He shook his head. Wasn’t every woman supposed to want to get married and raise a family above everything else? That was what they taught every red-blooded American girl from infancy on, didn’t they? That was the basis for every soap opera on TV, wasn’t it? Boy meets girl, girl chases boy, girl catches boy? Well, it seemed that maybe Jan didn’t have time to watch soap operas on TV and learn how the system worked — or at least was supposed to work.
He smiled a bit ruefully at the thought, sighed deeply, and reached for a folder, opening it, trying to put his mind to the contents, but after two attempts he tossed it aside, swinging his chair around, returning to stare out of the window.
Women...!
Chapter 2
Wednesday — 9:50 p.m.
The call came in routine fashion from patrol car Potrero Six to Communications, on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice just down the corridor from Reardon’s office. The voice was distorted in that metallic, scratchy, static-filled manner of all patrol car broadcasts:
“Bennett here, Potrero Six, fatal stabbing in a tavern, address Seven twenty-eight Embarcadero, just before the end, on the corner of Berry — repeat, Seven two eight Embarcadero between Pier Forty-two and Pier Forty-four. Rough description of killer given by witnesses: medium-sized man, Caucasian, with a heavy black beard and mustache, wearing dark sunglasses, dressed in a reddish-colored plaid-design lumber jacket and hunting cap. Victim tentatively identified by bartender as Jerry Capp...”
At Communications the time was formally noted and a tape recording of the patrol car’s report was taken. The report further stated that the bartender had run from the tavern to try to see where the assailant might have disappeared to, had seen nobody running — or even moving — on the Embarcadero, had then run down Berry, seen nothing, turned into Second and had seen the patrol car parked in the apron area of a gas station and the driver, Sergeant Bennett, had returned with him. Arriving at the scene with the bartender, Sergeant Bennett had verified the fact of death in the victim and had called it in. No sight or sound of a car starting up or leaving the scene by those who had witnessed the slaying, led to the belief that in all probability the killer disappeared on foot.
The responsibilities at headquarters were rapidly divided in accordance with long practice: the assailant’s description was handed to a telephone desk man for transmittal to all patrol cars and bike men, with special attention suggested to those in the Potrero and Central areas, as well as for all cars of all sections in areas the killer could reach on foot in a relatively short time. Arrangements were made for all foot patrolmen and all foot sergeants to be informed at their regular call-ins, or informed by any passing or encountering patrol cars. An ambulance was dispatched from Mission Emergency at San Francisco General Hospital — or, rather, was ordered dispatched; ambulances were busy vehicles and given any choice at all invariably elected to let the dead wait in favor of the living — a practice that at times resulted in several hours’ delay. All radio-taxicab garages were contacted and requested to pass the information on to their drivers. The medical examiner’s office was contacted and asked to have a doctor prepared to leave at once with the Technical Squad. Captain Tower, in charge of Homicide, was reached at home; even as the other steps were being taken the captain was arranging the departure of the Technical group, with instructions to pick up the doctor at the first-floor morgue office on the way. This matter handled satisfactorily, the captain flicked the telephone button several times impatiently.
“Sir?” The switchboard in Communications was on the line.
“Who’s there from my department tonight?”
“Lundahl, Ferguson, Green. And Sergeant Dondero and Lieutenant Reardon are in the building.”
“Reardon? Dondero? What are they doing there?”
“I don’t know, sir, but their In lights are up on the board. They’re around the building someplace, I’m sure.”
“Well, good. See if you can get me Reardon, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain waited, one eye on the silent mouthings from the TV screen; he had turned the volume down as soon as the telephone had rung. Across from him his wife waited, her face expressionless, but feeling all the tautness of all police wives at a night call. A telephone rang at the far end, rang once again, and was finally answered.
“Hello?” Could this possibly be Jan? Reardon thought. Calling to apologize?
“Jim?”
The deep voice was instantly recognized, exploding a dream. The swivel chair that had been turned to allow the lieutenant to lie back and stare out of the window in search of a solution to his problems, was reluctantly swung back to face the desk. The musing reveries were put aside.
“Yes, Captain.”
Captain Tower took a deep breath. “Jim, there’s been a fatal stabbing in a tavern on the Embarcadero on the corner of Berry. Seven two eight Embarcadero. Tom Bennett was parked nearby and he called it in. It looks as if the killer got away on foot; there’s a search on for him now. Take a man with you and get down there in a hurry. A Technical car should be on the way soon if it hasn’t already left. I’ll be down to the hall as soon as I can make it. Got that?”
“Yes, sir...”
Reardon frowned. There was an urgency in the captain’s voice that was very unusual for a tavern knifing; unfortunately, tavern knifings in themselves were not unusual at all. The captain to leave home at night, and a dank, wet night at that, to come downtown for a wino killed in an Embarcadero bar? Captain Tower stared at the phone a moment, as if he could read the lieutenant’s mind and could understand his wonder; then he spoke, quietly and slowly.
“Keep your eyes open on this one, Jim. It isn’t as simple as it sounds. Tom Bennett says the tentative identification on the victim is our old friend Jerry Capp.”
Reardon’s eyes widened, understanding dawning at last. He came to life, his argument with Jan forgotten, or at least relegated to his subconscious for the time being. His swivel chair came down with a crash.
“Yes, sir!”
He hung up, reached into his drawer for his revolver and clip-on holster, and came to his feet in a hurry, hastily attaching the weapon to his belt and tugging his jacket closed about it. He dragged his raincoat from a hook behind the door and walked through the outer office to the corridor. One door down he went in and looked around; two men in their shirt sleeves looked up at him in surprise, but he paid them no attention, returning to the corridor just in time to almost collide with Sergeant Dondero, carefully balancing a cup of coffee. He looked at Reardon reprovingly.
“Watch it, James. These things spill.”
“Come on, Don. Let’s go.” Reardon shrugged himself into his raincoat; Dondero edged past him.
“Go? Go where?” Dondero put the coffee on a desk and began to tug the lid loose.
“Damn it, let’s go!” Reardon glared.
“All right, all right! Don’t get excited!” Dondero put the coffee aside, reached for his coat and slipped into it. “Hey, you guys. Leave this alone.”