CHAPTER 8

Friday—8:30 A.M.

The sun was up now, bright in a clear sky, beating down on the few men at the end of the pier. Gunther had taken the patrol car back to check out, while Osterman stayed on. If anyone felt the loss of the chunky policeman, he was polite enough not to mention it.

The shadow of the freighter now fell on empty water to the north; the corroding plates on the dockside were starting to reflect the growing heat of the day. The men stood side by side, staring down into the black water where the scuba divers had been at work almost an hour. The winch-tug waited patiently, the cable with its grapples hovering just above the water’s even surface. Despite the activity, there were no spectators; Windsor Dock was far enough off the beaten path. Beneath the surface of the dark water there was only the faintest of glows where the diver’s lamps searched. Whoever picked this spot for this job, Reardon thought, had to be familiar with the area. That is, if I’m not imagining things and the car is really down there.…

The oily surface broke without warning, sending myriad little rainbows of color in widening circles; one of the divers swam over to the pier. He treaded water as he pulled his goggles up onto his forehead, pulled his mouthpiece free, and spat to clear the acrid taste of rubber. He wiped dirty water from his face and looked up at Reardon.

“Got her, Lieutenant,” he said simply, and turned his head to spit again. He angled his head again to look up. “Man, it’s purely garbage down there! They keep piling crap into this bay, pretty soon you’ll need sandhogs for this job, not divers.”

Reardon felt a sudden great sense of relief; he hadn’t known himself how tense he had been. The relief was instantly followed by doubts. He squatted down, staring at the man in the water.

“You sure it’s the right one?”

The diver shrugged. He said, “All I know, it’s a car. That’s what you said; that’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it, Lieutenant?” He saw the look on Reardon’s face and temporized. “It ain’t been there very long, if that’s of any help.”

“Any idea of the make or color?”

“Well,” the diver said, as he kept himself afloat by paddling with one hand, “it ain’t white is about all I can say.”

Reardon nodded and straightened up. If they dug out some wreck unconnected with the job, he decided he’d go out and get drunk, early morning or not.

“Relax,” Dondero said softly.

The surface broke again; the second diver waved his hand toward the tug in signals that were obviously understood, and then sank back into the depths. The first diver pulled his goggles back into position, bit on his mouthpiece, tipped and disappeared, the light from his lamp fading rapidly as he sank. There was activity on the deck of the tug; the master shouted something and the donkeyman pushed a lever. The cable with its grapples swayed with sudden motion and then slowly paid down into the water. There were several moments of slackness before the cable jerked; the donkeyman reversed the winch and the cable started to rise, taut and dripping. Reardon wet his lips as he watched intently.

The car came from the bay slowly, almost reluctantly, and it carried a passenger. Buoyed by the water inside the closed car he was no longer lying on the floor, but floating lazily inside, making for an eerie sight. The windows had been rolled up, but cracked sufficiently to allow the water to enter; through the glass the corpse almost seemed to be enjoying himself, a human goldfish in his own private bowl.

Reardon said softly, “Bingo!” Dondero nodded.

The winch stopped lifting; the donkeyman manipulated levers and the boom swung, swaying the car toward the dock. The men waiting there had to back up quickly to avoid a bath. The black Chevy swung back and forth a moment, spewing water, and then bumped down heavily as the cable eased. Reardon could see that the license plates had been removed.

Dondero moved over and opened the rear door, stepping aside quickly to escape the gush of filthy water that poured out. The corpse, deprived of its medium, settled itself ragdoll fashion over the back of the front seat, the head tipped leisurely against one arm; it seemed to be relaxing, as if tired from its long swim. The car trunk, held by one of the grapples, had buckled. It suddenly bounced open, releasing more water, and carrying with it a suitcase. Osterman started to reach for it, to prevent it from carrying over the side of the dock, but Reardon was there first, righting it and studying the markings near the top. Dondero started to remove the grapples from the car. A stentorian voice came over the water.

“All set, Lieutenant?”

Reardon looked up and waved his hand, making no attempt to compete with those leather lungs. The donkeyman waited until the grapples were free and then started to bring his boom to the vertical. The two divers were sitting on a bench on deck, drying themselves with towels, talking and laughing, although how they could do it with the stench that must have been upon them was more than Reardon could understand. The tug master turned to shout to the bridge; the tug began to move. Reardon brought his attention back to the car.

The dead face was still masked, with little rivulets of water oozing from behind the plastic. The smell was sickening, but it was the smell of the bay’s mucky bottom rather than of death. The car and everything in it smelled like raw sewage tainted with oil. Reardon approached the corpse and with a grimace pulled the mask from the face. Behind it there was a young, smooth-shaven face, with black hair cut shorter than the style and gray eyes that were open and looking at Reardon curiously. Reardon took a step backward, as if caught in an invasion of the other’s privacy. He studied the dead man from a short distance, feeling an odd combination of compassion for the dead man and anger at him for his part in the killing of Tom Wheaton. He looked up to find Osterman and Dondero watching him.

“We’ll need an ambulance of sorts to get the body to the morgue,” he said, “and a tow truck for the car. We’ll want it over in our police garage at the Hall. Can you arrange them from here?”

Osterman nodded. “Sure, Lieutenant. I’ll call from the gatehouse.”

Reardon turned. “And, Don, stay with it. Come back with the ambulance and stick with the boys in the morgue. We’ll want fingerprints as fast as possible, plus any other identification. I’ll take the suitcase and check it out with the bank manager later, though there isn’t any doubt. I’ve got to get right back. I’m late for a meeting now.”

“Right, Jim.”

“That’s that then,” Reardon said to nobody in particular, and walked back along the dock, letting the feeling of triumph he had been holding back flood him. At last they had something they could get their teeth into, something to start working with, something firm! His grip tightened on the suitcase handle; he increased the length of his stride.

He came through the gatehouse and climbed into the Charger. As he turned the car and eased it back over the ruts of Bailey Lane he thought of the other three bandits. A resourceful gang, there was no doubt; first, the hijacking of the ambulance, and then the dumping of the car into the bay. Without Osterman, the car would have probably been there a hundred years from now, together with all the other junk and probably other bodies conveniently disposed of. Each one of the three would now be richer by a third of the dead man’s share; maybe the sweetening of the pot would make them each consider further sweetening. It wouldn’t be the first time greediness engendered further greediness. It would be very pleasant to have them knock each other off. So long as they do it in public and not let us look for the final survivor forever, he thought with a grin, and turned the car into Sea-view.

As he sped along toward San Francisco he had a feeling he had forgotten something and then suddenly remembered what it was. He had wanted to tell Osterman that he was a damned fine officer, and then had just walked off without even saying good-by. Reardon frowned. It was odd that a man like Osterman, obviously nearing retirement age, was still a patrolman, but these things happened, as Reardon knew only too well. Promotion wasn’t always due to mere ability. He hoped he would have a chance to congratulate Osterman someday, although the chances of his getting back to Burlingame were scarce. Maybe when we have the other three bastards in court, he thought, and concentrated on his driving.

Friday—9:25 A.M.

Lieutenant Reardon stopped off in his office to drop off the suitcase. It had become almost dry, but the smell of the bay clung to it. Sergeant Jennings looked up from the bank statements. He appeared resentful, a reasonable attitude, Reardon thought, although he would have imagined Jennings would be finished with them by now.

“Captain Tower’s looking for you,” Jennings said. “Meeting upstairs in the auditorium.”

“I know,” Reardon said, and put the suitcase down. He gestured toward the papers. “Still at it, eh?”

“There are other things to do, too,” Jennings said a bit stiffly.

“I know,” Reardon said placatingly. “Find anything in that stuff so far?”

“Nothing that thrills me,” Jennings said sourly, and leaned back in his chair. “Lieutenant, you ever hear the story that witnesses can never agree on what they saw?”

“Too often.”

“You said it, too often,” Jennings said. “These babies all give exactly the same story. They didn’t see a damn thing useful.”

“None of them had any ideas at all?”

“Just gossip,” Jennings said. “You want to know who someone thinks someone else is sleeping with?”

Reardon laughed. He said, “No, I don’t think so. Anyway, maybe we won’t need their statements. See if you can get hold of the manager of the bank—his name’s Milligan. I’d like to see him sometime this afternoon. I want him for positive identification of this suitcase.”

Jennings’ eyes widened. He came to his feet and walked over to stare at the suitcase almost reverently. “You mean you really found it, Lieutenant? When you walked in I figured you were going on a trip someplace. That’s the one, is it? Where did you find it?”

“In the bay. The smell ought to tell you that,” Reardon said. “Get on the phone. I’ve got to get up to that meeting.”

“Right,” Jennings said.

Reardon walked down the hall toward the elevator bank, feeling deep satisfaction. Sure there had been an element of luck in it, but what the hell, if the bad guys could have luck most of the time, why not the good guys once in a while? After all, the only real luck was that Osterman was on his toes and that he, not Gunther, was the senior man in the patrol car. Actually, he supposed that his boys—he had begun to think of the missing three bandits as “his boys”—had a legitimate gripe to have had the car found at all. Well, Reardon thought with a grim smile, let them sue. He promised he would be properly sympathetic when the three were handed down the stiffest sentence the law allowed.

He left the elevator and headed for the auditorium. Another thing, he thought: it seemed to definitely establish that at least one of the missing three was a local bad boy; you didn’t just stumble onto a place like Windsor Dock; you knew about it a long time, probably from boyhood. It was something else that could be useful; by checking the army of potential involvees, maybe a few people could be either eliminated or pinpointed for further investigation.

He opened the door to the auditorium softly. There were half a dozen men, including the Chief of Police and two of the Board of Commissioners, grouped in the front row, listening to the red-haired doctor’s voice issuing from a small tape-recorder.

“—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 and shirt without moving him, but once I got a look at the wound I checked for a pulse at once, because I was sure he was dead. And he was. I didn’t even look for the other wound. They wouldn’t let me take off his mask, so I don’t know what he looked like. I don’t know what any of them looked like. Like I told the lieutenant, I couldn’t identify them, although I think I could remember the voice of the one who took charge. That’s about all.”

The others in the front row, Reardon noticed, included a technician from the sound laboratory, the captain in charge of the Robbery Division, and Captain Tower. As the recording ended Tower looked up and noticed Reardon’s entrance at last. He came to his feet and walked up the aisle halfway to meet the lieutenant. He kept his voice low, but it was plain he was angry.

“Where in hell have you been?”

“I was—”

“I told you to get some rest, but I didn’t mean a vacation! I told you the chief called this meeting with the commissioners, and I said nine o’clock! Where in hell have you been?”

Reardon kept his voice equally low.

“I’m sorry, Captain—” He sounded anything but sorry. “—but I was tied up. I’ll tell about it in the meeting.”

“And it better be good,” Captain Tower muttered, and led the way back to the front of the auditorium. Tower looked at the men in the front row and tilted his large head toward Reardon.

“You all know Lieutenant Reardon—”

One of the commissioners, Barraclough, looked at Reardon coldly. Reardon had met the man before and it appeared the two were never destined to become mutual admirers. Barraclough cleared his throat and interrupted Tower.

“Outside of keeping us waiting half an hour, Lieutenant, what have you been doing with yourself? I know Captain Tower is nominally in charge of this case, but I understand you’re the one supposedly doing the legwork. Well, where are we? So far the only results I can see is another man dead in that ambulance thing, and all I hear is that the department is working on it.” He snorted. “Well, sir, I’ve heard stalls before and I can recognize one of them a city block away. A payroll was stolen yesterday and a policeman killed. What are you doing about it?”

It was hard to tell from his tone which he gave greater priority to, the killing or the robbery. Reardon suspected the robbery; Barraclough was a banker. Captain Tower’s neck got red.

“Now look here, Commissioner, we’re here to give you information, but that doesn’t give you the right to—”

“I was speaking to the lieutenant,” Barraclough said coldly, and looked at Reardon. “Well?”

Reardon looked at Barraclough without expression, but inside he was grinning.

He said, “Well, sir, the dead bandit you just heard the doctor talking about on that tape, is on his way into our morgue—” From the corner of his eye he saw the startled expression on Tower’s face, followed instantly by a hard smile directed at the commissioner. “—and the bank suitcase, the one that held the payroll, is in my office. I expect the manager of the bank to be over sometime after lunch to make a positive identification we can take to court, but there’s no doubt it’s the one.”

He turned from facing Barraclough’s surprised expression to look at Chief of Police Schley. His voice automatically became more respectful, a difference not unnoted by the others in the room.

“We fished the car out of the bay down in Burlingame about half an hour ago, sir. We found it due to some damned good police work on the part of an officer down there named Joe Osterman.”

“Osterman,” Chief Schley repeated, his blue eyes understanding the reason for the inclusion of the name. “Joe Osterman.”

“Yes, sir.” Reardon felt better about Osterman. “The car is being towed into our garage right now. We’ll go over it, and we’ll check out the dead man until we establish identity. Our feeling is he’ll lead us to the others. The car’s probably stolen, but we shouldn’t have too much trouble with the dead man. Once we put a name to him, we’ll be in good shape to find the other three, we believe. In addition to what happened this morning, I have people checking out the shipyard and another man going over statements from those who were in the bank at the time. We should be able to start putting things together fairly quickly.”

Barraclough asked, “How quickly?”

Reardon shrugged. “It depends.”

“On what?”

Reardon looked at him. “It depends on how much time we can put to the actual investigation, and how much time we have to lose reporting our findings to meetings.” He paused, and then added, “Sir.”

“Sounds like you’re getting there,” Chief Schley interjected diplomatically. “Sounds damned good, considering the time involved.” He turned to Barraclough, his voice respectful, but his look challenging. “Well, Commissioner?”

Barraclough’s face was red. He started to say something and then clamped his jaws shut. The second commissioner rose; Barraclough automatically followed. The second commissioner cleared his throat.

“Sounds like you’re on top of the case, Chief,” he said, and turned and walked up the aisle. Barraclough followed, but paused at the top of the aisle.

“Just keep us informed,” he said stiffly, swept them with an imperious look, and marched from the room.

Those in the room seemed more relaxed after the departure. Chief Schley smiled. “‘Don’t let the bastards get you down,’” he quoted, and straightened his face. “Well, Captain, what help do you need?”

Tower looked at Reardon. Reardon shrugged.

“Let’s get the dead man’s identification first, sir,” he said. “Then we’ll know better.” He looked over at the man from the sound lab. “How about those voice-graphs?”

The lab man opened the folder he had been carrying.

“One was from Florida, we think; the natives there follow a slightly different curve than Mississippi or Georgia—more like North Carolina. We think the second was from somewhere in New England, Massachusetts, most probably, but western, not eastern. Not Bostonian. That one’s just a guess,” he said, looking up a moment. “All we have from him are four sample words. He said ‘downstairs’ twice and ‘last time.’ But the curves come closest to the area we’ve picked. The third one is the one we’re the surest about; it is the classic curve for the native of this part of the state of California. Though they’re getting rarer.” He smiled.

“That’s only three,” Reardon said.

“The fourth was the driver,” the lab man pointed out.

“Oh,” Reardon said, and felt foolish.

Captain Tower smiled and passed up any obvious comments. He looked at the sound-lab man. “You’ve tied them into definite positions in the robbery?”

“Yes, sir, of course. The man with the submachine gun, the one who apparently ran the show, is the one from around here. The man at the door—the one who almost certainly is the dead man—was the one who originally came from Florida. The one who escorted the guard downstairs is the one we think probably came from western Mass. It could also be western Connecticut or eastern upstate New York, but in that general area.”

Reardon asked, “But you don’t feel the graphs are good enough for court?”

The lab man hesitated. “If you catch the men and have their voices recorded, we can certainly try to show comparison graphs to the jury, but unless you can get them to record with masks on—and I doubt you’d get permission to do that—the graphs wouldn’t be sufficiently identical to help, I don’t think. A good defense counsel would tear the identification to pieces.” He shrugged. “We can try, of course.”

“I see,” Chief Schley said, and turned to Captain Davidson from Robbery. “Dave?”

“Well,” Davidson said slowly, “Lieutenant Reardon here contacted the FBI locally for a check on similar m.o.’s, and my department has been following up on it. So far, no luck. They fed the facts from the replay tape into their computers and got nowhere.”

“Maybe it was their first job,” someone suggested.

“Maybe, but they looked awfully organized for the first job. Anyway, the FBI is now disregarding some of the facts and checking out on all four-man jobs, with different disguises, different weapons, and they’ll try to tie some of them to names. But for my money, the best bet to come along so far is that dead man you have downstairs.”

“Right,” Tower said.

“There’s also the matter of that quarter of a million dollars in small, unmarked money,” Reardon said slowly. “They might get careless in spreading it around. I’ll get onto that.”

“All right,” Schley said. There was a moment’s silence, then the chief came to his feet. “Let’s get back to work. Captain, once you know your needs, let me know. I’ll want daily reports, and you’d better be prepared for further meetings with the commissioners if things don’t move.”

“What about reporters?” Davidson asked.

Everyone looked at Reardon. He shook his head. “There weren’t any at the dock when we fished the car out.”

“Well,” Schley said, “it won’t be a secret forever, but let’s try to keep it quiet at least for the time being. Or at least until we’re further along on the identification. If the other three are from around here, let’s not scare them off any quicker than we have to.” He thought a moment. “In fact, if there are reporters, refer them to me.” His tone indicated he would give them either a lesson in civic responsibility or a well-prepared dish of gobbledygook.

“Yes, sir.”

It was a chorus. The men stared at each other blankly a moment and then began to file silently from the auditorium.