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—