“What?”
“That’s what the man says, Lieutenant.”
“You got it on tape?”
“I’ve got it on tape.”
“Me and my big mouth,” Reardon muttered in disgust. When they wanted a man from Traffic, why hadn’t they said there was a death involved? A ten-minute job and then yoiks and away back to Little Tokyo? What a dream! He picked up the headset, holding the receiver against his ear, wishing he were back in the meeting. “Hello?”
“Hello? Hello? Is there something the matter with this phone? Is this thing working? It took my dime! Why can’t I get anyone there to talk to me? Is this damned phone working?”
“It’s working, if you’ll let someone get a word in. You’re talking to the police.”
“I know I’m talking to the police! I called over five minutes ago and then the man who answered just wouldn’t talk any more! I tried to tell him what happened, but he said to hold on and I’ve been holding on ever since. And I don’t think it’s right—”
“So tell me.” Reardon’s voice was cold. “What happened?”
“It was an accident! It wasn’t my fault at all! And I couldn’t find a policeman anywhere, because I looked. There aren’t any down around here, I guess — and then I saw this phone booth—”
“What kind of an accident?”
“It wasn’t my fault at all — I swear it! I couldn’t have been going more than fifteen miles an hour; twenty at the most. The streets down here — half of them are full of potholes and the other half are all torn up for construction, you could break a spring — and he stepped off the curb right in front of me. I couldn’t stop in time; it happened too fast.” The speaker swallowed convulsively. “He’s... he’s dead, I think.”
“What do you mean, you think?” Reardon’s voice was unnecessarily hard; he wanted to stop the growing hysteria in the other’s voice. “Is he breathing? Is he bleeding? Is his pulse beating?”
“I... I can’t touch him. He... he looks dead.”
“Great! He looks dead! Hold on a minute.” Reardon held his disgust, cupping the mouthpiece of the headset, looking over at the sergeant. “Did you at least find a free ambulance?”
“Yes. From Mission Emergency over at San Francisco General.”
“But no patrol car?”
The sergeant gestured helplessly toward the lighted board. “Look for yourself. Everyone’s out-of-service—” It was the phrase used to indicate the cars were tied up on assignments; as always, Reardon wondered who had dreamed up the phraseology. “Everybody down in Traffic is out too — that’s why I called up to the meeting. But I asked for a Traffic man...”
“I know who you asked for,” Reardon said testily. “If I had any brains and hadn’t been feeling cute, that’s who you would have gotten.” He sighed. “Well, I can’t go back to the meeting now.” He uncupped the mouthpiece, raising it, and then thought of something else. “Where’s the phone booth this character is calling from?”
“Indiana and Eighteenth.”
“So why in the hell isn’t the ambulance there yet?” He didn’t wait for an answer, started to raise the mouthpiece again and then stopped a second time, frowning at the floor. “What the hell was he doing driving in that neighborhood at this hour of the night? It’s all dock warehouses and they’d all be closed by now.” His eyes studied the sergeant wonderingly. “As a matter of fact, what were either of them doing over there at this hour?”
“Pardon me, Lieutenant—” The sergeant escaped into the excuse of a call coming to the man before him.
“Forget it. I’m talking to myself.” Reardon returned to his telephone call. “Hello?”
“Yes? I’m still here.”
“What’s your name?”
“What difference does that make at a time like this? I’m all alone with this... this—”
“Just answer the question.”
“Oh all right! My name is Ralph Crocker. Can you please send somebody over here? Right away? My God! You need a policeman about once in a hundred years, and then—”
“There’s an ambulance on his way; he ought to be getting there in a very short while. And I’ll be down there in a matter of minutes. When the ambulance driver gets there, tell him if the man is dead, to wait for me there. My name is Reardon, Lieutenant Reardon. Do you have that?”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Reardon.”
“Right. And stay where you are. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t touch anything.” Lieutenant Reardon couldn’t help the sarcasm. “Like the body, for example.”
“I—” There was momentary silence. “No, sir.”
“Good. Just sit tight.” Reardon hung up and looked at the sergeant. “I don’t suppose any Accident Investigation cars are available.”
“One with Sergeant Wilkins ought to be through with a job in the Mission district soon. I’ll get him over there. And a regular patrol car, soon as one calls in free.” He looked at the lieutenant. “I’m sorry, Jim, but you should have sent down a man from Traffic like I asked.”
“I should have learned not to pick up telephones,” Reardon said sourly. “Who’s around to go with me? Just in case.”
The sergeant ran his finger down a sheet. “Stan Lundahl’s in. He should be at his desk.”
“Fine. Check it and if he’s there tell him to meet me at the front entrance.” He waited impatiently while the sergeant took over the switchboard; cords were manipulated, levers pulled. The sergeant spoke into the headset, listened, and then dragged the cord from its socket.
“He’s leaving now.”
“Good. If the ambulance calls in before I get there — which means the guy is dead — have them wait for me.”
“Right.”
Reardon frowned, biting at his lip, wondering if he had forgotten something. Just my date, he thought with irritation, and, of course, to keep my big mouth shut. He pushed his way brusquely out of the room.
Chapter 3
Tuesday — 9:15 P.M.
Lundahl was waiting for him in front of the information desk on the first floor. He was a heavy man, inches taller than the lieutenant, with thick black hair and bushy eyebrows that looked as if they could stand combing. As usual he looked as if he needed a shave and, as a matter of fact, did need one. While only in his middle thirties he looked much older. The two men nodded to each other and hurried through the door and down the steps. Reardon’s Charger, together with a dozen other cars, was parked in the No-parking zone before the Hall of Justice; they walked over to it, climbed in, slammed the doors, and started off with a roar of exhaust, speeding down Bryant toward Sixth.
Lundahl dug a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, offering the package to Reardon. The stocky lieutenant shook his head. Lundahl shook out the match and flipped it away, looking sideways at his superior.
“What’s it all about?”
“Somebody stepped in front of a moving automobile,” Reardon said. “And maybe got killed.”
“Hit-and-run?”
“No. The driver called it in. He’s not happy about it, but he’s waiting over there now.”
Lundahl frowned at the other. “So if it’s a regular accident, where do we come in? We ain’t Traffic.”
“It’s a long story. I don’t want to bore you.”
Lundahl seemed to read something in the other’s rigid face. He still looked puzzled, but he leaned back in his seat, making himself comfortable. “Well, at least it ain’t hit-and-run. I hate hit-and-run.” He stared out of the window, breathing smoke.