The dark four-door sedan slowed as it came through the island tunnel with its overhead bands of fluorescent lights; the car edged into the extreme right lane and continued at its even speed until the lights from the tunnel had disappeared. The window was rolled down; the driver, head tilted sharply, was listening acutely for the sound of any other car approaching from behind. The steady eyes were fixed on the side-view mirror, searching the darkness toward the tunnel. There was nothing to be seen or heard, but the driver was well aware that a car could appear from the direction of San Francisco in a matter of seconds. Still, parked in the lane next to the railing with the headlights extinguished, there was a good chance a car might even pass without seeing the sedan, the driver’s attention focused on the dim roadway. Or, even if a passing motorist should notice the apparently abandoned car, who was going to stop at that lonely spot at that hour of the morning? The most anyone would do would be to report it to one of the collectors at the toll plaza, and by the time anyone could respond to such advice, the job would be done and the sedan long gone. There was, of course, the chance that a passing trooper might stop to investigate an apparently abandoned car parked in apparent distress in an outside lane without lights, but that was a chance the driver had known had to be taken from the start.
This was the place — not too far from the tunnel, but still well beyond the scope of the fluorescent lights there. The car was braked to a sudden stop and the headlights extinguished. The driver was out of the car in an instant, moving around the front to the far side next to the railing, prepared for instant concealment behind the sedan’s body at the first sight or sound, but the night remained quiet and dark, the fog damp against the face. A deep breath as if to bolster resolution and the rear door of the sedan was swung open; one moment’s hesitation — involuntary, for the driver well knew the need for economizing each precious second — and then the gloved hands reached in, scooping under the dead man’s arms, dragging him from the floor of the rear seat. There was a sound, or the thought of a sound, and the driver froze, but it had been either the rustle of a sea gull passing, or the breaking of waves against the distant rocks magnified by overacute senses, or it might merely have been imagination. The mind was blanked to the possibility of interruption; a swallow, another deep breath, and the body was pulled to the railing. There was a straining, tugging at the flaccid form, and then the body was finally upended. It seemed to teeter an agonizingly long time on the railing, as if trying its poor best to delay its fall as long as possible, but then at last it conceded defeat and slid over, disappearing into the black void below.
A sigh of relief went with it. Despite the urgent need to leave the scene as quickly as possible, the driver could not help but put two gloved hands on the railing and lean over a moment, wasting precious seconds to listen for some sound from below. There was nothing. Would the thud of a body striking the rocks below be carried to this height? Possibly the fog reduced sound; possibly the sound was missed by overanxiety to hear it. Ah, well, it must have struck long since; at least the job was done. The driver moved back to the far side of the car, got in and removed the gloves, tossing them into the rear seat, and started the engine. The lights were put on and the car pulled into the center lane, heading for the discharge end of the long bridge. Behind the dark sedan a car came whispering from the island tunnel, yellow fog lights weakly attacking the mist. The driver of the dark sedan started to speed and then slowed down instead, allowing the car to pass. Fifteen seconds earlier and the oncoming motorist might well have seen the whole scene outlined in his yellow headlights, but he hadn’t and that was that.
The ungloved hands held the wheel easily; the face was calm and resolute. The toll plaza was approaching; a coin was procured for the Exact Change booth; no toll collector was going to be able to recall the complexion or expression of the driver if it could be helped. The coin was dropped; it seemed minutes rather than seconds before the advance light turned green, and then the car was through. The driver did not relax; there was still the return to the city. At the first exit the sedan left the throughway, swung to a stop before a red light, waited for it to turn, and then went up a ramp and across the throughway, descending on the far side. Another wait for another traffic light, this time with a car alongside, its driver looking over incuriously, with the brief wonder of encounters at that hour, and then the light changed and the sedan was rolling back to the toll plaza, this time in the opposite direction. It approached another Exact Change booth on the upper level of the bridge, now, with the car’s shadow skittering elongatedly from light pole to light pole. Across the bay in the distance San Francisco glowed against the dark sky, its lights trapped in the low overcast. A coin was dropped, the light at last turned green, and the car was through and accelerating toward the city.
It was not until the dark sedan was once again in the Yerba Buena tunnel that the driver happened to look down under the brilliant glare of the fluorescent lamps there. The front of the red plaid lumber jacket was smeared with paint...
Chapter 7
Thursday — 9:05 a.m.
The morning had dawned as beautifully as Lieutenant Reardon had so accurately predicted the evening before, and even the Weather Bureau, in face of that boundless optimism, had not found it in its heart to disagree. The sun was large and smiling, the air clear and sparkling, the sky a deep friendly blue with only a few puffy clouds hanging far in the west over the black-green Pacific as if to remind the natives that what had been in the way of poor weather, could be again. The lieutenant, whistling gaily and tunelessly beneath his breath, swooped into the curb with a happy swoop, and drew to a halt at his usual illegal spot before the Hall of Justice. When the new Hall of Justice had first been opened, Lieutenant Reardon — then Sergeant Reardon — had been assigned a space in the huge basement garage, but after suffering a dented fender the first day and a horrendous scratch the length of a door the second, he had abandoned that sanctuary as being somewhat less than reliable, and now parked elsewhere, preferably — when there was space — in front of the building. It had the advantage of being close, and besides, the municipal parking lot to the rear facing Harrison charged money.
He climbed down, closed the door, and trotted up the steps of the building, pleased with the sunshine, the warm breeze, the pleasant looks — in general — on the faces of passersby, pleased with life and, of course, with himself. He pushed through the heavy doors as if they were weightless, waved with bonhomie in the general direction of the information counter, and even failed to be irked by the creeping pace of the elevator. His good nature endured down the corridor to his office; it was not until he had opened his door that his whistle faltered a bit. Sitting on a chair beside his desk, dressed in civilian clothing, was Sergeant Thomas J. Bennett.
It was not the mere presence of the sergeant alone that made the lieutenant’s whistle go even further off key and eventually disappear; it was the attitude of his visitor. The elderly gray-haired man sat on his chair stiffly, as if posing for a portrait, and his expression was both unhappy and a trifle accusing.
Reardon walked back of his desk and sat down. He straightened the papers on his desk a bit perfunctorily, realizing two things: one, he could not postpone the inevitable interview with Bennett very long by fussing with papers on his desk; and two, the day was probably not going to be as glorious as he had anticipated. He brought his eyes up to the blue ones staring at him, forcing his voice to be impersonal.