“Well, today you’re in for overtime,” Reardon said decisively, and opened the door beside the young cadet. “Out. The keys are in the Charger; park it in the lot.” He took the youngster’s place in the front seat, closing the door behind him, reaching for the microphone, pressing the button on it. “Hello? Communications? This is Lieutenant Reardon. I’m at the entrance to the police garage in the Hall of Justice. I’m in Southern Six; it’s a ten-car with Sergeant Pilcher. This Crocker — the one we just put an all-points on — just attacked Morrison and took his car out of the garage. It’s a black Buick, 1940. Repeat, 1940. He can’t be far away. I want you to advise all patrol cars near here to start closing in on this area, and have them call me direct with their positions. Clear?”
“Clear. Even the ones out-of-service?”
“Unless it’s more important than murder,” Reardon said dryly.
“How about the bike men? They only have two-way; you’ll have to handle them through us.”
“Good enough.”
“The footmen call in every two hours, you know; the foot sergeants every hour. We can give them the description too.”
“You can, but a footman, by the time he calls in — Crocker will be long gone from there. I’m cutting off. Let the cars call me direct.”
“Right.”
Pilcher looked across at him. He was a gray-haired man in his fifties with steady blue eyes and hands on the wheel like hams. He had six citations and Reardon knew he had been lucky to run into him. Pilcher studied the younger man. “Where to, Lieutenant?”
“No place for now. Let’s wait around until we start getting some calls.”
There was a small burst of static from the speaker; a disembodied voice came on.
“Lieutenant? This is Potrero Four. We’re on Carroll. Parked.”
Reardon closed his eyes, picturing the streets, making a map of them in his mind. His eyes opened. “Start this way. Call again when you get near Army.”
“Right.”
“Lieutenant? Mission Three. We’re at Hawthorne and Folsom.”
“What are you doing there? That’s not your district.”
“Liquor store heist. We were the closest. We’re free now.”
“Stay there.” He made up his mind. “Calling Potrero Four.”
“Here, Lieutenant.”
“From Army start zigzagging. Over Connecticut, up Twenty-Fifth, over Carolina, up Twenty-Second, and all the way over to Mariposa that way. Then hit the main streets. We’re looking for a 1940 Buick, black, with one man in it. Keep your eyes open.”
“Right.”
“Jim? This is Sergeant Johns. I’m in Potrero Eight. I’m at the China Basin.”
“Good! Did you hear what I told Potrero Four?”
“I heard.”
“Then you fill in what he has to miss. I know you can’t hit it all by a mile, but we have to try. Mission Three?”
“Here.”
“You start zigzagging too. Come up Folsom to Fourth, over Fourth to Harrison, up Harrison to Fifth, Fifth to Bryant, and keep that up. But I’m sure he’s a long way from here right now, unless he’s hit a flock of red lights.”
“Southern Two here, Lieutenant. Embarcadero at Mission.”
“Southern Two — stay there and keep your eyes open. That’s a good spot to see five or six streets. You hear what we’re looking for?”
“Yes, sir. We had it before from Communications.”
“Good. Communications — are you on?”
“We’re here, Lieutenant.”
“How about the Highway Patrol? On the freeways?”
“They were number one we contacted, Lieutenant. Then the bridge police.”
“Good.”
“Highway Patrol car Sixty-Five.” Even over the impersonal sameness imposed by the speaker system the voice was speaking quickly and with the tenseness of important news. “We’re on the 101 Freeway, heading south. A black car just passed us heading the other way. Man with me knows cars, says it’s a Buick either 1939 or 1940. One man driving.”
Reardon realized the car might or might not be the one he wanted, but he knew he’d have to take a chance.
“He could go almost anywhere from there. If the bridge police get him, fine, but he’ll think of that. Mission Three, where’s the nearest exit from the Freeway from where you are now?”
“First Street. We’ll get over there and cover.”
“Good. Everyone else keep on with what you’re doing.” He turned to Pilcher. “Let’s go. Get on the Freeway, open up the siren, and let’s see how fast we can get to the end of it.” He returned to the microphone. “Communications, who do you have who can take the exits from the Embarcadero Freeway?”
“Southern Two is the closest.”
“I want them to stay where they are. Who else?”
“Central Seven is at California and Powell. That’s too far.” There was a brief hesitation. “I’ll see what I can do with the bike men.”
“Good.”
Pilcher had taken the patrol car up Bryant against the traffic, his siren beginning to howl. He had to cut sharply to make the Skyway entrance; he mounted the ramp with increasing speed, cutting into traffic at the upper level without slackening speed, raising the shrill whine of the siren higher, shooting past cars that automatically pulled to one side, slowing down. Reardon returned to the microphone.
“Communications: get as many patrol cars and bikes on the north side of Market going down the main streets toward the bay: Stockton, Powell, even Van Ness. He might manage to get that far west if we don’t spot him before. Tell them to keep their eyes open. Mission Three, anything new?”
“If he came down here, we missed him, Lieutenant.”
“Then start scouring the area down to the bay. Southern Two, stay where you are until you hear us pass. We’ve got the siren on full.”
“We can hear you now.”
“Once we pass, head for the Washington exit from the Freeway. We’ll take the Broadway exit. And everyone listening, don’t just look for moving cars — he may have parked someplace, nosed into the curb, or even a parking lot. It would be easy enough to spot if you were looking for it, and easy enough to miss if you weren’t.”
“We’ll pass the word.” That was Communications.
“Good.” Reardon lowered the microphone, staring ahead through the windshield. Pilcher was an excellent driver, and Reardon knew good driving from his own experience. The sergeant spoke from the corner of his mouth without taking his eyes from the wet road.
“Up Broadway or down Sansome when we get off at the end?”
“Take Broadway.” He raised the microphone. “Southern Two, start down Sansome after we pass Washington.”
“Right, Lieutenant.”
Reardon realized trying to spot a moving car in a city the size of San Francisco with only a few patrol cars on the watch, was almost impossible; not for the first time he wished walkie-talkies were in use for the footmen. He stared at the cars they were rapidly passing, automatically checking them and dropping them even as he tried to calculate where the Buick might have gone to. They curved into the final stretch of the Freeway, shooting past the old Ferry Building, curved with the roadway once again, and then dropped like a plummet toward the street. Pilcher had the brakes on, barely pausing at the bottom of the ramp, and in the same instant started up again, heading up Broadway toward the tunnel. Reardon reached over and cut the siren; Pilcher responded by reducing his speed to match the normal traffic. In the fog and mist of the morning the tawdry strip joints and topless bars looked even less appetizing than usual. They drew up at a red light, the engine panting to be off.
Reardon frowned unhappily. Somehow the Buick had managed to escape the confines of the Freeway; now it had half the city to hide in. It had begun to drizzle again; Pilcher started the windshield wipers going. They clicked softly and hypnotically. Reardon ran his window up and stared ahead, his eyes moving from one side of the street to the other, looking at the parked cars. There was a sudden burst of static from the speaker, followed by a voice.