He climbed in hurriedly, putting the key into the ignition and twisting it even as he slammed the door and turned the wheel to clear the car ahead. He cut into the street with the blare of startled horns from other traffic, starting in pursuit of the taxi. The cab pulled into Fifth, heading for Market Street and the brighter lights there. Reardon put on a burst of speed, flashing his high beams up and down, pressing one hand insistently on the horn. Other traffic gave way until he was behind the cab; inside the car ahead he could see the driver tilt his head backward, obviously saying something to his passenger. Whatever she said in reply only made the driver speed up. Not for the first time Reardon wished he was driving a patrol car with a flasher beacon and a siren.
They both crossed Tahama and Howard with the light; Reardon waited for a car in the other direction to pass and then jammed down on the accelerator, passing the cab and cutting in sharply. Even as he did so he wondered fleetingly what would have happened if some pedestrian had stepped from the curb as he hit those speeds, and quickly put the thought out of his mind. The taxi squealed to a shuddering halt, its left front fender nudging the Charger, the tires jammed against the curb. The driver came down in a hurry, big, tough, and angry. A short piece of one-inch pipe dangled menacingly from his right hand.
“All right, buster! What are you, some kind of nut?”
“Police,” Reardon said shortly and flashed his wallet. His voice was ice-cold. “And don’t tell me you didn’t know it.”
The driver stopped dead, his tone instantly defensive. The pipe sagged. “How the hell should I know? Anyway I ain’t done nothing.”
“I didn’t say you did. I just want to talk to your passenger.” He opened the taxi door, bending in, relieved to see the girl. “Police, Miss. Do you mind getting out?”
For a brief moment it appeared as if she might refuse, but then she climbed down, angry. And more beautiful because of it, Reardon thought.
“What is this?” She recognized him from the corridor outside of the Missing Persons Bureau, but it didn’t seem to lessen her annoyance. “What do you want?”
“I’ll tell you in my car.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No, Miss. I’d appreciate it, though, if you’d come with me.”
He handed a bill to the driver without looking at the girl, and then turned back, taking her arm. The fait accompli seemed to work; she allowed him to lead her to the Charger. A crowd had formed on the curb, watching with the hidden hostility of those who know nothing of the matter watching an arrest. They climbed in; he straightened the wheels and pulled away from the curb, turning into Mission, heading back toward the Hall of Justice, his speed reduced as if in apology for his previous mad dash. The girl clasped her purse tightly, her face expressionless.
“All right,” she said. “What is it?”
“You reported a Missing Person.” Reardon kept his voice quiet. “I want you to look at somebody.”
She stared at him disdainfully. “Are you trying to tell me that Bob was picked up for something? That he’s in jail? That’s utterly ridiculous. He’s the last man in the world to get into trouble. If you’re holding him for anything, you’re making a mistake.” The continued lack of expression on Reardon’s face seemed to finally break through her veneer, to cause her some concern. Her voice lost some of its contempt. “Well, tell me! What is he supposed to have done?”
“You’ll see.”
Her disdain returned. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
Reardon lapsed into silence, concentrating on his driving. He had turned down Sixth; he reached Harrison, waited for the light, and then turned into it, pulling to the left to swing into the public parking lot behind the Hall of Justice. He drove past the automatic ticket window without taking a ticket, and pulled around, parking for easy exit as was his habit. And if I get a ticket, he thought to himself with an inner smile, I can always tell the judge I’m working in Traffic tonight. He glanced over at the girl and his inner smile vanished. She was sitting forward, as if leaning back in comfort might constitute some sort of betrayal to Bob in his trouble.
Reardon turned off the ignition. For a moment they sat quietly, the two of them, a tableau, while her eyes climbed the smooth walls of the building to dwell on the fifth floor, where a row of lights demonstrated that the city jail was in business twenty-four hours a day whether the other offices were or not. Reardon broke the spell; he opened the door and climbed out. They walked side by side across the parking lot and through the narrow gap facing the covered arcade that led to the rear entrance to the Hall. Suddenly she held back, her eyes staring upward. Her voice was suddenly doubtful.
“Where is Bob? In one of those cells?”
Reardon took her arm but she still held back.
“Has he called a lawyer? He — he doesn’t know any here, you know.”
“He’s not in a cell. And he doesn’t need a lawyer.” He led her along the arcade and then stopped. Her forward progress was halted unevenly; she stumbled and then looked at him in surprise. Her eyes studied his face and then passed it to look at the door to their side. On it were the simple words, “Coroner’s Office.”
The girl’s face blanched; her fists locked themselves convulsively about her beaded bag. Her large eyes came to his face, asking him, begging him, and then hating him for his subterfuge.
“You didn’t say...”
“I want you to look at a man.” He still held her arm, but softly now, protectively. His gray eyes were warm with sympathy. “How do you feel? Do you think you can do it?”
She faced him, pulling her arm away. The blood had left her face, making her appear more Oriental than ever. “You mean a dead man, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Is it — you think it’s Bob Cooke, don’t you?”
“We think so.”
She closed her eyes a moment, swayed, and then recovered before he could steady her. Her eyes opened. “Is he—”
Reardon understood her instinctively. “He isn’t bad to look at.”
“All right.”
He led her into the anteroom. There was a warm rug on the floor and colorful prints on the cream-colored walls, but the sharp odor of formaldehyde destroyed the image. A door instantly opened; an attendant, warned by some inner signal, stood there.
“Lieutenant?”
“We’ll be right with you.”
The door closed behind the white-coated man; the girl looked after him with growing awareness and then abruptly looked around the room. She found a chair and stumbled to it, sinking into it, trembling.
“I think I’m going to faint or get sick,” she said in a little-girl voice.
“I’ll get you some water.” The room boasted a fountain, neatly pastel in color as if to compensate for its location, flanked by a container of paper cups. He filled one and brought it to her. “Drink this.”
She took the paper cup and brought it to her lips, and then retracted it without tasting it. For several moments she stared at the brightly carpeted floor, holding the water as if she didn’t know she had it. Finally she found the strength to question, speaking to the rug.
“You’re not 100 per cent sure, are you?”
“We’re pretty sure from your description. Can you do it?”
“What happened to him?”
“An automobile accident. Over on Indiana and Eighteenth. He was hit and killed. Instantly,” he added. Somehow that word “instantly” seemed to make people feel better, as if it held out the hope of painlessness. “Can you look at him?”
She placed the water to one side and came to her feet.