“Certainly.” Crocker fumbled in his rear trouser pocket, bringing out his wallet. He removed a folder from one section and handed it over.
The lieutenant shook his head. “Just your driver’s license, please.”
Crocker looked surprised. He separated the license from the insurance cards and other material in the small plastic folder and handed it over. Reardon studied it in the light of the Buick’s headlamps and then slipped it into his pocket.
“Stan; what about the registration?”
Lundahl nodded and bent into the car. He fumbled for a dash-light and located it, studied the paper on the steering column a moment, and straightened up. “Description on the registration fits. It’s in the name of Ralph Crocker.”
Reardon looked at the man. “Any other identification?”
Crocker silently went through his billfold once more, handing over two gasoline credit cards and a receipt for a purchase from a local store. Reardon studied them and then handed them back.
“All right. I want—” He paused; a second police car was turning into the block, its roof beacon flashing.
“APB car, Lieutenant,” Lundahl said needlessly.
“Yes. All right, Stan. When the APB boys are through with the car, you take Crocker back to headquarters in his car and wait until I get there or until you get a message from me. The car goes into the garage.” He considered it a moment and a faint humorless smile touched his lips. “It’ll look good next to that 1935 Packard down there they use for parades.” He drew the detective to one side, speaking quietly. “Keep him company. Take him to the lab and have him blow into the bottle. He says he stopped at a restaurant, but it could have been a bar.”
“He looks sober enough, but I guess something like this could sober you up in a hurry,” Lundahl said. “Will do.”
“Right.” Reardon turned to the ambulance crew. “Danny, as soon as the Accident boys release the body, bring him to the morgue at the Hall.”
“Right, Lieutenant.”
Sergeant Wilkins of the Accident Prevention Bureau was walking toward them. He was a thickset man in his forties; at one time during his days as a beat patrolman he was putting the arm on a drunk beating his wife, when the wife hauled off with a pan and smashed Wilkins’ nose. It made Wilkins speak with a slight nasal sound, and it made him look as if he were sneering at everyone. Actually, as Reardon well knew, Wilkins was the mildest and most co-operative of men. He was also excellent at his job. Behind him a patrolman, his partner on the APB car, was reaching into the back seat for equipment.
Wilkins looked mildly surprised. “Hello, Jim. They gave it to me as a traffic accident. Or have you been transferred to Traffic since I came on this afternoon?”
“Hello, Frank.” Reardon grinned. “You’ll probably hear all about it tomorrow down at the Hall. In fact, after tonight Captain Tower may put me in Traffic just for laughs. Just put it down to the Devil finding something for idle hands to do.” He glanced down at the body a moment and then back to Wilkins. “It looks as if this one stepped off the curb right in front of that vintage Buick and the driver couldn’t stop.”
“Who is he?”
“I haven’t had time to even go through his pockets. When you’re finished with him and the car, Lundahl will drive the car back to headquarters with the driver. But I’d like to see the man’s identification. If I’m going to handle a Traffic case, I might as well do it right.”
Wilkins looked surprised. “Stick around a few minutes and you can have it. Let me take a couple of pictures—”
“I’ve got another stop to make.”
“Oh. All right. I’ll bring copies of the reports to your office and put them on your desk if you’re not there.” He grinned. “Hell, Jim — maybe you’ll even get to like Traffic.”
“I don’t even like to drive in it.”
“Who does?” Wilkins turned to his assistant. “Okay, Willie, let’s get through with the body so Danny can take him away. Then we’ll have room to work on the skid marks...”
Reardon walked back to the Charger and climbed into it. It would be a while until Wilkins was back at the Hall of Justice, and if Crocker sat around for a while thinking about the responsibility every driver took each time he climbed behind a wheel, it wouldn’t hurt him a bit. And it would give the lieutenant enough time to get over to the Little Tokyo restaurant and try to put Jan in a better mood than she had been when he left. He had a feeling that even if Dondero was at his most charming, the meal was probably not the happiest event taking place in town that night.
He turned from Eighteenth into Third, gunning the car down the dock road, cutting over the bridge to Berry and then turning right to the Embarcadero, swinging left, bringing up his speed on the wide, almost deserted road. As always, cars lined the road, parked side by side before the white façades of the piers, glimmering under weak lighting. He bumped over railroad tracks, cutting around the pillars of the Skyway. Ships hugged the docks as he shot past, towering over him; for one brief second he wondered if one of them was the one he had watched that afternoon. He put the thought aside almost forcefully; it reminded him of how pleasant the day had been until that damned telephone call from Dondero.
He turned from the Embarcadero at Jefferson, speeding past the garish lights of Fisherman’s Wharf, swung to the curb in front of the second-floor restaurant and climbed down, swinging the car door shut behind him in almost the same motion, and went in, taking the carpeted steps two at a time. Mr. Noguchi considered him gravely from his refuge behind an armful of menus and slowly shook his head. His eyes were sad.
Reardon swung around to inspect the corner table; it was deserted. He frowned, staring at his watch in surprise.
“They left already? They couldn’t have eaten that fast!”
Mr. Noguchi became even sadder. “They didn’t eat, Lieutenant,” he said in his soft voice, clutching his menus more tightly. “They had two drinks and left. Your young lady said—” He hesitated in embarrassment; it seemed impossible that anyone would say such words, especially in the Little Tokyo, but the truth was the truth and the frowning red-haired lieutenant didn’t look in the mood for anything else.
“She said what?”
Mr. Noguchi shrugged fatalistically and pronounced the terrible words. “She said she wasn’t hungry.”
“How long ago did they leave?”
Mr. Noguchi frowned in concentration and then consulted the wall clock for help. “Half hour? Forty minutes?”
“Let me use the phone.” He walked to the cashier’s counter, picked up the telephone, and dialed. His face was expressionless as he waited for the ring at the other end; his gray eyes were flinty chips of granite.
The telephone was answered almost instantly. “Hello?”
“Jan? This is Jim: I—”
“Jim, do you mind terribly if we don’t waste a lot of time talking? I’m very tired and I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow. And I’m sure you must be busy...”
“Damn it, Jan, I don’t understand you!” Reardon fought to keep his voice down; the Japanese cashier pointedly heard none of the conversation. “I had a meeting at Headquarters! It’s not the first time something has come up and I’ve been stuck for a few hours!”
Jan’s voice hardened not too subtly.
“You had a meeting, which you passed up to take an assignment. On an automobile accident case. Which isn’t your department, and you know it. And which would tie you for more than just a few hours and you know that too.” She hesitated a moment. Reardon stared at the telephone, speechless. “Well, Lieutenant? Cat got your tongue?”