CHAPTER 5

Thursday—5:35 P.M.

Lieutenant Reardon put down the second scrawled report and reached listlessly for the third, realizing there were still some five to go and wondering quite sincerely if they still taught penmanship in schools, or whether everyone learned writing from discarded doctor’s prescriptions. Between the typewriter and the telephone, the need for calligraphy was fast disappearing, and he calculated that future archaeologists would stare in wonder at the few examples they discovered and be even more confused when they attempted to decipher them. Maybe, he thought, the best idea would be to send them down to some code department, or maybe just toss them into the wastebasket. He was saved from making a decision by the ringing of his phone. He reached for the instrument gratefully.

“Reardon, here.”

“Communications, Lieutenant. Chief Merrick of the Daly City Police wants to speak with you.”

“Put him on,” Reardon said, and pushed the papers to one corner of his desk, happy to have an excuse for doing so.

“Reardon?” Chief Merrick’s deep voice was on the line. Reardon had met the chief of the neighboring town several times and both liked and respected the man. “They tell me you’ve asked all the departments down the Peninsula for their co-operation on the Wheaton case. Well, you have ours, of course, without asking.”

Reardon said, “Thanks, Chief,” and waited.

“They also tell me you’ve asked all departments to let you know of anything unusual, especially anything unusual regarding hospitals or doctors. I can understand why, of course. Well, I think it’s possible we may have something for you.”

“Good!” Reardon said fervently, and dragged his pad closer, picking up a pencil.

“Mary’s Help Hospital,” Merrick said, “the one here, not in San Francisco, reported a few minutes ago that one of their ambulances was missing.”

Reardon frowned. “How do you mean, missing?”

“How it sounds. It’s been gone on a call for over an hour now, and in a town this size that’s just too damned long. And they haven’t called in to say they were having any trouble.”

“What call did they go out on?”

“Well,” Merrick said, “it seems some guy called the phone company operator saying there was a bad accident and wanting the number of the hospital. So she connected him to the hospital directly. And the operator at the hospital switchboard connected him to the ambulance section—”

“Did the man say where the accident took place?”

“Not to either operator. If he said anything to the driver-well, hell, he’d have to tell the driver where the accident took place, but there wasn’t anything on the log sheet.”

Reardon made no attempt to bite back the nasty word that came to mind. “Those drivers are supposed to log the numbers they’re called from!”

“Maybe they’re supposed to,” Merrick said, “but this one didn’t. The way I hear it, if it’s an emergency they like to get to the accident as fast as possible and fill in the paper work later, when they get back. And like I said, it’s been an hour, and that’s too long in this town.” He paused a brief moment and then continued. “It could be a dope snatch, of course, but I doubt it. We had a couple of those, so now the ambulances only carry maybe one or two ampoules of morphine. Since the hopheads found that out, they’ve laid off.”

Reardon nodded. “So you figured it might be a smart way to get help to a wounded man, is that it?”

“On the button,” Merrick said.

Reardon looked down at the paper he had been writing on. Outside of the words “hospital,” “missing,” and “dope,” the sheet was covered with little doodles. “Did the phone company operator at least keep a record of the number he called from?”

“That, yes. It was a phone booth on San Jose, just off the Alemany. Which is another thing: there wasn’t any accident anywhere near the booth, or at least none that was reported, because we checked. And that’s pretty near downtown.”

Reardon had that old feeling of something breaking. “Hold it, Chief.” He came to his feet, carrying the phone, dragging the extra-long cord, and crossed the small room to the wall map opposite. Sergeant Jennings had come to his feet and was watching. Reardon studied the map, locating the approximate area where the phone call was made, as well as the nearby site of the hospital. He nodded to himself, satisfied that he was right, and spoke into the phone.

“I’d say, from looking at the map, that they probably directed the ambulance somewhere up in the San Bruno Mountains, wouldn’t you?”

“That was my guess.”

“How isolated is it up there?”

“A lot more isolated than you’d figure for something practically in the middle of six or eight towns. I’ve got a car on its way up there, but I figured—”

Reardon’s finger had found something he had been looking for on the map. “Don’t they have a helicopter pad up there near the top of Radio Road?”

“That’s right,” Chief Merrick said with heavy humor, “but we can’t search with a pad. They don’t have a helicopter stationed there.”

“Oh,” Reardon said. “Well, I’ll get a chopper up there as soon as I can. And I’ll be along, too.”

“Good,” the chief said. “We can keep in touch through your Communications.”

“Right,” Reardon said briskly, and hung up. He swung around, pleased to be doing something, anything, rather than reading the reports. “Jennings, arrange a patrol car and driver in front of the building on the double.” He had a police radio in his Charger, but no siren and, of course, no top light with flasher, and he had a feeling he might need both.

“Yes, sir!” Jennings bent instantly to the phone. Reardon returned to his own, clicking the switch impatiently. Communications came on almost at once; they had been waiting for his instructions.

Reardon said, “Who’s this?”

“Sergeant Silvestre, sir.”

“All right, Sergeant. Where are our helicopters?”

“Just a second, sir.” There was a brief pause as Silvestre scanned the board. “One is over the bay, near Angel; one is on the Park pad; one is out at the International Airport pad—”

“That’s enough,” Reardon said, satisfied. “I want the one from the airport over the San Bruno Mountains as quickly as possible. He’s looking for an ambulance that’s disappeared. He should look in the area of the few roads they have up there; the ambulance is suspected of having been hijacked, so it shouldn’t be more than a few hundred feet off the road at the most, and the cover is poor up there. I’ll be in a patrol car—”

“We just called in Mission Three for you, sir.”

“Good. I’ll want to be in touch with the pilot of the helicopter.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reardon dropped the phone into the cradle, carrying it back to his own desk. He set it down and looked at Jennings. “You stay here. Anything of importance comes in, I’ll be in Mission Three on my way to Daly City.”

“Yes, sir.”

A further thought occurred to the lieutenant. It was a dirty trick to play on Jennings, but somebody had to do it. “And while you’re sitting here, see if you can get any ideas by going through these papers.”

“Yes, sir,” Jennings said dolefully. He had watched the lieutenant’s expression as Reardon had dug his way through the first two and did not look forward with pleasure to taking up the job.

Reardon said, “In fact, see if you can even read them,” and went out the door.

He walked swiftly down the corridor to the elevator bank, took one look at the indicators, and took to the steps, running down them. He marched across the marble lobby, pushed through the heavy glass doors, and trotted down the steps. Mission Three, its top light rotating and flashing red and white, stood at the curb. Reardon ran around the front and climbed in beside the driver, pleased to see it was an old friend, Pilcher, at the wheel.

“Hello, Mac. Daly City, and on the double!”

“Right, Lieutenant.” Pilcher was away from the curb smoothly, gathering speed. He turned at the first corner, heading for the skyway south. He opened his mouth to ask Reardon if he wanted the siren, but the lieutenant was already leaning forward, switching it on. The keening rose.

“Don’t be afraid of tickets,” Reardon said flatly, and reached for the glove compartment and the detailed maps of the area he knew the sergeant kept there.

Thursday—5:55 P.M.

From his low altitude of only three hundred feet above the winding Guadaloupe Road, cutting north and south through the San Brunos, Johnny Calgary, pilot of SFPH-5, rotated his head from side to side, searching. Calgary had spent many hours in helicopter searches and could, from a low altitude, watch the terrain without running into it, a skill not all helicopter pilots learn in mountainous country. So far there had been nothing to see. He spoke, his throat mike eliminating the roar of the engine.

“Nothing yet, Lieutenant.”

“Where are you?”

“Just coming over the crest on Guadaloupe Road, heading northeast.”

Reardon considered the map in his lap. Pilcher, following instructions, had slowed down and turned off the siren; they were almost at the foot of the San Brunos. Reardon made up his mind.

“All right. Keep following Guadaloupe Road until you come to the intersection of Radio Road. You know it?”

“I know it.”

“Good. I’ll cut over to Guadaloupe Canyon Parkway. You take Radio Road. If you don’t have any luck you can try the Parkway and the rest of Guadaloupe later.”

“Right,” Calgary said. He tilted the small chopper, dipping with the terrain, his head moving evenly from side to side with the knack of long experience. A sudden flash of white almost got him to speak; he thought better of it and wheeled around, cutting away from the road, checking before reporting. A good three hundred yards into the hills, young faces looked up at him in friendly curiosity; a few hands waved. Calgary grinned as he banked away from the campsite and the white pup tents. Back to Guadaloupe Road.

The intersection with Radio Road was reached; he swung the whirlybird in a wide circle and then spiraled in closer. Nothing in the immediate area. He shrugged and started up Radio Road to where it ended in a maze of electronic gear well protected by heavy chain fencing. Nothing.

“Lieutenant? Radio Road’s a washout.” Calgary paused, thinking. “How about over Brisbane way?”

Reardon checked his map. “Too far. They wouldn’t go there.”

“Then how about over toward Crocker Avenue?”

Reardon found it on the map. He shook his head as if the helicopter pilot could see him. “I doubt it. That’s practically in the city.”

“That may be how it looks on a map,” Calgary said, “but there’s plenty of empty space over there.”

Reardon considered. They were running out of places to look. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll take the Canyon Road and be there in a few minutes.”

“Like I said, you can’t trust those maps,” Calgary said. “On the map it looks like the two roads run into each other, but they don’t. You’ll have to go back and go around.”

Reardon said something rude and looked at Pilcher. The big sergeant had already swung the wheel and was bringing up the speed. The siren went back into action.

In the air Calgary tilted the blades; the chopper bent northward, coming over a ridge and hovering along Crocker Avenue just beneath the northern ridge. To his left the sun glinted from the roofs of the last houses to climb along the road; beyond them the turnoff to the hilltop water tanks was passed. Calgary was about to suggest the possibility of an ambulance being hidden in one of the garages of the deserted houses, when there was the sudden reflection of the late afternoon sun glinting in his eye. He grunted in satisfaction. Glass! A window in most parts of the city, but almost surely a windshield up here. He only hoped it wasn’t an abandoned car; he’d seen plenty of those in his searching experience. He bent the helicopter in a tight circle, relocating the reflection, and then nodded as the white body with the painted red cross came into view. He spoke, feeling the throat mike vibrate. It was hard to keep the triumph from his voice; it was always that feeling at the end of a search, whether the results were fortunate or tragic.

“Lieutenant? I’ve got her for you. Ambulance, nobody around her. Half in a grove of eucalyptus, off Crocker.”

“Good!” Reardon said with deep satisfaction. “Where on Crocker?”

“Where are you?”

“Just hitting Altavista.”

“Keep going west,” Calgary said. “You’ll hit Crocker. Don’t turn, just bear left. Then maybe a mile further along. I’ll hang right over it.”

“Right,” Reardon said, and changed the tone of his voice. “Communications? Did you hear that? Get in touch with Chief Merrick of Daly City and pass it on.” He went back to the pilot. “Could you set down there?”

“Easy as pie—” Calgary’s voice changed, reacting. “Hey! The back door of the ambulance just popped open, a guy fell out. He’s lying on the ground, looks hurt. I’m going down.”

Reardon looked at Pilcher. The patrol car leaped forward under the pressure of that big foot on the accelerator. They roared past the intersection of Ardendale and South Hill Boulevard and then were forced to slow down as the uneven surface of Crocker met them. A few hundred yards past a sharp curve and they could see the helicopter in the distance, its blades still, settled beside the road. Pilcher braked beside it and the two men came out of the car on the run, trotting over the rocky ground toward the ambulance. The pilot was kneeling down, tearing adhesive tape from the mouth of a squirming redheaded man. Reardon came up, panting.

“You all right?”

The young intern’s eyes were wild; he struggled to get his wrists loose. “Get the man inside!”

Pilcher had already moved swiftly to the ambulance. He leaned in, pulling the slumped body there around to reach the head and brutally ripped the tape from the pale face. The head sagged to one side; the stench of vomit filled the air. Pilcher resolutely picked up the body and placed it on the ground. The intern, hands and feet now freed, stumbled over and crouched beside the man on the ground. He shoved a finger into Jimmy’s mouth, clearing it, dragging the tongue free, and then rolled him over, straddling him, instantly beginning artificial respiration.

Reardon clenched his jaw as he said it, but he felt he should. “How about mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”

It wasn’t the idea that disgusted the intern; it was the ignorance behind the statement. He spoke without easing up on his task. “No good in this case. Lungs full of solids.”

Pilcher stepped up. “Let me do that,” he said. “I’ve done it before.”

He dropped to his knees beside the red-haired doctor, sliding his hands alongside the doctor’s smaller ones so he could take over the job without missing a stroke. The exchange was made; the intern came to his feet and staggered to the ambulance. He dragged his bag free and dug into it. He fixed an injection, came back, and pressed it into Jimmy’s inert arm and then got to his knees, checking the still body with his stethoscope. In the breathlessly hot air the stench of vomit being forced from the driver’s lungs was overpowering.

“He’s gone,” the redhead said bitterly.

“Maybe not,” Reardon said.

The redhead looked up at him as if to ask on what basis the police lieutenant made medical judgments, but he said nothing. Sergeant Pilcher continued his rhythmic pressure: push, pause, sudden release; push, pause, sudden release. Calgary, the helicopter pilot, stood next to him, ready to take over as soon as the large sergeant showed the least sign of tiring. Both men had seen recoveries after many, many long minutes. There was the faint sound of a siren coming up Crocker from the west; it struck Reardon for the first time that not one car had passed them since their arrival. The siren would be Merrick, Reardon thought. He touched the angry-faced intern on the arm.

“Let’s go over to the car and talk,” he said. He saw the look the intern gave both the figure on the ground as well as the man crouching over him, pushing and releasing with mechanical regularity. “Don’t worry,” Reardon said quietly. “They know what they’re doing. And they won’t stop.”

“They’re wasting their time,” the intern said dully, but he followed the lieutenant away from the smell.

Thursday—7:30 P.M.

Reardon rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand to ease some of the tension there, forced his shoulders as far forward as he could and then released them, stretching the muscles, waiting for his telephone call to be completed. He heard the instrument at the other end raised at last.

“Captain Tower? Sorry to disturb you at dinner—”

“That’s all right, Jim. What is it?”

“I’m in Chief Merrick’s office in Daly City. We found the ambulance up in the San Brunos. Actually almost on the edge of town, but in a very deserted place. There isn’t any doubt it was the boys from the bank; the intern with the ambulance saw the bag in the back seat. The driver of the ambulance was dead when we got there—”

“Dead? They killed him?”

“They did the same thing,” Reardon said wearily. “They taped his mouth with adhesive tape. To a mouth breather, that’s as bad as strangling. Or to anyone else, for that matter, if they happen to get sick to their stomach. This driver threw up and strangled on it.”

Captain Tower remained silent, Reardon waited a moment and then went on.

“Anyway, he’s dead, which makes two so far. The doctor who was with him in the ambulance is putting his story on tape—”

Behind him he could hear the young voice, bitter with memory, speaking into the cassette recorder. “I pulled off the car robe, and tossed the suitcase that was between his legs onto the back seat. The man was lying on the floor of the back seat, with his legs folded up, on his side. I cut through his jacket—” Reardon went on with his report to his superior.

“The car was a black Chevy, he thinks last year’s model. Four-door sedan. License plates were covered with some rags. He says he doesn’t think there was anything particularly distinguishable about the men or their clothes or their speech, except he says he doesn’t think they sounded like thugs, whatever that means—”

“How does he think thugs sound?”

“Like in the movies, I guess—”

Captain Tower dropped it. “What about the hood Wheaton shot?”

“Jeez!” Reardon stared at the phone, honestly surprised. “Didn’t I mention that? I must be tired. He was dead. Wheaton did a good job. Chief Merrick has as many men as he can spare out looking to see if maybe they dumped the body up there in the San Brunos, and I loaned him one of our helicopters with a good pilot for as long as the light lasts, but I think that’s a waste of time. I think it’s all a waste of time. I think we’ll sweat before we find that body—for all the reasons we went through this afternoon.”

“Maybe,” Tower said noncommittally. “Anything else?”

“Well,” Reardon said, “the intern says the gang had on these masks and zoot-suit outfits, and he doubts he could pick them out of any line-up without them—and what defense attorney is going to give him a chance to pick them out of a line-up in them?—but he thinks he might recognize the leader’s voice if he heard it again.” He paused and frowned. “Which reminds me—what about those voice-prints? There ought to be a report from the lab by now.”

Captain Tower cleared his throat self-consciously. It was his normal preliminary to bad news.

“I got my copy of their preliminary report before I left the office, Jim. It’s not very positive. It seems the masks changed the graph curves. They think they’ll still be able to give us some idea of where the men come from, but they don’t feel the visual graphs will be sufficient to take to court.”

“Hell,” Reardon said with relief, “you had me scared there for a minute. I’ll worry about a case for the courts after we get our hands on the bastards, not before. When will the lab have something more definite?”

“They promise it by morning.”

“Good God! What do they work? Union hours? I thought they were computerized. Well, all right.” Another thought came. “Captain, do you know if Dondero is back from the shipyard yet?”

“He’s back. He left a report on your desk and went home. He came in here to see if you were in here. He says he left you a list of about forty names—”

“That’s all?” Reardon could not help the sarcasm.

“That’s all,” Captain Tower said dryly. “People who knew details of the payroll make-up, people who were recently fired from the yard and might have had a special gripe, people there with previous police records—”

Reardon sat a bit more erect. “There’s a thought!” He added a bit lamely, “Which I should have had myself sometime ago.”

“I’m having the sergeant in Identification dig out the files, the ones that are locals,” Tower said, “but I wouldn’t place a lot of hope in them. Nobody with any serious record can get hired on a job at the yard; these are mostly traffic violations probably. But they’ll be on your desk in the morning. Right now I want you to go home and get some rest. As I told you this afternoon—”

“But, Captain, it’s only seven-thirty!” Reardon stared at the phone.

“I know the time,” Tower said shortly. “If you go back to the Hall, you’ll be there half the night. The Chief has called a meeting on this thing for tomorrow morning at nine, and I want you awake for it. If you want to come in a little earlier tomorrow, fine; but right now you can stand some rest. So go on home. That’s an order.” Tower hesitated a moment. “And stay home. If anything urgent comes up, I don’t want to be looking all over town for you.”

Reardon’s amazement mounted. “I always let the Hall know where I am when I’m working, Captain. You know that.”

“Well, tonight go home,” Tower said abruptly.

Reardon shrugged. “You’re the boss, Captain.”

“That’s what it says on my shield,” Captain Tower said evenly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Reardon said, and hung up. I guess even police captains have their hang-ups, he thought; I wonder who in hell put a hair across Tower’s butt? He shrugged again and climbed to his feet.