Dondero sighed and flicked ash through the car window.
“You still don’t see it,” he said patiently. “Look at it like this: You say you don’t believe in coincidence. Well, in that case either Lillian Messer killed all three of those goons, or she didn’t kill any of them. Because it would really be some coincidence if she killed one and somebody conveniently picked the same evening to knock off the other two; or if she killed two of them — let’s say Capp and Falcone for the sake of argument — and somebody picked that particular evening to kill Ray Martin.” He looked over at his companion steadily. “How do we stand? Are you with me so far?”
“So far.”
“Good,” Dondero said with satisfaction, and flipped his cigarette away, getting down to business. “Then let’s take the case that she killed all three — or, rather, had them killed by others, since she has an alibi for the actual time of the killings. We’ll check it with the hotel and with the convent, of course, but I seriously doubt she’d try lying about something like that—”
“Agreed.”
“So here she is, then, down in San Jose at the Carmelite convent with her daughter while three separate killings are being undertaken, at her orders. And then, the following morning, she leaves the convent and returns to her apartment and locks herself in—” He looked at Reardon. “Are you still with me?”
“I’m way ahead of you,” Reardon said slowly, and shook his head in disappointment with himself. “If she was at the convent at the time of the killings and knew they were taking place, would she have left that nice, safe haven and gone to a hotel — and then the next morning go back to her apartment after enough time had elapsed for the news to be all over town? Gone back to her apartment where those so-called friends of Pete Falcone might well be waiting for her to step out of a taxi? No, she just wouldn’t do it.”
“Right,” Dondero said, pleased his friend finally had seen the light. “Which means she couldn’t have known of the killings until after she got back to town. Then she locked herself in. Which means she didn’t do any of the killings. QED.”
“She was still lucky,” Reardon said slowly. “The mob might not have figured things out as neatly as you just did; she still might have had a reception committee waiting for her.”
Dondero shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “You saw that dame — ice water for blood. She might have knocked Falcone off in a fit of temper; she might have even paid to have him knocked off. But Capp? And Martin? She’s too smart for that. And the mob would have heard of Capp’s death as quickly as they did Falcone’s, and they’d know she didn’t have a hand in that one.”
“Why not? Outside of our other arguments?”
“Because I don’t believe it,” Dondero said simply. “And if I don’t believe it, Pete’s friends won’t, either. I only met the dame once; those who knew her longer, or more intimately, would know it wasn’t her bag. No, mon lieutenant, scratch Mrs. Messer.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.” Reardon sounded sad; he leaned over and twisted the ignition key. The engine sprang to life; he backed more fully from the No Parking space and spun the wheel, shifting gears, starting down the steep incline with a foot on the brake. “We’re running out of suspects.”
“What do you mean, running out? When did we ever have any?”
“We’ve had lots of them,” Reardon said, “only they don’t make sense.” He turned into Jones Street. “I’m beginning to think our first guess was the closest — three people killing the three men. Don’t ask me why, because right now I couldn’t even guess.”
“I won’t ask you why because I don’t have the time.” Dondero glanced at his wristwatch. “Better drop me at my place. I want to pick up my car and get moving if I’m going to get to Tom Bennett’s in time for his birthday dinner.”
“I’ll take you there,” Reardon said absently. “That’s where Jan and I are having dinner, too.”
Dondero frowned across the car and then nodded his head.
“So that’s why you were so sweet and didn’t pull rank on me! I should have known.” His frown deepened. “Although I’m a bit surprised. Does Tom know you’re coming?”
“Why should he?” Reardon asked, and shifted gears as he started uphill again. He grinned. “After all, it’s supposed to be a surprise party, isn’t it? There ought to be a little surprise...”
Chapter 13
Friday — 8:00 p.m.
Reardon frowned and glanced at Jan across the car.
“The house is dark.”
“Of course it’s dark, silly. All surprise-party houses are dark until the proper moment, which is when the surprise comes. And don’t park here, you idiot; drive down the block further, or maybe even around the corner.”
“Even I know that much about surprise parties,” Dondero said with disdain from the back seat. “Didn’t you ever have a surprise party, James?”
“Never,” Reardon said shortly, and shook his head. “I still don’t get it. Tom Bennett’s in a dark house waiting to be surprised?”
“My love, you really are stupid!” Jan said. “Sergeant Bennett is next door at a neighbor’s, trying desperately to get away, because she’s bending his ear, but she’s gabby enough to hold him there — or at least until we get inside and get hidden, at which time he will be rescued by a phone call from an irate daughter wanting to tell him that not only will his dinner be cold if he doesn’t hurry home, but that the fuse has blown and where did he hide the candles?”
“And Tom knows all this and goes along with it?”
“Of course,” Jan said quietly. “He’s a good surprisee.”
“Live and learn,” Reardon said, and finally found a spot sufficiently distant from the Bennett home to earn Jan’s approval as a potential surprise-party parking space. We should plan our police work as carefully as this party, he thought with a touch of bitterness, and tried to think of something more pleasant. Maybe the cop on the beat will collar us when we try to walk into that darkened house. He grinned at the thought and felt better, wondering why on earth he should have felt bitter a moment before...
Friday — 9:45 p.m.
Now, several hours later, with several strong Bloody Marys and a wonderfully cooked meal beneath his belt, Reardon had to admit that surprise parties were fun, and that this particular one had been a huge success. He was very glad he had come. Tom Bennett, no longer a subordinate but a man being given a surprise party by his grown-up children, had been suitably surprised. Reardon smiled at the memory of Bennett entering the darkened house from the talkative neighbor’s, and calling out in a thick brogue, acquired, apparently, for the occasion.
“You mean nobody fixed the fuse yet? Gabriella? Billy? Tim? A foin bunch of useless spalpeens, I must say! Ah, well, if the old man doesn’t do it, it doesn’t get done. Now, where are those candles, eh?” And the utter amazement: “Here! The lights are on! And who are all these people? My my! I think we could all stand a drink on that one, eh? Tim, my boy — suppose you do the mixin’.”
Reardon’s smile faded, the bitterness returned, recognizable, now, for what it was. It was simple jealousy. No, he had never had a surprise party given him in his life; apparently he had never been thought worthy of it. Oh, he had had surprises enough in his youth, all right, but none of them had been pleasant. And he had had birthdays, but they passed as all other days passed, being different only in that they more clearly marked the nearing of the day when he could escape into adulthood. Maybe that was why he couldn’t rightly understand a man who had all this, drinking on the job when one out of four kids went bad. On the other hand, he thought suddenly, maybe the loss of a kid going bad to a man who did have all this, was even greater a blow. Reardon sighed. Well, he’d probably never know what it was to either have all this or to lose any part of it — not the way Jan stuck to her stubborn ideas about marriage...