—you know what I mean, Captain. Which would make Vietnam their war, if that means anything.”

“Could it?”

“I don’t know,” Reardon said, and smiled faintly. It wasn’t an amused smile; it had more worry in it than a smile should have. His eyes came up. “You know, Captain, I’ve often thought how very damned lucky we cops are. Our country trains millions of men to use hand guns, machine guns, bazookas, bayonets, hand knives, grenades—you name it. Then we give them indoctrination to convince them that the only life that means anything or has any value is their own. Then we ship them overseas to some jungle to get a good deal of practice in using one and proving the other. And when we’re all done with this, we bring them back home to a country that doesn’t have enough jobs for them and then we raise our hands in horror when one of these vets breaks what we call the rules.” He raised his hand abruptly, forestalling the captain. “Don’t get me wrong, Captain. I’m not excusing what happened today. All I’m saying is that we really shouldn’t be surprised at their professionalism. After all, they probably got their skills in killing at Lejeune or Bragg or Ord. Under top tutelage.”

There was a moment’s silence while Captain Tower studied the lieutenant. Then he said at last: “We’ve trained many millions. They didn’t all come home to rob banks and kill cops.”

“That’s what I said,” Reardon said without a change in expression. “We’re lucky. But the important thing is that we want to find the men who shot Tom Wheaton, and the fact they were in the army might help.”

“How?” Captain Tower asked curiously. “Five million men, at least, have gone through Vietnam. How do we pick out these particular four?”

“I don’t know,” Reardon said slowly. “That’s if they got their training in the army at all. Maybe they all went to Virginia Military.” He smiled sourly. “Of course if I’m right, at least it eliminates anyone under eighteen and over forty, not to mention women and children. But that’s only one of the interesting points.” He leaned forward. “A more thought-provoking one comes up when we consider the gunman who was shot. Why did the others take the time to pick him up? Why take the chance? They certainly couldn’t have known that Wheaton was fatally hit; for all they knew he may have been going down to one knee to make himself a smaller target. It’s regulation.”

“Maybe they didn’t know it was regulation,” Tower said dryly.

“It’s regulation in the army, too,” Reardon said. “Anyway, why take the chance? Why not just leave him? They picked up the gun, too. If it was a Saturday-night special, as the guard swears it was, and the man was wearing gloves, how could we have ever traced it?” He frowned across the desk. “That’s another reason I say they’re army-trained. Picking up the weapon was purely automatic.”

“Maybe they picked up the man because he was a pal,” Tower suggested. “Let’s assume your hunch is right, that they’re all Vietnam veterans, and close friends, as well. Wouldn’t it be part of their training not to let a friend fall into enemy hands?” His eyes were steady on Reardon’s face. “To save him?”

“Save him from what? Torture? Prison camp?” It was rare that the lieutenant took that tone with the captain, but he couldn’t help it. He leaned forward. “Here the enemy—which is us—has the medical facilities, Captain. The man was hit, and probably badly wounded; even in the short time he was on the sidewalk, and even considering the amount of clothing he was wearing, he bled enough to leave a stain on the sidewalk. If they wanted to help their pal, the best way would be to let the police grab him. He’d have gotten good hospital care a lot faster than they’ll be able to give him.”

“Maybe they acted without thinking—from that force of training you’re talking about.”

Reardon shook his head stubbornly. “No, sir. The one thing complete training eliminates is doing things from force of habit or without thinking. They picked him up for a very definite reason.”

Tower nodded. “You think to prevent his identification.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, sir. There must be some sort of a connection between them that would allow us to nail them all if we could just identify one.”

“Family, perhaps?”

Reardon shook his head. “Not with those voice patterns. But there’s some strong tie-in between them, that’s sure. Which is probably why they didn’t even drop their friend off at a hospital. And my guess is they won’t, no matter how seriously wounded he is.”

“How about private doctors?” Captain Tower asked.

“They’ll probably stay away from doctors, too. If they’re professionals, of course, it’s possible they’ll have some doctor friend they can go to, and if that’s the case, we’re probably out of luck on that angle. Let’s just hope they aren’t professionals to that degree.”

Captain Tower swung his chair around and then swung back.

“All of that theorizing, of course,” he said, “is based on there being some strong tie-in between the four, a tie-in you figure came about in the army. What if they just happen to be four local tough guys who saw too many Green Beret movies and picked up the language and movements from the screen?”

Reardon shook his head. “I keep coming back to those different local accents, Captain.” He looked down at his wrist-watch. “We ought to be getting the voice-graphs soon, and maybe the brains in the sound lab can give us a better picture. You can tell, just listening to that tape, that they’re from different parts of the country. And where is the most logical place for people from different parts of the country to meet and get friendly enough to establish a gang? In the army, as I know only too well.”

“As we all know pretty well,” Captain Tower said, and frowned. “Not that I can see it helps us greatly.”

“It also doesn’t particularly hurt us,” Reardon said. “And we have to start somewhere.”

Captain Tower leaned forward to check the tape recorder; there was ample tape left on the spool. He leaned back again.

“All right, let’s go on. What are the possibilities that someone, either in the bank or the shipyard—or connected with someone in the bank or the shipyard—tipped off the job?”

“That one’s going to be tough,” Reardon said slowly. “I’ve got Dondero and Ferguson over at the shipyard now, trying to find out who knew about the payroll. Also who might have been fired lately, and may have had a grudge against the yard—”

“Everybody who worked at the shipyard must have known about the payroll,” Tower pointed out dryly. “Who forgets payday? Do you?”

“No, sir, but I haven’t a clue as to where our checks are made up. For all I know, angels deliver them twice a month, direct from cloudland. As far as the shipyard payroll is concerned, not everybody necessarily knew that the bulk of the payroll—the main dough, the bills—came from that particular branch of that particular bank or that it was made up at that particular time each week and picked up by Brink’s. Remember, the timing of this robbery was practically split-second.” Reardon shrugged. “Maybe we’ll know more when Dondero gets back. And I’ll also be getting the stories of the people who were in the bank at the time of the robbery.” He glanced at his watch again, more from habit than to know the time. “They ought to be in my office now.”

He saw the querying look on Tower’s face and explained.

“I had everyone there put down in writing what they thought happened. Somebody may write down a suspicion they wouldn’t care to voice publicly, and I didn’t want to waste the time to interview each one in private at that moment. If anything looks interesting in their homework, then I guess I’ll have to, whether I like it or not.”

Tower nodded, understanding. “Anything else?”

“Well, I have the word out with a contact, and I’ve been in touch with the local FBI to check the m.o. There may have been other bank jobs handled like this one; they’d have a file on them.” Reardon tried to think of anything else he’d done, but couldn’t at the moment. “I guess that’s about it so far.”

“It’s about as much as you could do in the time, I guess,” Tower said, and nodded his head. “If you need more men, or if you need anything else, as far as that goes, let me know. How many men do you have on it so far?”

Reardon considered.

“Well, the sound-lab people are practically working solely for us at the moment, and there’s Dondero and Ferguson at the shipyard, and I’ve got Lundahl and Merchant checking door to door in the area of the bank in case somebody around there saw something.” He sounded aggrieved. “Although why you have to drag information out of people individually like this, damned if I know. Why can’t somebody volunteer something useful once in a while?” He seemed to hear his own words for the first time and suddenly grinned. “That old army training I was just talking about, I guess. If it moves, salute it; if it doesn’t move, pick it up; if it’s too big to pick up, paint it—and never, never volunteer for anything. Don’t get involved. The new motto of the American people: hear no evil, see no evil, report no evil.”

Captain Tower studied the younger man a moment. He looked down at the moving tape-recorder, came to the conclusion he didn’t want his next statement on record, and turned the little machine off. Then he leaned back and considered Reardon.

“You know, Jim,” he said quietly, “there’s a big difference between thinking and brooding. One is vital to our work, but the other is counterproductive. Try to remember that.”

“Yes, sir,” Reardon said woodenly, and wondered if the old man really knew what he had been trying to say.

“And one more thing,” Tower said in the same quiet tone. “We work on this case as hard as we work on all cases, maybe a little harder because of Tom Wheaton, but we get our rest, too. No heroics like forty-eight hours on duty at a stretch. Dopey officers result in dopey police work, and we can’t afford that.”

“Yes, sir,” Reardon said, and came to his feet. “Anything else?”

“That’s all,” Tower said.

Reardon nodded and went to the door. When he looked back, Captain Tower had swiveled his chair and was staring morosely out of the window. I’m sure he knows what I’m talking about, Reardon suddenly thought, probably better than I do myself. After all, he takes the beating for the whole department, I just have me and my little docket to worry about. He looked back at the gray head a moment and then went out, closing the door softly behind him.

Thursday—4:55 P.M.

Sergeant Jennings, also of Homicide, looked up when Reardon walked into the office they shared. He tilted his head toward the lieutenant’s desk. “Some patrol cop left you a stack of papers, Lieutenant.”

“Good,” Reardon said with no great enthusiasm, and made no attempt to look at them. Instead he noted the time on the wall clock and reached for the phone. He dialed the familiar number on an outside line, hoping Jan hadn’t decided to make it to the beauty parlor before their dinner date, although why Jan ever needed a beauty parlor was something he would never understand. He waited while the switchboard operator at Jan’s office rang through on her extension.

As always, he felt that little touch of excitement as he waited for her to come on the line. He could picture her inner office, her desk covered with calculations, the drafting table behind her piled high with blueprints that made sense to her but were a complete mystery to him. How did a dumb cluck like him—or, rather, a comparatively uneducated cluck, for he wasn’t dumb and knew it—ever manage to get a girl like Jan? A brain well hidden behind a wondrous facade; a girl who could cook or make love with equal skill and abandon—

“Hello?”

He brought his mind back to business. “Jan?”

“Hello, darling.”

Reardon warmed at the tone. He said: “About tonight—I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel dinner.”

“I know, darling. One of our draftsmen likes to listen to the radio while he works. He heard about the robbery on a flash and about the policeman being killed. I assumed you’d be tied up with it.” There was the briefest of pauses. “He said the policeman’s name was Wheaton. Was he—was he an older man?”

Reardon knew exactly what Jan meant. He stared at the map on the opposite wall stonily as he answered, his voice without expression.

“No. He was twenty-nine years old, married with two kids, one of them an infant.”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“Jan?”

The lecture Reardon had been expecting on the dangers of the profession was strangely not forthcoming. Instead, Jan’s voice was unexpectedly understanding.

“I hope you get the men who did it, Jim.”

Reardon smiled, relieved. “We will.”

“But take care.”

“Don’t worry, sweet.”

“And call.”

“I will. Good-by, sweet.”

Reardon put his phone back into its cradle and sat down at his desk, reaching for the first of the handwritten reports. How was it he had never been able to talk Jan into getting married? From her attitude on the phone just now, maybe she was changing her mind about marrying a cop. Maybe she was beginning to realize a lieutenant in Homicide worked an eight-hour day—usually—the same as an accountant, or a floorwalker, and that the job—usually—was no more dangerous. Maybe if he brought the subject up once again, say when this job was over, maybe—

Maybe you ought to get to work and stop daydreaming, he thought, or the job could go on until St. Swithin’s Day. He started reading.