Robert L. Pike
Deadline: 2 A.M
This book is affectionately dedicated
with friendship and respect
to
Gerard — “Jerry” — Rothbart
World traveler, fascinating conversationalist, indefatigable pub crawler; a man who in today’s world actually reads books and enjoys them; and God’s gift to the telephone companies of the world.
Who could say more?
Chapter 1
Friday — 8:45 P.M.
Sergeant Michael Holland sat extremely still and tried to make out as much of the man’s features in the rear-view mirror as he could. Night had fallen within the hour and the only illumination came from the reflected light of a streetlamp a few yards down the block, plus the occasional glow from the cigar tucked in one corner of the man’s bearded mouth.
Sergeant Holland’s first thought at being accosted in his own car in his own driveway had been that some of the boys from the Hall of Justice were playing a practical joke on him on this, the day of his retirement from the force; but another look into the mirror revealed a strange, casually cruel, faintly smiling bearded face, cigar atilt, that instantly disabused him of the notion. Holland had no idea of how the man had managed to get into the rear seat of the locked car, nor when; but he recognized the authority of the cold muzzle against his neck and accordingly kept his hands pressed tightly on his knees. In addition to the sardonic cast of the full lips gripping the cigar, the small mirrored glass showed enough of the weapon held in the gloved hand to be instantly recognized. Mike Holland knew the gun well. It was a .38 caliber police positive, and until five o’clock that afternoon, one just like it had been as much a part of him as his right arm. Michael Holland had spent a portion of his career on the San Francisco police force teaching recruits how properly to use precisely this weapon. He knew the damage it could do to a two-inch plank in the ballistics lab, and in the course of the few years he had spent in Homicide before being shunted to Communications to work out his final years, he had also seen the damage it could do to the human body. That damage was considerable. It was not easy to forget.
He cleared his throat, surprised when he spoke that his voice was not even tighter than it was. “What goes on?”
“Relax,” the man said amusedly. “Keep quiet and keep still.” The voice was calm, detached. He took the cigar from his mouth, flicked ashes to the floor almost contemptuously, and replaced the cigar. The pistol never moved from Holland’s neck.
“But—”
“I said, quiet.”
Mike Holland sighed and glanced about, moving his head with extreme caution, feeling the muzzle scrape lightly against his neck, but being most careful in keeping his hands on his knees. From the house on the right, his own, he could see the faint glow of the lamp he always left lit whenever he went out evenings, for Michael Holland lived alone and had since his Katherine had died eight years before. And to the left the Horvath place was dark, as he expected, since Steve and Margaret were off someplace on vacation. Los Angeles, he remembered, and then thought how unimportant it was, any more than it was important that the other houses around held neighbors who were not on vacation. It would take quite a shout on his part to be heard over Walter Cronkite, or whoever — even assuming anyone would come if they heard him. Or if he’d even be alive when they got there. The man in the mirror, with that faint smile on his kisser, looked just wild enough, with all that hair, to use the revolver just to hear the bang.
Mike Holland wet his lips, and wondered what they were waiting for. He glanced into the mirror, read nothing in the steady eyes that stared back at him, and brought his attention to the closed garage ahead. Take it easy, he told himself. Don’t let yourself get up-tight. This clown has to be making a mistake. And the guy in the mirror, despite that slightly off-beat smile, still didn’t look like a hophead — although Mike Holland had to admit it was getting pretty hard to tell these days, what with the drug companies coming out with new pills every half hour, bless their little commercial hearts. He looked back up into the mirror.
“What’s this all about? What are we waiting for? What do you want? Who are you?”
As if in answer to his questions, the door beside him suddenly opened and he saw that his assailant had not been alone. A second man appeared in the opening, thin to the point of emaciation, abnormally short, his face hidden in the shadows of an excessively wide hat brim. “Nobody around,” the newcomer said in a deep gravelly voice that seemed odd coming from his stunted body. “Just what I like — a nice quiet neighborhood.” He turned his head in Holland’s direction. “Okay,” he said. “Feet first.”
Mike Holland stared, not understanding. “What about my feet?”
The thin man seemed to double over, and for a stunned moment Holland hoped it was with pain, but then he realized with sudden fury that while he had been staring at the weird-looking hat and hoping the little bastard had suffered a burst appendix, the skinny little son-of-a-bitch had clamped a set of cuffs about his ankles.
“Hey!” Mike Holland said, outraged, and started to reach. The gun instantly was thrust with force against his neck and Holland froze. This was no Saturday-night special, a four-buck job that maybe it went off and maybe it didn’t. This one served for the police, and this one went off each and every time, without fail.
“Hands,” the little man said evenly, and looked up at the large sergeant. In the reflected light from the streetlamp, Mike was able at last to make out the face. The eyes beneath that ridiculous hat brim were sunken, as were the nose and cheeks. The whole effect was like seeing two burned holes in a scarred and ravaged barrel stave, and somehow reminded Mike Holland of pictures he had seen one time of lepers. He looks like a very sick kid with his old man’s hat on him, Mike thought with sudden anger; a fifty-year-old bastard kid who ought to have that stupid hat jammed over his stupid ears and then given a good healthy kick in the butt for luck.
“Hands,” the little man repeated.
Mike fought down growing anger, knowing temper could only be a mistake.
“Now, look, you characters,” he said in as reasonable a tone as he could muster. “I got a sum total of maybe thirty bucks on me, and the car’s practically worthless. I don’t even carry theft insurance on her. She’s damn near as old as I am.” Or anyway, as I feel, he thought bitterly. You didn’t retire out of the force one day too soon, Holland, he thought, getting picked up like a farmer his first night in a topless joint! “And there’s not a thin dime in the house, either,” Mike went on, “plus my son’s in there asleep, a Medal of Honor winner, and if you wake him up over some nonsense like this, he’ll take that toy pistol away from you and push it in one of your ears and pull it out the other!” And he would have, too, if Michael Patrick Holland, Jr., hadn’t died at the age of four from what they called the croup in those days. “Take the lousy thirty bucks and leave me be,” Mike Holland said wearily. “I got an appointment tonight.”
The little man had been listening to this story with the air of a person who had gone into a jewelry store to buy a cheap watch strap and found himself the unwilling participant in an auction. He snapped out of his reverie.
“Hands,” he said evenly. “Out in front of you. And keep them together.”
“Now listen, you dumb baboons!” Mike Holland said furiously, no longer able to contain his ire. “I’m a police officer and you guys are asking for more trouble than you can handle! Sweet Mary and Jesus! Take the lousy thirty bucks and pray to your saints I don’t never run into either one of you two again...!”