“Not a chance, honey?”
“I’m sorry, darling.” Jan had an idea. “But, why don’t you come over here and watch the game on television? Or come over and take a nap? But I really mean a nap. No chasing the virtuous lady around a table.” He could hear the smile in her voice, but he knew she meant it. “I really have to get these notes done tonight.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Reardon said. He tried to keep the hurt from his voice, but he didn’t feel like playing second fiddle that afternoon, not to a bunch of blueprints he couldn’t make head or tail of, while Jan could. It somehow belittled his manliness, and he felt down enough as it was. “Maybe I’ll go to a movie.”
“You do that, darling.” It was apparent from her tone that Jan’s mind was already back on her shopping mall, with her head full of stresses and strains and beams and elevations and a thousand other things she understood that he didn’t.
“Yeah, I’ll do that. Maybe we can have dinner tomorrow night.”
“Fine,” Jan said, and he could tell her mind was not on him.
“Yeah,” he said hopelessly, and hung up. He knew he was being foolish to feel put down by a few pieces of paper with unintelligible markings on them, but that was the way he felt at the moment. You’d think when he was down in the dumps, once in a million years, that Jan could sacrifice one lousy afternoon from her damned blueprints for some stupid buildings, or shopping mall, or something...!
He suddenly grinned, knowing how idiotic he was being. He knew exactly what his reaction would be if Jan asked him to halt in the middle of an important investigation and go over and hold her hand just because some elevation, or some roof line, or sewer plan on a drawing wasn’t exactly what she desired. He’d tell her he was sorry, but the job came first; and that was roughly what she was telling him. And she was right.
Feeling better, he came to his feet and headed for the elevators and freedom. Desk work was out, that afternoon. No sitting in that empty office looking at a bunch of meaningless reports. No, damn it, he would go to the movies! Maybe one of the bright cops up there on the screen would show him where he was slipping up — where they were all slipping up — in their search for Pop Holland and his kidnapper or kidnappers.
He walked from the Hall, descended the steps, crossed the sidewalk, and climbed into his Charger, which was parked as usual, illegally, in front of the Hall. It was not that Lieutenant Reardon always parked there illegally; it was only when some other officer didn’t beat him to it. He was feeling better as he started the engine, making plans. After the movie, he’d go out and have a meal at a restaurant where the waiters didn’t give you ulcers, and then go back to his apartment and watch “Mannix,” or “Kojak,” or another one of those flawless demonstrations of proper police procedure, and if he couldn’t tolerate the tube, he might even read a book, if he hadn’t forgotten how. Sherlock Holmes, maybe.
Whistling a tuneless ditty, he put the car into gear and headed for the center of town, forcing any thought of Mike Holland into the recesses of his mind, at least for the moment.
Monday — 6 A.M.
Lieutenant James Reardon, feeling refreshed for what seemed to him to be the first time, possibly since childhood, opened his eyes, blinked in friendly fashion at the narrow band of sunlight that had managed to squeeze under the edge of the drawn shade, and then sat up in bed, stretching luxuriously in comfort. He swung his feet over the edge, wincing a trifle as they struck the bare floor, and then padded into the kitchen to put up coffee, noting with satisfaction that he had beaten the set alarm clock by a full forty-five minutes.
The evening before had been somewhat of a qualified success. The movie antihero cop had been duly nastier than the bad guys, had used language that would have gotten his mouth washed out with soap in a G-rated film, had taken graft and kicked little children, had sold narcotics to kindergarteners, and was in the process of winning the girl when Reardon had walked out of the theater, feeling that the producers were only trying to make him feel good by comparison.
A decent meal at one of his favorite Japanese restaurants, however, had taken a portion of the bad taste away, and when he got back to his apartment he found that Kojak was not at all like the movie policeman, but even helped old ladies to cross the street, protecting them from vicious gunfire with his own body, and even sucking a lollipop as he did so. Reassured, Reardon had taken a straight two ounces of whiskey, followed it by a glass of milk, and then gone to bed at eleven o’clock to sleep the sleep of the just. Now, wide awake, full of vim and vigor and with his depression far behind, he put coffee into a percolator, filled the bottom portion with the requisite water, assembled the gadget, put the entire contraption on the stove, and sat down to watch the pretty little bubbles, listen to the gentle burping of the unit, and cogitate, once again, on the case of Pop Holland.
It was quite apparent, in the light of day, and with a good night’s rest behind him, that there was no reason to allow depression or lack of self-confidence to interfere with the proper handling of the case. Nor was there time for self-pity. There were hundreds of things that could and should be done, and he wondered at himself for getting into a frame of mind so negative as to prevent himself from handling the case as he would have any other.
That hint of Porky’s about the newspaperman, for example. Of course it was a long shot, and maybe even useless, but it had to be better than sitting at his desk, commiserating with himself, and spending the county’s funds flipping paper clips into a waste-basket. The first thing this morning he’d go down to the paper, find out the name of the author, and ask him how he had known Reardon was in charge of the arrangements for Pop’s dinner. Sure, it was a dumb question, but if there weren’t any smart ones to ask, dumb ones would have to serve.
And while he was at the paper, he’d also ask about any reporters who might have brought in the story of the fight between Lazaretti and Patrone. He’d forgotten all about that. And, in fact, he’d have a talk with Patrone; that was another thing Dondero was supposed to do, but he’d been laying off all the jobs on Dondero with one excuse or another. This time he’d do the interviewing, and Don would just be the translator. And this time he wouldn’t allow any distaste for manhandling stop him from getting information. Dondero was right; while he was being delicate, Pop was getting skinned.
And there was the matter of Interpol, and the Italian Consulate, another two jobs he had ducked off to Dondero when there was no reason he shouldn’t handle them himself. And the matter of the stuff Property was holding of both Lazaretti and Patrone — their wallets and their passports. Those were things he ought to check out himself, not leave to others. And the hotel where the two had been staying, or the friends they had stayed with if they hadn’t been at a hotel. Hell, there was lots of work that had to be done!
He paused. The telephone was ringing in the bedroom. He turned the flame down under the coffee and walked back into the bedroom. This time the telephone hadn’t brought him from any horror dream; this time he’d been awake and ready for it. He picked up the telephone receiver, ready for anything.
“Yes?”
“Lieutenant? This is Lundahl.”
“Good morning, Stan.” Reardon tried not to sound too pleased with life; after all, Detective Lundahl had been on the graveyard shift and was winding up a long night. “How’s it going?”