“But how did you know—?”
“How did I know you took an assignment — volunteered for it when it wasn’t your job?” Her voice was bitter in self-incrimination. “Because I was foolish enough to think you might want to come back and see me after your meeting, so when Sergeant Dondero came, I asked him to call you and tell you we’d wait for you, even if you were delayed a few hours. And he spoke with someone in Communications and they said they couldn’t put the call through because you were on a case. They said—”
“Damn it! I know what they must have said. But you don’t understand. It isn’t the way it sounds—”
“Please, Jimmy. I don’t want to fight. I’m tired.”
“I don’t want to fight either.”
“This afternoon was wonderful,” Jan said, “so let’s not spoil it now with some nonsensical stories. We had already made love, so tonight was just going to be dinner, and when an interesting assignment came along during your meeting—” She tried to sound reasonable. “I understand how you felt. I do.”
“Interesting case! Some idiot steps off the curb in front of a car down at the end of nowhere and gets himself killed! Some interesting case! Jan, will you please let me explain?”
“Some other time, if you don’t mind, Jim. I’m really tired. And I really do have a very big day ahead of me tomorrow. So good night.” The telephone was silently set into its cradle.
“Jan! Damn it!” He stared at the phone a moment and then depressed the button and let it rise again, dialing another number, his eyes hard and angry. Across from him the cashier bent more closely over her accounts. When the phone was answered he barked into it.
“Hello, Don?”
“That’s me.”
“Will you kindly explain to me why you had to go tell Jan I’d left the meeting to take an assignment?”
At the other end of the line Sergeant Dondero stared at the instrument in his hand with righteous indignation. It was to his way of thinking a stupid question at best.
“Because you did, didn’t you?”
“And just why was it necessary to broadcast it?”
“Because your Jan wanted to wait for you to get there before eating, that’s why. What were we supposed to do? Wait until tomorrow afternoon for some food?” His voice dripped sarcasm. “What are you so burned up about, Lieutenant? You promised me dinner, and I just got back from driving your girl home, and you want to know what I’m doing this minute?”
He waited. Reardon sighed. “So what are you doing?”
“I’m glad you asked. I’m fixing myself a cold cheese sandwich because that’s all there is to eat in the joint, and I don’t even like cheese and I’m damned if I know why I bought it in the first place. So tell me something: what are you so mad about?”
Reardon sighed again. “Nothing, Don. I guess I’m really mad at myself for not being very smart.”
“Now you’re making sense, Jim, boy,” Dondero said approvingly, but he was talking to a dial tone.
Chapter 4
Tuesday — 10:45 P.M.
Lundahl was waiting in the small glass-enclosed anteroom to Reardon’s office when the stocky lieutenant returned to headquarters. The big man tilted his head toward the open door of the office; Crocker could be seen inside, sitting rigidly on a hard chair beside the empty desk. His face was expressionless; he seemed to be looking at a calendar on the wall across from him without seeing it. Reardon found this hard to believe; whoever had posed for the picture on that calendar certainly did not expect to be overlooked. The tall, thin man’s hands were folded in his lap, the knuckles white.
“He wanted to call a lawyer,” Lundahl said. “I suggested he wait until you got back here. I told him if he called now he wouldn’t even know what to tell the guy.” He remembered something else. “Oh yeah — We let him blow into the bottle; I told Wilkins I’d take care of that for him. The lab says zero. I didn’t even fill out an Alcohol Influence Form.”
Reardon nodded and walked into the room. Crocker swung around on his chair, his voice exasperated, as if he had reached the limit of his patience. His former nervousness seemed to have disappeared now that he was no longer in the street with the body.
“Now, see here, Lieutenant, what goes on here? Your man here won’t even let me call my lawyer!”
Reardon shed his jacket, hung it on a hook back of the door, and dropped wearily into his chair. He shifted his belt holster a bit so it wouldn’t bite into his hip, and fished the driver’s license from his pants pocket, studying it silently. When he was through he tossed it on the desk and looked at the sullen face before him.
“Mr. Crocker, you have every right to call your lawyer. If you want to call him, go ahead. But my honest suggestion would be that you let us put you up for the night and call him tomorrow, because a judge has to set your bail, and no judge is available at this hour to do it. Tomorrow afternoon in Municipal Court — it’s down on the second floor of this building — at two o’clock — you can be represented by as many lawyers as you want. In the meantime—” He shrugged, his voice trailing off.
Crocker stared at him.
“Bail? What bail? It was an accident, Lieutenant! My God! Some absolute stranger, probably drunk, steps in front of my car and I’m in trouble! It wasn’t my fault, I tell you! Why should I even be held at all, let alone asked to go bail?”
“Because whether it was an accident or not, you killed a man,” Reardon said flatly. “You took a man’s life, and there are no witnesses as to the circumstance under which you took it.” He held up a hand to prevent the flow of rebuttal from Crocker. “Technically, you could be booked on a manslaughter charge right now, and if you insist on it, I’ll be glad to do it. So you can call your lawyer or a dozen of them, but you’ll spend the night here in any event. Is that clear? I’m just trying to make it easy on you, but if you want it the hard way, be my guest.”
He shoved the phone across the desk. The thin man reached for it, hesitated a moment, and then withdrew his hand. Reardon waited a moment and then tugged on the cord, pulling the phone back to its original position.
“Is there anyone else you want to call? Your wife? Your family? Anyone expecting you anywhere?” He raised an admonitory finger. “Just remember, you’re not being denied the telephone.”
“Nobody,” Crocker said dully. “I have no family.”
Reardon looked at him steadily. “I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind, and then I’d suggest you get some rest. Everything will work itself out tomorrow. All right?”
Crocker looked up. “I told that accident man at the scene everything he needed for his report.”
“Well, some of this may be a repetition, then, but some of it won’t. Okay?”
Crocker merely nodded. Reardon leaned back in his chair; Lundahl straddled a hard chair on the side of the desk opposite Crocker. Reardon picked up a pencil and brought a pad closer to him.
“First of all, where do you live?”
“The Martinique Apartments over on Second between Harrison and Folsom.”
“Lived there long?”
Crocker shrugged. “Year now, I guess. Why?”
“Just curious. Don’t worry about the questions, just answer them. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m not working just now.”
“What did you do when you did work?”
“I was a salesman.” He hesitated. “Door to door.”
“I see.” Reardon thought a moment and then looked up. “You say you stopped over on Army Street for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Do you remember the exact place?”
“Of course I remember the place. It’s called the Mess Hall — probably because it’s on Army Street, I guess. It’s a block down from Missouri. I left there at eight-thirty on the button; I remember looking at my watch. And I cut over to Indiana and this guy—” He stopped dead. “Anyway, I called in as soon as I saw the phone booth, but it wasn’t any more than five minutes after I left the restaurant.” He looked bitter. “If there had been a policeman anywhere around...”