“Yes, sir.”
“And in the morning talk to Traffic and drop it. And right now go home and get some sleep.” The captain’s voice was no longer stern; he sounded sympathetic. “You look as if you could use some.”
“Yes, sir,” Reardon said and proved the captain’s contention with a sudden yawn. He allowed it to carry into an extensive stretch and grinned, coming to his feet. “Yes, sir...”
Chapter 5
Tuesday — 11:45 P.M.
Lieutenant James Reardon buttoned his jacket and started down the hall, glad to finally be on his way home, glad the evening was finally finished, glad that Captain Tower had made the decision to have Crocker sent home, and also glad that Crocker and his hopeless, helpless “It wasn’t my fault, it was an accident” was finally out of his hair. If he got called to Municipal Court the following afternoon as a witness, it would be his own fault. He’d have to go, of course, which was a cramp in the elbow, but he’d have no one to blame but himself.
He frowned, remembering Captain Tower’s words. Was it possible he had subconsciously tried to make a homicide case out of a simple accident just to justify his interference? If so, it was pretty sad. He knew men who had done things like that, but he didn’t respect them, and he had always thought of himself as being far too good a cop for anything like that. And if he had, of course, he owed Crocker an apology. It was a tough rap having some character step off the curb in front of you without having some hard-nosed cop try to make a patsy out of you for no good reason. Besides, Reardon thought, there but for the grace of God goes Lieutenant Jimmy Reardon. I certainly handle a car faster than fifteen or twenty miles an hour, and my mind isn’t always on what I’m doing or where I’m going. I’d hate like hell to have been coming down Indiana Street tonight, just at that exact moment!
He came down the corridor leading past Room 454, Missing Persons, and then suddenly had to sidestep as the door to the Bureau swung back and a girl emerged without looking, almost bumping into him. She looked worried, preoccupied, and his first reaction was automatically to apologize even though none of the fault was his. Then he stopped, a big smile crossing his face. The girl he had nearly collided with was his beautiful stewardess friend from the ocean liner that afternoon. She had changed her uniform for an evening dress, and she carried a small white beaded bag in her gloved hands, but her face and figure were as fascinating as ever.
“Well, well!” Reardon said. “Hello, there!”
Somehow his having studied her so intently through the binoculars only a few hours ago seemed to him to constitute an introduction of sorts, though he was honest enough to recognize she might not feel the same way about it. And he was sure the “competition” Jan had mentioned almost certainly would take a different attitude.
The young lady stared at him a moment without seeing him, and then frowned as she realized a complete stranger was addressing her. True, he was an interesting-looking stranger, but still a stranger. The look she gave him stated quite clearly that she had met fresh men before and undoubtedly would again, but only an idiot would try a pass in the Hall of Justice where, presumably, one call would have him under lock and key. She turned, a look of disdain on her face, and marched down the corridor in the direction of the elevators. For a moment Reardon thought to follow her and explain, but instead he allowed his curiosity to take him into the Bureau.
There was a lieutenant standing back of the counter, searching in a typewriter desk drawer for something. He looked up as the door opened, and his look of irritation changed to a grin.
“Hello, Jimmy,” he said and gave a wink. “You should have seen what was just in here. Wow! Meat!”
“I saw her,” Reardon said and smiled back. “How did she get under the rope downstairs? I thought anyone after 6 P.M. got sent to Southern Police Station automatically?”
“The man on the desk downstairs knew I was working. And I guess if she just smiled at him, he’d have let her into the chief’s safe.”
“What did she lose?”
“A boy friend. He stood her up on a date.” The lieutenant shrugged. “It takes all kinds, I guess. A guy has to be like out of his head to stand that up, is all I can say.”
“When did she lose him?”
“That’s the reason I’m not getting overly excited,” the lieutenant said. “He’s a couple of hours late for a date they had, and already she’s worrying. She’s called four hospitals before she come in, she said. True,” he added, wanting to be fair, “any guy shows up late for a date with that piece, he’s got to be missing something, like his brains at the very least. What probably happened, he stopped in a bar someplace for a quick one, had a couple, and forgot the time.”
“It’s possible.”
“Or else his wife wouldn’t let him out,” the lieutenant said with a grin.
“That’s possible, too, I suppose. What’s her name?”
“Penny Wilkinson. What a name, Penny! She looks more like one million bucks to me. Here’s the whole bit, Jim.” The lieutenant grinned and swung the report around so Reardon could read it. “It also has her address and telephone number, if that could be of the slightest interest to you. I hear you had a slight scrap with your own girl tonight...”
Reardon stared at him. “Man! Word certainly gets around in a hurry! Our intelligence should be so good in police work!”
“Yeah,” the lieutenant said and winked. “I also heard you got tired of Homicide and asked for a transfer to Captain Clark.”
Reardon laughed. “No; he asked for me. I’m still considering it.” He looked down at the form. “What was the guy’s name?”
The lieutenant’s thick finger pointed. “Cooke. Bob Cooke. Works with her on the ships. A deck officer.”
Reardon started reading the form, muttering the missing man’s description under his breath. “Cooke. Age twenty-eight. Height — she thinks — about five feet eleven. Weight one hundred seventy-five—”
“She was sure about that,” the lieutenant said. “Seen him on a scale.” He grinned. “I wonder where?”
Reardon kept going. “Hair, dark brown. Eyes, dark brown. Distinguishing marks—” He straightened up, frowning. “Scar on upper lip from shipboard accident, partially covered with mustache, dark brown...” He looked up. “Jesus Christ!”
“What’s the matter?”
“That’s that accident case we just picked up!”
The lieutenant lost his humor. His hand went out to the telephone, instantly all business, preparing to dial. “Which hospital?”
“Our own,” Reardon said flatly. “Downstairs!”
He hurried from the room, trotting down the corridor, punching the elevator button fiercely. To his amazement the door swung open almost instantly; he shoved the button for the first floor and stood waiting at the door. As soon as it opened he trotted across the lobby and ducked under the ropes, looking at the patrolman on duty at the information desk.
“Where did she go?”
“The girl just came down? Outside.” The patrolman pointed to the front doors.
Reardon ran down the steps and looked in both directions. About a block down Bryant he saw a girl getting into a cab; at that distance and in that light he couldn’t be sure it was his quarry, but there was no sign of anyone else in the immediate vicinity. He started to shout, realized the futility of it, and ran to his car.