“To see me in drag. And if I say no?”
Reardon looked him square in the eye. “Then, my friend, I have two men from my department with me, and we’ll come in here and take this place apart looking for something the Narcotics Squad can hang you with.”
“Oh? But, you see, I’m not the only one to use this room.”
“We’ll let the cops downtown figure that out. Do you come or not?”
“Well,” Jackson said, “when you put it so nicely, it’s hard to refuse.”
He turned back to the mirror, seating himself; the wig was put on and adjusted, and then he began applying lipstick. He paused to purse his lips in a kiss and wink outrageously in the glass at Reardon, and then began to apply his pancake make-up. It suddenly occurred to Reardon that for once Porky Frank was wrong; whatever else Georgie Jackson was, he wasn’t gay. Nor was he stupid. Nor — unfortunately — was he afraid to face the bartender, apparently. This is turning out to be some evening, Reardon thought sourly, and then swung at a sharp rapping at the door. It was flung open, Dondero stood in the opening, his face pale; his voice was tight.
“Jim! There was an emergency call for you from the hall. I took it. Stan called in—”
“John Sekara! Is Stan all right?”
“Stan’s all right, but somebody knocked off Sekara in his apartment about five minutes ago...”
“How?”
“You know all I know,” Dondero said, and shrugged.
Reardon swung around, staring at Jackson’s face in the mirror. The smile was gone, the face beneath the make-up pale and watchful. There was no doubt the impersonator knew Sekara, whether he had known Pete Falcone or not. But Georgie Jackson would have to wait. Reardon gave the cautious eyes in the mirror one final glare and hurried Dondero ahead of him from the room and down the narrow passageway.
“Jan’ll have to take my car and take Gabriella and Tim home. We’ll go with Tom in his car. Did you get the address?”
“I got it. The north side of the park.”
“Good.”
He came through the door leading back into the nightclub. The others were on their feet, waiting; their waiter stood and watched them, not at all surprised that they were leaving before the end of Skeets Canfield’s act, or that they had barely touched their drinks.
“I paid while Don was getting you,” Bennett said simply.
“Good. We’ll straighten up later,” Reardon said, and led the way to the street, taking Jan by the arm, talking to her. The waiter watched them leave with the satisfaction of one who knows no good will come of anything, either arrivals or departures.
Bennett was already at the wheel of his car. Dondero slipped in beside him. Reardon handed Jan the keys to the Charger, climbed into the rear seat of Bennett’s car and slammed the door.
“Let’s move!” he said grimly. “Pretend we’re in Potrero Six, eh, Tom?”
“Yes, sir!” Bennett said with satisfaction, and tramped on the gas.
Chapter 14
Friday — 11:35 p.m.
A patrol car was angled into the curb before the apartment building, its siren silent but its flasher turning monotonously. Behind it, the familiar car of the Technical Squad was parked; ahead of it one of the boxlike windowless paddy wagons that served the city as ambulances was being loaded with the covered corpse of John Sekara. Reardon, climbing down from Bennett’s car, could not help but be impressed by the repetitiveness of the scene. How many times have I seen — and will I see again — the same lineup of the ambulance, the patrol car and the Technical Squad, he wondered, plus myself staring down at a dead body, removed from life for any one of so very few reasons, none of them good? Maybe Jan is right, he suddenly thought. A man can’t really spend his life doing this kind of work forever and not be marked by it, and also not have his values changed. On the other hand, what job could a man do over and over again and not be affected by it? Interior decorating? He smiled faintly to himself at the thought, feeling the tension ease somewhat, and walked forward in the darkness.
Stan Lundahl was standing morosely to one side, his tall body slumped, his wide shoulders bent a bit, as if either in disappointment with his performance that night, or as if to weather a reprimand completely undeserved. Reardon stopped him, looking up into the taller man’s face. Bennett and Dondero diplomatically continued on in the direction of the ambulance.
“Well?” Reardon’s voice was sharp. “What happened?”
“He was shot. Three times. Medics think it was a twenty-two; the autopsy will tell. The bullets are still in him. He was plugged from a few feet. He’s dead.”
“I know he’s dead. You were supposed to be guarding him. What happened?”
Lundahl straightened up a bit defensively. “He decided to call it a day and sack in early. I walked him from the car to his apartment and went inside with him—”
“How did he get in? Use his own keys or did someone open the door for him?”
“No,” Lundahl said. “He used his own key. He lived alone. Anyway, I went through the place the same as I did last night; I checked the windows to see they were locked, looked in the closets — the works, under the beds, behind the furniture—”
“And?”
“And there wasn’t anything, so I said good night and left. I heard him put the double lock on, and I waited until I heard him put up the safety chain—” His voice trailed off.
“And?” Reardon was getting impatient.
Lundahl looked slightly embarrassed, and then forced the look from his face with the attitude of one whose conscience is clear.
“Well, I’d done everything I should have done, outside of sleeping with him, so I went back to my car—”
“Where were you parked?”
“Around the corner. He didn’t want to drive up to his apartment building directly; figured he’d be an easier target sitting in a car where he couldn’t duck, than walking up — with me a bit in front of him, you can be damn sure.”
“All right. And?”
“So I was on my way back to the car when I heard these shots. I knew it was Sekara, don’t ask me how, but damn it, I knew! I ran back and the goddam downstairs door was locked. There’s another door leading from the foyer to the basement and that was open, but that didn’t help any, so I rang a flock of bells, and finally somebody buzzed to open the door, and then when I got to his floor—”
“Which floor was it?”
“The second, which is why I always checked the windows. A guy could make it to his window without much trouble, but that wasn’t what happened tonight, because when I got there his front door was open and he was lying across the sill, dead. Well, I knew nobody had come out the front of the apartment, so I—”
“How did you get up there? Stairs or elevator?”
“Stairs; they’re a lot faster. Anyway—”
“Suppose somebody came down the elevator while you were going up?”
“No,” Lundahl said positively. “How could they know I’d take the steps? Anyway, like I said, I was pretty sure nobody had come out the front, so I hiked through the apartment, and the back door was open, and when I had checked out the place that door had been locked and the safety chain had been on, so whoever shot him just waltzed out the back door and down the back stairs.”
“That’s great!” Reardon said bitterly.
“What was I supposed to do?” Lundahl asked, suddenly aggrieved. “How in hell was I to know the stupid bastard would open his front door to the first stranger who came along, the minute I left?” He suddenly frowned. “And just why in hell did he open it, I wonder?”
A thought came to Reardon. “Would he have opened it for a woman?”