“We can get them,” Reardon said grimly.
“Well,” Dondero advised evenly, “you better get them before two o’clock Friday, or five will get you ten he drives out of there in his collector’s-item Buick a free man.” He smiled humorlessly. “You also better get a lot more than what you’ve got, friend, or he’s just apt to take you out with him.”
Reardon remained silent, but not Dondero.
“And one final point: you claim you knew it was no accident even before we visited the used-car lot. So how do you explain that to anyone by using his buying the Buick just a week ago as an argument?”
“That I don’t know,” Reardon admitted unhappily. “There’s something in my mind trying to tell me something I don’t know I know. If you know what I mean.” His voice hardened perceptibly at the look of incredulity on the other’s face. “This buying the Buick a week ago is only the starter. Now it’s simply a matter of building up a case, of getting evidence. But that car bit is solid.”
Dondero shook his head wonderingly.
“You’ve really flipped! A guy buys a heavy car in order to kill somebody. Somebody definite, you say, but somebody he doesn’t know, for reasons nobody can guess at, at a place and time he isn’t sure the other guy will be.” He considered his statement a minute and nodded. “Yeah. That ought to practically sell itself to Judge Jorgensen as an argument. I hear he bought a pretty heavy car himself the other day.” His voice became musing. “I wonder who he’s planning to knock off?”
“That man Crocker bought that heavy car to kill somebody — Bob Cooke, to be exact,” Reardon said with no emotion in his voice. He turned the Charger into Army Street, bringing his speed up again. “You can’t kill a man with a Volkswagen without taking a big chance of getting killed yourself. They’re just too fragile.”
“Well,” Dondero said, “nobody will argue with you on that, but then, the VW people don’t advertise their cars as weapons. On the other hand,” he added, thinking about it, “neither do the Buick people.”
He leaned back, staring at the warehouses and occasional factory that flashed by on the deserted street, shaking his head at his friend’s stubbornness, and the potential danger to his career by his ridiculous insistence that the Cooke case was no accident...
Chapter 11
Wednesday — 6:20 P.M.
Whoever named the restaurant the Mess Hall did an accurate job, Reardon thought critically, drawing the Charger to the curb before the joint and switching off the ignition. A cutey-cute name, but more accurate than the namer meant. Even before he descended from the car, the sight of the place brought back memories of days in his youth when he had been reduced to eating in places like that, and he repressed an involuntary shudder. Without going in he could imagine the unwiped formica counter-top, the vinyl tile floor with tiles broken and missing and littered with unswept cigarette butts, the coffee urn misty with grime, the doughnuts soggy in their cardboard box on the shelf, the faintly sour odor of the place. He sighed, climbed down, joined Dondero on the sidewalk, and opened the door.
A cursory inspection proved his forecast eminently correct. He looked around. Other than the counterman the place was empty. Reardon’s eyebrows rose. While it certainly was not the Top of the Mark or Freddy’s, still people must eat here, he thought, and the people in this type neighborhood didn’t normally dine at ten in the evening. He shrugged the thought away, staring down the counter. The counterman was a thin, pimply-faced character in his late forties or early fifties, with a filthy apron over equally stained ex-white trousers and T-shirt, and tennis shoes without socks. He sat at the last stool before the counter reading a newspaper, a toothpick locked in his mouth. He didn’t look up when they opened the door; it wasn’t until Dondero closed it with significant force that he bothered to note their presence. He came to his feet resignedly, shuffled back of the counter and stared at them.
“Yeah? What’ll you have?”
No need for subterfuge with this one, Reardon decided at once. He pulled his wallet from his back trouser pocket, flipped it open to display his badge on one side and his I.D. on the other, and extended it before the other’s eyes.
“Police.”
“Surprise, surprise,” the counterman said, impressed not at all. “Cops pay for coffee in this joint same as everybody else.” His voice had the aplomb of a man who was in the clear and knew it.
Reardon looked him in the eye for a moment, but the thin pimply-faced man met his look with confidence. The lieutenant nodded and sat down on a stool.
“Fair enough. Make mine black, plenty of sugar.”
“Better put some milk in mine,” Dondero said and straddled the adjoining stool.
“And join us, if you don’t mind,” Reardon added.
The counterman considered him a moment from beneath hooded lids, turned and drew three coffees in chipped and not-too-clean mugs. He set them on the counter, added spoons from a shelf beneath, and pushed over a pitcher of milk and a shaker of sugar. The two detectives dragged the mugs closer; Reardon added sugar, stirred and tasted, but Dondero, considering the scum on the surface of the milk, decided he hadn’t wanted any coffee in the first place. The lieutenant sipped his, paused to nod in a manner that could have indicated either appreciation or confirmation of a previous opinion. He looked up.
“I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”
The counterman shrugged. His sharp eyes were faintly amused; they seemed to indicate he had scarcely figured the police were there for the coffee. He continued to pour sugar into his mug. His voice was equable.
“Go ahead.”
“Know a guy named Crocker?”
“No.”
“Maybe you know him as Ralph. Ralph Crocker.”
“The answer is still no.” The pimply-faced man stirred his coffee and then checked it. It seemed to come up to specifications; he sipped again. He didn’t seem to be faintly interested in either the lieutenant’s question or his own answer.
Reardon felt a sudden flash of elation, but no part of it showed on his expressionless face. At his side Dondero looked up for a moment, and then looked away. Reardon continued.
“He says you do.”
“And I say I don’t.”
There was no argumentativeness in the counterman’s voice; not even boredom. He was stating facts, neither in a hurry to end the interview nor to necessarily extend it. He sipped and set his mug down. He had been standing erect back of the counter; now he placed one foot on the shelf beneath, pushing something aside with his toe to make room, and leaned forward, making himself more comfortable, enjoying his coffee.
Reardon suddenly changed course. “How come the place is empty?”
There was a brief flash of humor in the other’s eyes. “Because nobody is in here eating.” The counterman decided that humor was wasted on police. “Because we get busy around a quarter to nine, nine o’clock, when the factories around here start their second-shift lunch breaks. We ain’t exactly a family restaurant.” The flash of humor returned. “Why? You guys thinking of buying in?”