“Tough,” Reardon said, repeating himself for Dondero’s sake. He only refrained from kicking the sergeant with an effort. “Looks like it’s gone. Gone forever.”
“Oh!” Dondero suddenly woke up. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe this character would be willing to sell.”
“I don’t know if he’d sell, but I doubt if you fellows could buy,” the young man said with a grin. “The old man handled the deal himself; he wouldn’t let me near it. What he charged for that Buick I don’t know — but I can tell you the old man charged him for an antique, and not for a plain, ordinary thirty-year-old Buick.”
“And you mean this guy didn’t argue?” Dondero sounded incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe it.
“Oh he argued,” the young salesman said, “but his heart wasn’t in it. You can tell when a guy really wants something in this business. That’s the way it is with all collectors; we’ve dealt with them before. Price doesn’t mean a thing to them.”
“According to this magazine I read every now and then, the only collector with enough dough to throw away on a car that isn’t a real antique, is some nut named Crocker,” Reardon said idly.
“Hey! That’s him! That’s the guy!” The young man sounded as if they had discovered mutual relatives.
“Then we can forget about it. Money he don’t need,” Reardon said unhappily and opened the door of the Charger. He climbed in while Dondero got in the other side. They closed the doors; Reardon looked up at the young salesman. “By the way, I don’t suppose this Crocker traded in anything we might be interested in for our spread? Although I suppose guys with his dough don’t trade in.”
“He traded in a VW a year old. Probably a car he wanted to get rid of anyway.” The young man shook his head sadly, unhappy at having to give such nice young men bad news. “Nothing for you, I’m afraid.”
“I’m afraid not.” The Charger’s engine was started. “Well, thanks anyways. Sorry to take up your time.”
“That’s all right. Take my card; I’m John Middleton, Jr.” A card was handed over and tucked into a pocket. “If you ever change your mind about the Charger and want to step up a bit, I’ve got an Eldorado in top shape, only two years old. Belonged to a preacher, never drove it over twenty miles an hour, but his flock thought it was too flashy—”
“I’ll remember,” Reardon said and drove from the lot.
They turned down Folsom. Dondero looked across the car; Reardon was smiling grimly. Dondero started patting his pockets, looking for a cigarette, and then remembered he had given them up. He leaned back resignedly, studying his superior.
“I’d feel better about these impromptu performances,” he said, “if a) I knew they were coming, and b) if I knew what the hell they were all about. And while we’re on questions and answers, Lieutenant, let me give you c): Why didn’t we simply flash our badges and ask the man whatever questions we wanted? Why complicate life?”
“Because we probably found out more this way.” Reardon handled the car easily, automatically, his face engraved with the same grim smile. “All salesmen are natural-born talkers, and used-car salesman are the worst — or the best. Take your pick. Give them a chance to brag and they’ll bend your ear, especially about anything to do with cars. Unless, of course, they have a good reason for keeping buttoned up — like a police badge, for instance.”
“And now we come to the sixty-four-dollar question,” Dondero said, not wasting time arguing Reardon’s theory. “What’s it all about?”
“That accident last night,” Reardon said with deep satisfaction. “I knew damned well it wasn’t an accident.” He swung the car into First, heading toward the Embarcadero. “I told you!”
“You didn’t tell me anything,” Dondero said stubbornly.
Reardon turned into the Embarcadero, heading south in the direction of Army Street. He frowned without looking at the other. “You didn’t read Wilkins’ report?”
“Sure I read it. You showed it to me in your office this morning. But until you started that sister act in the used-car lot, I had no idea we were even working on the same case. I didn’t know what was going on until that youngster mentioned a Buick, and then a big light came on in a circle over my head.”
“So now you know.”
“But I don’t see what you gained with that charade back there. Hell, you knew he bought the Buick, and if you had the registration, you knew when he bought it. So what was that all about back there?”
“I didn’t know he traded a Volks for it, and I didn’t know he didn’t argue price. That’s what that was all about.”
“I see,” Dondero said in a voice that clearly indicated he didn’t see at all. “If we’re talking about the same case, then Wilkins must have written two reports and I only read one, because the one I read certainly didn’t make it sound like anything but an accident. And I’m pretty sure it didn’t to Judge Jorgensen this afternoon either.” He glanced out the window; they were rattling across the bridge on Third Street, with the docks all about them. “And where are we going now? It happened just down below, didn’t it?”
“It did, but we’ll stop back there later. Right now we’re going over to that restaurant on Army Street.”
“What restaurant?” Dondero asked, mystified. “There wasn’t anything in Wilkins’ report about a restaurant. Are you sure we’re talking about the same case?”
“Pretty sure.” Reardon tilted his head; they had crossed Mariposa and were approaching Eighteenth Street. “It happened just up there.” He brought his attention back to the road. “About the restaurant; Crocker said he was at a restaurant over on Army Street, said he knew the counterman there. We’re going over there to find out if he really did stop there last night.”
“Man, you’ve got to be out of your mind!” Dondero stared across the car. “Why would he lie about stopping at a restaurant, for Christ’s sake? What would that gain him?”
“He had to explain what he was doing, driving down Indiana,” Reardon said patiently. “And in order to do it, he had to be coming from somewhere on the South side heading home, someplace that would give him a reasonable excuse for driving down that street.”
Dondero turned sarcastic. “And how did he know Bob Cooke would conveniently be walking down that street?”
“I don’t know.” Reardon frowned, trying to think of possibilities, but no really good ones occurred to him. “Maybe Crocker figured he’d drive up and down a few streets until he saw him. He’d be heading back for civilization from the Central Basin docks.” He shrugged. “Crocker just happened to catch up with him on Indiana, is all.”
Dondero raised his eyes to heaven. “Oh brother!”
“I’m right, I tell you!” Reardon’s jaw tightened. “Damn it, weren’t you listening back there at that used-car lot? Do you honestly think that Crocker bought that old Buick because he’s a collector? To begin with, nobody collects thirty-year-old cars, and the last guy who would — or could — would be someone who’s out of work.”
“What the hell!” Dondero said, scotching that argument. “Lyndon Johnson’s out of work too.”
“I know, but he doesn’t live at the Martinique Apartments,” Reardon said darkly.
“That doesn’t mean a thing. Some guys spend their dough on one thing, some on another. You don’t know what Crocker’s bank balance is, or if he has a fortune stashed away in a safe-deposit box someplace.” Dondero stopped suddenly, remembering, and then went on slowly. “About this collector angle, now that I remember, Crocker never said he was a collector. You started that routine yourself, after the kid said he was a collector. You’re beginning to believe your own propaganda now.” He thought of something else. “And you also don’t know what he actually paid for that old Buick. All you’ve got is the word of a salesman you wouldn’t normally trust an inch, and even then you don’t have the figures.”