“That’s an idea,” Boynton said, and turned to the man at his side. “Mark, be sure and contact the Harbor Patrol and tell them to keep their goddamn boats away from the Islais Channel Bridge — in fact, tell them to keep the hell away from that whole side of the bay unless the city is burning down. Okay? From one to three in the morning. After that they can go back to fishing for gropers.” He gave Clark one look and then turned back to the room in general. “Who do we have who speaks Italian?”
Reardon spoke up quickly.
“Sergeant Dondero, sir.” Damned if Homicide was going to be left out of the case altogether! He knew Dondero spoke some Italian — he was positive he swore in it fluently — but he wasn’t sure about the normal vocabulary. He only hoped it was enough; it would be a pity to hang Don because of his own big mouth.
“Fine. Well, he can be detached from Homicide, temporarily. I want him to try to check on all the hotels to see if Lazaretti stayed at any of them — Lazaretti or the other one, whatever his name is. I want him to try and find out who Lazaretti was in contact with, what phone calls he got, and so forth and so on. I want him to check with the Italian Consulate, with Interpol, or with anyone else he can think of, to see if he was known. He can try the neighborhood clubs; they’re strong in old-country family relationships. Maybe there was a vendetta of some sort.” He nodded. “Have him look for any possible connection with the Organization here, although I doubt the Organization would fool with kidnapping a cop. Or that they would tolerate a long-winded joker like that on their payroll. And have him interview the man—”
Captain Tower leaned over to speak quietly into Reardon’s ear. “And you stick with Dondero, understand?”
Reardon grinned and then straightened his face. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Tower rolled back.
Boynton turned to Lieutenant Giordano, of the Loft Squad.
“Tim—”
He was interrupted by a brief but loud series of rappings on the door, after which it was opened diffidently. Stan Lundahl stuck his head in, looked around until he located Reardon, and then straightened up, holding the door open with one hand. Boynton looked at him severely, not pleased by having his instructions interrupted.
“Is there something you want?”
“Sir, I was looking for—”
Lieutenant Reardon stood up. “It’s Detective Lundahl, sir, from our department. He went after that wino.” He looked at Lundahl, fearing the worst from the doleful expression on Stan’s face. “Well? What happened? Did you find him?”
“Yeah,” Lundahl said, to Reardon’s surprise. He took a deep breath and went on. “He’s downstairs in the morgue. He was run down and killed up in Potrero, out at the end of a dead-end street on top of the hill. No witnesses, at least so far. We found the car that hit him abandoned less than a block away. Frank Wilkins is finishing up with it now; he should have it down in the garage in an hour or so at the most.”
He saw the look on Reardon’s face and nodded lugubriously.
“Yeah,” he said heavily. “Yeah. We also found Mike Holland’s car. It did the job. And if they used it to kill one guy, why should they play tippy-toe with Mike...?”
Chapter 6
Saturday — 11:30 A.M.
Dondero sat with one knee shoved tightly against the edge of his desk, looking at Reardon with a vicious glower. He had his fingers tented and he pressed them together tightly, then suddenly released the pressure, only to repeat the gesture again and again. It looked as if he were practicing isometric exercises and he was, but Reardon knew it was more than that; it was one of the few indications Dondero ever gave of being deeply concerned about something. He finally gave up the finger exercises, flexed his fingers into fists several times, and then slammed one hand down on the desk top with a bang.
“Jeez! So Pop gets thrown to the wolves, huh? Just for some zero character who got picked up in a street fight!”
“With a shiv in his hand and a gun in his kick,” Reardon reminded him.
“With a shiv in his hand and a gun in his kick,” Dondero repeated disgustedly. “Man, that’s rare, that is! Almost as rare in this town as fog!”
Reardon sighed helplessly.
“Look, Don. It was talked over and the decision was made. I’ve tried to tell you why six times, but you just don’t want to listen. Any maybe it was the right decision. I don’t know.”
“It was talked over! The way you told it, Boynton talked it over with himself, asked himself to vote, and surprise, surprise! Unanimous!” Dondero snorted. “Talked over!”
“Everybody had a chance to speak his piece. Vinocur let go loud and clear.”
“With what result?” Reardon remained silent. Dondero nodded. “Yeah. And what was your contribution?”
Reardon reddened.
“Look, let’s not waste all day sitting around here discussing it. I want to go up and talk to this Lazaretti with you, and then I want to go over Pop’s car down in the garage—” He suddenly paused, frowning. “I told them you speak Italian. Do you?”
“And how would you know if I didn’t?” Dondero shoved his swivel chair away from his desk abruptly and came to his feet, jamming his fists angrily into his jacket pockets. “I still say we ought to deliver the bastard and get Pop back; but all right, let’s go up and have our little chat. Let’s see how good his Italian is!”
They walked out of the office and down the wide hallway to the stairwell. The detention cells were only two floors above them and neither man was in the mood to stand waiting for the elevators. Reardon glanced sideways at Dondero’s rigid jaw and then looked away. He could understand the other man’s resentment at the decision, but he could also understand the attitude of Chief Boynton. Even though the majority of men in the department knew it was only a fantasy, most of them always had secret dreams of arriving at the exalted position of top man, and now for a moment Reardon honestly wondered if it was worth it. There were a lot of tough decisions to be made up there, and like the man said, if you can’t stand the heat, you ought to stay out of the kitchen. Or out of that big fourth-floor office with the Chief of Police medallion on the door.
They shoved through the swinging doors leading from the stairwell to the detention-cell section, paused to unclip their belt holsters and deposit them with the security guard in his cage there, and then waited while the automatic main cell door to the inner prison corridor was activated and slid open.
“Lazaretti,” Reardon said to the inside guard.
“Sure, Lieutenant. What’s his number?”
“No idea. He’s the man only speaks Italian. Brought in for fighting. Or he’s one of them, anyway.”
“Oh, yeah. I know the one,” the guard said. “He’s the little guy. You want to see him in his cell, or in the conference room?”
The “conference room” was one of the cells built for recalcitrant prisoners who had to be put into solitary for any one of many reasons. The cot and its hardware had been removed, and only the lidless toilet broke the austerity of its solid-wall interior. It had the advantage of being soundproofed, which offered privacy to both the prisoner and his interrogator during an interview, without the necessity of leaving the cell-block area. Unfortunately, it also had the distinct disadvantage of giving the interrogator the feeling of what solitary confinement at the Hall of Justice was like; and most of them didn’t like it.
“Conference room,” Dondero said without hesitation, and looked at Reardon as the guard left to get the prisoner. “It might get a little noisy, and there’s no sense in disturbing the neighbors.”