CHAPTER 9

Monday—8:20 A.M.

There were other men in Chief Boynton’s office, many of them, but from the charged atmosphere it was plain that Lieutenant Anton Zelinski, in charge of Detention, and Patrolman Charles Travers, the night guard of the main cell block, considered themselves practically alone. Reardon thought that Zelinski’s jaw looked hard enough to strike fire off of with flint, and if Travers was at all intimidated by his superior’s belligerent appearance he didn’t show it.

“Goddamn it, Lieutenant!” Travers was saying with what he obviously considered justifiable resentment, “a guy comes walking in with a paper, what am I supposed to do?”

“You should use your head, goddamn it!”

“Jeez, thanks!”

“Jeez, thanks, yourself! How many times somebody comes up to you at one o’clock in the morning with a prisoner release?” Zelinski asked with withering scorn. “Fifteen?”

“So maybe it was the first time,” Travers admitted without backing down one inch. “So there’s got to be a first time for everything, don’t they?” He raised a thick finger in the lieutenant’s face. “You ain’t saying it wasn’t a proper release form, you notice? You ain’t saying that.”

“So did you even bother to see whose John Hancock was on the release?” Zelinski demanded. “Or was that too complicated for you?”

Travers looked at the ceiling in supplication, and then brought his hot blue eyes back to the lieutenant’s angry red face.

“No, I didn’t bother to send the signature down to the lab if that’s what you mean. I saw it was signed, that’s enough. I honestly don’t know who signs releases; Charley Finley, for all I know. Anyways, lots of judges sign releases, and I don’t know all their signatures. This one was just a big scrawl, anyways. You couldn’t hardly read it, even.”

“My God!” Zelinski struck his head with exaggerated dramatics. “And the fact that a guy hands you a release form with a signature you can’t even read—that don’t mean a thing to you?”

“Jeez, Lieutenant, I can’t even read your signature!”

“Except you know damn well I don’t sign release forms for prisoners!”

Travers almost wailed in frustration.

“Damn it, Lieutenant, you ain’t being fair! A cop—a sergeant I know is a cop—comes to me with a proper release form like I’ve seen hundreds of times, saying this Lazaretti is being transferred from the Hall to Soledad, and this sergeant I know is a cop tells me he’s been assigned to accompany the prisoner.” He appealed to the faces around him. “What in hell am I supposed to do? Refuse to honor a release? Tell the sergeant to go to hell?” He turned back to Zelinski. “Call you up at one o’clock in the morning and get reamed out for bothering you for nothing? Jeez, Lieutenant, try to see it from my angle!”

“I’ll see it from your angle! I’ll—”

Boynton had had enough. If he had previously thought any useful information might come out of the confrontation, he was pretty well convinced by now that it wouldn’t. He banged on the table, breaking up the tête-à-tête.

“We’re not getting anywhere,” he said heavily. “Let’s take it over again from the top.” He swiveled about, looking at Captain Tower stonily. “As I understand it, Captain, your Sergeant Dondero went up to the cell blocks last night with a falsified release form and took a prisoner from custody. A prisoner, incidentally, that the board had specifically decided was not to be released. And a few hours later that prisoner, with every evidence of having been extensively tortured, is found dead. And now your Sergeant Dondero can’t be located. Is that the case?”

Tower clenched his jaw. “Yes, sir.” He was unhappy and both looked and sounded it. It was the first time since he had taken over Homicide that anything like this had happened, and in his mind he promised all subordinates silently and grimly that it would be the last. “We’ve checked everywhere he might be, but so far we’ve been unable to locate him. We’ve put an all-points out on the man, and we have a watch being kept on his apartment as well as on most of his known hangouts, in case he shows.” Tower hesitated a moment and then went on, although he knew he was courting trouble. “Sir, do we have to give this story to the papers?”

Boynton’s expression turned to rock.

“What are you suggesting? A cover-up for a cop? Then we’d really be in the—”

“No, that isn’t it—”

“Then what the devil is it?” Chief Boynton studied the head of Homicide blackly. “And are you also trying to tell me the newspapers haven’t got the story yet?”

“They’ve got the story about the body being found,” Tower said, “but as far as they know, it’s an unknown. They don’t have his identity so far, and they don’t know he was a prisoner here. They also don’t know about the torture inflicted on the body, nor that a police officer is involved. Maybe if we—”

Boynton exploded. “Damn it, don’t give me any ‘maybes’! Maybe if more of our men were properly motivated, things like this wouldn’t happen! And there’s going to be no cover-up for this Dondero, I assure you of that!”

“What I’m trying to say,” Tower said stubbornly, “is that it seems to me we ought to sit on as much of the story as we can until we get our hands on Dondero and hear his side—”

Zelinski snorted. He was still irritated at having the security of his detention cells violated.

“His side! What side? Hell, he was up there yesterday during the day and he had Lazaretti in the ‘conference room’ and beat the living crap out of him there.” He jerked a contemptuous thumb. “Reardon was with him. Ask him.”

All eyes swung to the lieutenant.

“Don was just trying to get information from the man, to help locate Pop Holland,” he said quietly. “He was told to go up there for that purpose. It wasn’t his own idea.”

“Was he also told to beat the guy?” Zelinski asked with exaggerated politeness. “I heard about that interrogation session; my man had to take Lazaretti back to his cell. But Dondero couldn’t do a proper job on Lazaretti inside the Hall, so he sneaks the guy outside at night and gives him the works. What side of what story can he have? That he had the tough luck to have Lazaretti die on him?”

“You’re crazy!” Reardon promised himself to take Zelinski on in the next interdepartmental boxing matches and he meant to hammer on that thick skull until some sense dribbled in through the cracks. “Dondero isn’t that kind of a cop!”

“I know,” Zelinski said with exaggerated sympathy. “I know. He’s also not the kind of cop to fake a release form, either. He’s just a good, clean, one hundred per cent All-American boy with a heart of purest gold.” He tried to look apologetic. “I’d stand at attention in his honor, only my feet hurt.”

“You make a great judge-and-jury combination,” Reardon said angrily. “I’m surprised Dondero didn’t leave a full confession along with that fake release form; then we could put out a shoot-on-sight order and get it over with!”

Boynton’s fist bounced off his desk blotter.

“All right!” He looked at Tower and then at the rest of the men, one by one. “All right,” he repeated in a quieter tone. “There’ll be no cover-up, I assure you, but we’ll keep this matter among ourselves for the time being. No leaks to newspapermen, or anybody else, or somebody’s head will be on the block along with Dondero’s! And I want that Sergeant Dondero! I want him bad! I hate a bad cop! We’ll get him, and we’ll get his side of the story, and he’ll be called upon to answer charges to the department as well as all criminal charges.” He looked around the room for one last time. “All right, that’s it! Get this Dondero!”

Sure, Reardon thought sourly as he filed from the room with the rest; get this Dondero. Whatever happened to the original scenario, he wondered—get Pop Holland?

Monday—2:00 P.M.

Reardon turned the Charger south into Van Ness, drove a few blocks, and then was halted by a traffic light. He stared up at the red glow without consciously seeing it, thinking back on all the places he had stopped that morning, every place he could think of in connection with Dondero—girl friends’ apartments, several of them; several bowling alleys the two men had bowled at together; a pool hall he knew was a favorite of Dondero’s; restaurants where he and Jan and Don and his current date had eaten; places Dondero had mentioned in passing, as enjoying the food—

A blast of a horn from behind reminded him the light had changed. He stepped on the gas and found himself driving past Tommy’s Joynt. Speaking of food, he thought, and stepped precipitously on the brake; there was another angry blast of a horn and a taxi swerved around him, its driver waving a fist. Reardon paid it no attention and angled in to the curb. While Tommy’s Joynt was not one of the places that Dondero normally frequented, it still served food, and Reardon suddenly remembered he had had neither breakfast nor lunch. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see how late it was. Well, he thought, with the schedule I’ve been keeping lately, my stomach probably thinks my watch has been stolen, anyway, so let’s get a sandwich and an ale and surprise the old intestine.

At that hour, after the luncheon crowd and before the supper crowd, Tommy’s Joynt was reasonably empty. Reardon approached the pile of trays and was about to remove one when he felt a tap on his arm. He turned, frowning in surprise, and found a busboy studying him a bit apprehensively.

“Your name Reardon?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“Telephone,” the busboy said, relieved that he had not disturbed a stranger for nothing. “Guy described you and said you just walked in, but you know that don’t always mean too much—”

“Yeah,” Reardon said, and walked to the telephone on the wall beneath the small balcony. He couldn’t imagine who on earth might have guessed he would be in Tommy’s Joynt at that hour, but then decided maybe somebody was trying every eatery in town, and had just struck it lucky. He picked up the dangling receiver. “Reardon,” he said shortly.

“Ah, Lieutenant! We meet again, if again only verbally.” Reardon’s jaw tightened at the familiar, slightly amused voice, but then he knew that subconsciously he had known the call was probably from the kidnapper. Who else seemed to be omnipotent? The voice went on smoothly. “I thought you’d never stop in one place long enough for me to get in touch with you. A place with a single telephone, that is. But hunger finally got you, and I’m pleased.”

Reardon glanced swiftly at the doorway. Somewhere very near, maybe even watching the front of Tommy’s Joynt as he spoke, was the man he wanted. But he also knew that it would be useless to drop the phone and dash into the street. There were endless telephones within a block of that busy corner, in stores, motels, hotels, gas stations. He dropped the idea, concentrating instead on the call.

“What do you want?”

“Just an apology this time, Lieutenant.” The deep voice actually sounded apologetic. “Sorry about Lazaretti, but you see, it was just a terrible mistake. A dreadful one, really, and so needless! Poor Lazaretti. Didn’t even speak English, you know. Ah, well, that’s water over the dam, I’m afraid. I’m also afraid,” the voice went on, now losing its apologetic tone, “that now we shall have to trouble you for the other one. Patrone, I believe his name is. Tonight at two in the morning, same place, same drill. And, by the way, since I’m sure you’re interested, Sergeant Holland is doing as well as can be expected. He’s a bleeder, did you know? I don’t know how he’d tolerate any further operations …”

There was a trailing off of the last words; when the receiver was placed back on the hook it was done so quietly that for a moment Reardon didn’t realize he had been disconnected.

He hung up and walked to the open door of the restaurant, staring out into the street. Somewhere out there, within yards of him, was the man who had kidnapped Pop and mutilated him. And trying to find him by staring out at the usual activity of the busy corner was pointless. Especially since all he had to go on was the man’s voice, and not another thing. He turned back and walked to the food counter. He knew he supposedly should be returning instantly to the Hall to report the call, but he had to eat somewhere and he might as well do it while he had the chance. He picked up a tray, loaded it with the necessary utensils, and started down the deserted line, thinking hard.

For one thing, he had definitely been followed all morning, and for all he knew, he might well have been followed for some time. Still, since he hadn’t been paying any attention to that possibility, trying to remember who might have been watching him could only lead to invention, so it was better to drop that angle at once. From now on, of course, it would be well to try and keep an eye on any potential follower, but the chances were he would be left alone in the future. This man didn’t seem to do much of anything the same way twice.

A more important thought intruded. He had always known, of course, that Dondero had removed Lazaretti from custody only to effect the trade for Pop, and that he had nothing to do with any torture, but it was still nice to have it confirmed. What, then, had been the exact timing of events? One o’clock Dondero takes the prisoner from the Hall—

Reardon became aware he was being addressed. He looked up.

“Yes?”

The counterman was eying him with curiosity. “You buying, mister, or just window-shopping?”

“Oh.” Reardon came down to earth. “I’m buying.” He surveyed the wealth of succulent viands spread out in the various hot trays, trying to make up his mind. He’d had beef the last time he’d been here, that time with Porky, and it had been very good. And speaking of Porky, the ribs looked inviting. But he’d been eating a lot of fatty foods lately, and Jan had this thing about cholesterol, so maybe—

“Hey!” The counterman was frowning at him. “What do you want, Mac? A estimate?”

“No, I’ll have the fish—”

Reardon stopped, wrinkling his forehead, as the word triggered an entire series of tiny electronic flashes in his brain. Fish, by God! Of course! That was it! The counterman paused in the process of transferring a fillet onto a plate and peered at his customer wonderingly, disturbed by the sudden grimace that crossed the other’s face.

“Hey, Mac, you all right?”

“Fish, by God!” Reardon said triumphantly, and abandoned his tray, moving toward the open door of the Joynt at a half-trot.

The counterman stared after the running figure a moment with a puzzled frown; then he shrugged and slid the fillet back to join its brothers in the hot tray. “Three-dollar bill,” he said to no one in particular, and then whistled shrilly for the busboy to come and remove the deserted tray before it interfered with normal traffic.

Monday—3:10 P.M.

The narrow half-twisted and falling-apart dock lay under the hot September sun like a long wounded wooden animal, resting before resuming its struggle to straighten itself out. Reardon, walking its precarious length and trying to avoid the rotting planks, paused at the end, pleased to have made it, and looked down at the broad-beamed little fishing boat bobbing placidly there. Across the bay the hills of San Lorenzo and Hayward could be seen, shimmering through the afternoon haze, small buildings dotting their sides. But here, south of Burlingame, hidden in the reeds, one might have been on a deserted island. A bluebottle fly approached to appraise the interloper; Reardon brushed it away impatiently, studied the deserted deck a moment, and then raised his voice.

“Dondero!”

There was a faint echo as his voice came back to him from across the water. He wondered if his hunch might have been wrong after all, and then called again.

“Hey, Dondero!”

Dondero’s tousled and sleepy head appeared in the shadowed square that marked the small companionway. He yawned deeply, grinned at Reardon in a slightly embarrassed manner, and scratched at the T-shirt that covered his hairy chest.

“Hi, Jim. You woke me up.” He looked down the dock toward the land. “No escort?”

“I figured without an escort you’d confess faster,” Reardon said, and added more soberly, “anyway, when you told me about this fishing boat, you asked me to keep it to myself.”

“So I did. I didn’t feel I wanted every cop in San Francisco figuring this would make a dandy place for weekend picnics, for him and his fourteen kids,” Dondero said. He looked toward land again, studying the Charger parked all alone on the jetty. “Still, under the circumstances, there was a good chance you’d purposely forget. However …” He yawned. “Well, now you’re here, come on down and have a beer.”

“You bring them up,” Reardon suggested. “It looks warm down there.”

Dondero looked at him a long moment. Then he said, “Yeah, it’s warm down there, all right. And I’ve got a machine gun all set up down there for snooping intruders. Sure you want to drink on duty?”

“Just get the beer.”

“Right,” Dondero said, and disappeared from view. He reappeared a moment later with two cans of beer, each dripping with sweat. He handed one to Reardon, swung himself up to seat himself on the rickety dock, and looked up. “Hold up on the handcuffs until I get this down, will you?”

“I don’t know.” Reardon sat down beside the other man and pulled the tab free from his can. The cold liquid felt and tasted good going down. He took another protracted drink, rested the empty can on his knee, and looked at Dondero evenly. “I ought to arrest you for stupidity, if for nothing else. Going to tell me about it?”

Dondero grinned a bit sheepishly and shrugged.

“What’s to tell? Two o’clock tomorrow morning, if everything works out, the man lets Pop Holland go, and I go back into circulation.” He took a draught of his beer and stared across the bay. “Oh, I expect I’ll get my share of flak for pulling the guy out of the cell block, but I figure the brass won’t be too hard-mouthed about it if Pop’s okay and it all works out.”

Reardon set his empty can to one side. “And if it doesn’t work out?”

“Why shouldn’t it work out?”

“I mean just what I said. Suppose the chief, and the Board of Commissioners and even Captain Clark—God save the mark!—are right, and the brilliant Sergeant Dondero is wrong?”

“Wrong in what way?”

“Wrong in every way,” Reardon said firmly. “For starters, suppose the guy doesn’t let Pop go?”

Dondero shrugged. “Why shouldn’t he? But supposing he don’t—what have we lost? What difference does it make if this Lazaretti is walking the streets? If we want him back, when the man gets through with him, he’ll be easy enough to pick up; and if he’s blown town, so much the better. There’ll be one less so-called tough guy around to make trouble. So what’s the problem?”

Reardon figured Dondero was certainly innocent. Not, he reminded himself, that he had ever had any doubts, even before the telephone call he had received at Tommy’s Joynt.

“The problem is—”

“The problem is,” Dondero interrupted, “that all you guys think Pop’s dead and I released a prisoner for nothing. Then where does that leave Sergeant Dondero? In the soup, I admit.” He shook his head. “Only I don’t think Pop’s dead. I think Pop’s very much alive, and I’m damned if I’m going to sit around and watch him get hurt, Board of Commissioners or not. Not when all it takes to get him free is to trade off a midget meathead like Lazaretti. It’ll work out, Jim. Don’t worry.”

“No,” Reardon said quietly. “It won’t work out.”

Dondero frowned. “You sound like you know something I don’t.”

Reardon nodded somberly.

“Yes, I do. I know that Lazaretti was fished out of the bay early this morning, about six. Somebody did a job on him with fire—matches, a lighted candle—undoubtedly to get him to talk about something, but whether or not he talked before he died we don’t know.”

Dondero was staring at him, his beer forgotten.

“As a matter of fact,” Reardon continued, his tone without expression, “the consensus down at the Hall is that you were the one who was holding those matches—”

“What!”

“That’s right,” Reardon said in the same even tone. “They think that since you were unable to get the information you wanted from Lazaretti up in the ‘conference room,’ you took him outside and worked him over. They figure he died on you, most likely before you could get any useful information from him, so you dumped him in the bay and now you’re on the run.”

Dondero had been listening unbelievingly. Now he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“They got to be crazy! They got to be completely out of their so-called minds!” A thought came to him. “You don’t think any nutty thing like that, do you, Jim?”

“No,” Reardon said quietly, “I don’t think so, and I’ll tell you why. I had a call while I was having lunch—or about to have lunch, now that I remember—and it was from the man who’s holding Pop. He admitted to having knocked off Lazaretti—”

“So no wonder you had so much faith in me!” Dondero said witheringly.

“Sure. Why else? Anyway, the man said he hadn’t wanted Lazaretti in the first place. He had made a terrible mistake. From the way he spoke, it appeared there was a certain lack of communication between him and Lazaretti, among other things. What he wants, now, he says, is the other one. Patrone, or whatever his name is.”

“It’s Patrone.” Dondero considered the situation and sighed disconsolately. “Man, I really screwed up this time, didn’t I?”

“Like a champ,” Reardon said with honesty. “Given twenty years’ practice, I doubt you could have screwed up any better. However, there’s a bright side, if you want to look at it—”

“What’s that?”

“You can’t get up into the cell blocks and release Patrone, thank God! Zelinski would be waiting for you.”

“Very funny,” Dondero said sourly. He finished his beer, looked at the can in his hand a moment as if wondering how it got there, and then tossed it moodily into the bay. Just thinking about all his problems was enough to depress anyone, so he picked up Reardon’s can from the dock and tossed it in after his own, for luck. “Trouble, trouble!” he said bitterly. “Why did I ever learn Italian at my mother’s knee? Why didn’t I learn Esperanto, like everyone else? Why didn’t I—”

He paused suddenly, struck by a beautiful thought.

“Hey!”

Reardon looked at him. “Hey, what?”

Dondero thought about his beautiful thought a bit longer, but could find nothing wrong with it. “Wait a second! You said this guy said he made a mistake in wanting Lazaretti?”

“Those were practically his exact words.”

“Tell me what he said, will you? As close as you can remember? Exactly?”

Reardon frowned. Dondero was deadly serious.

“All right,” he said slowly. “He said he was sorry he’d killed Lazaretti, that it was a terrible mistake, ‘a dreadful one’ were his exact words. Then he said it was water over the dam, but that he was afraid now he would have to trouble us for the other one, Patrone, he said he believed his name was. He added the exchange was to be at two o’clock, same place, same drill, added to that that Pop Holland was a bleeder, and hung up.” He studied Dondero’s exultant expression with curiosity. “Why?”

Dondero was grinning savagely.

“Sure!” he said triumphantly. “That’s it! I should have seen it sooner!”

“See what?”

“You know something, Jim? That character never saw either Lazaretti or Patrone in person in his entire life!”

“Maybe not,” Reardon said, totally unimpressed. “So what?”

“So lots of things, don’t you see?” Dondero was getting more excited by the minute. “If he doesn’t know Patrone by sight, he sure as hell won’t know if the guy he picks up at the bridge tonight isn’t Patrone, will he?” He answered his own question. “No, ma’am, he will not!”

Reardon studied his friend for several moments as the meaning of the other’s words slowly sank in. Then he shook his head forcefully.

“No way, buster!”

“Why not?” Dondero said aggressively, liking his idea more and more by the minute. “Hell, I speak Italian like a native—”

“Lazaretti also spoke Italian like a native.”

“Hey, that’s right! Wait a second—” Dondero snapped his fingers. “You said he had a communication problem with Lazaretti. Five gets you ten that Lazaretti didn’t speak English, and that Patrone does! I won’t even need my Italian; my superb English will do. I—”

“Cut it out,” Reardon said sternly. “It’s just a wild guess the man doesn’t know Patrone on sight—”

“He doesn’t, I tell you! Would he have made a mistake in which guy he wanted out, if he knew one from the other? Or knew either one from a hole in the wall? He hasn’t a clue—”

“I said, cut it out! This man plays rough. He killed Lazaretti, and he wasn’t neat about it, either. And he cut off one of Pop’s fingers. He’s got his hands on one cop, and that’s one too many. He wants answers, and maybe this Patrone knows those answers or maybe he doesn’t, but it’s damn sure you don’t even know the questions!”

“So there’s one sure way to find out what those questions are,” Dondero said logically. “That’s to keep your big fat ears open when the man asks them; right? Anyway,” he pointed out, “I’m in the doghouse so far by this time, the only way I can come out is through the other end. If I come up with something real bright, maybe the brass won’t do any more than hang me.”

“Except for lots of things—”

“Such as?”

“Well,” Reardon said, thinking about it, “in addition to all the hundreds of other objections, let’s take just one. Let’s suppose the man picks you up where he says, when he says—”

“Yeah.”

“And he takes you to wherever he plans to take you after he picks you up—”

“Yeah.”

“And when you get there, he takes you into this room—”

“Yeah.”

“And Pop is sitting there, and Pop says, ‘Hello, Don, so you guys finally got here, huh?’”

“Now, wait a second,” Dondero said hastily. “It won’t work like that at all. To begin with, there’s no reason why this character should introduce me to Pop—I’d think he’d want to keep us apart. I don’t imagine he’s out to advertise he kidnapped a cop, especially not to some character he just sprung from jail.” He thought about it a moment more, and then shook his head. “No, that’s the least of my worries.”

“If that’s the least of your worries—”

But Dondero was not listening. He was already back with his planning.

“I’ve got a black suit just like the one Lazaretti had on, I use it for weddings and funerals, and I’ve got a whole hamper full of dirty white shirts, all we have to do is take out the label—”

Reardon felt himself being drawn into the scheme despite himself. “Except we’ve got a man on your apartment.”

“But he wouldn’t stop you,” Dondero pointed out, and went on before Reardon could say anything. “The suit’s hanging—”

“Now, wait a second!”

Dondero looked at him a long moment. “I started to say, the suit’s hanging in the front closet,” he said quietly. When Reardon remained silent, Dondero smiled faintly and went on. “As I say, we’ll have to take out all the labels, and probably get it wrinkled and dirty, which is no chore, since I should have sent it to the cleaners months ago. The shirts are in the hamper in the bathroom. I’ve got an old pair of black shoes here on the boat that ought to do. I’ll manage to get any maker’s name off them, although I doubt he’ll be down on the floor peeking at my booties—”

“Look,” Reardon said desperately, and ran his hand through his hair. “If we’re really going to do this insane thing, then it has to be properly planned, and I can’t think clearly on an empty stomach. What do you have to eat on this bucket?”

“What?”

“Eat. Food. Vitamins and minerals.” Reardon motioned toward his mouth with bunched fingers. “What kind of Italian are you, you don’t read simple sign language?”

“The word’s mangiare,” Dondero said loftily, and jumped down to the slanted deck. “Well, come on, then, although I’m damned if I can figure out how you ever manage to solve a case, when all you can think about is your stomach!”