“Naw. Not Sekara. I don’t think they meant that much to him, and anyway, if he wanted a dame, he didn’t have to hide her from me.” He shook his head, wondering aloud. “Why did he open it?”
“Don’t wear your brain out wondering,” Reardon said coldly. “All it took was somebody waiting on the basement steps for you to leave. Then all he had to do was to buzz Sekara on the intercom, say he was you and that you had dropped something, or forgotten something in the apartment. With the timing right, Sekara wouldn’t even think twice about it — he’d buzz the door release, and open his own front door when whoever it was came up and rapped. And that was just how simple it was.”
“And what in hell was I supposed to do to stop it?” Lundahl cried, irritated at the unfairness of it all.
“How the hell do I know?” Reardon said savagely. He swung around and marched over to the Technical car. Sergeant Wilkins was helping his assistant pack his gear away. Reardon’s voice lowered automatically. “Hello, Frank. Any luck with anything?”
Wilkins looked up. “Hi, Jim. Luck? None. Whoever shot Sekara wasn’t accommodating enough to leave any fingerprints. The knob and the back door were clean, and I can’t see why he would hang around long enough after the shooting to handle much of anything else.”
“Did you check the chain, too?”
Wilkins stared at him. “You’re tired, Jim. Of course we checked the chain — the head of one of those things is perfect for prints. It was clean. And so was the railing going down the back; somebody wiped it down, probably with gloves on their way down.”
“Sorry. How about the gun? Or the bullets?”
“No gun. They’ll have to dig for the bullets downtown.”
Reardon sighed. “Anything else? At all?”
“Well,” Wilkins said, “we looked around in back as much as we could with our lights — we’ll take another look in the morning — but you can cut through from the back area to the next street, and there’s a regular warren of driveways and winding streets, and God knows what in this neighborhood. We did find some bicycle tracks, but they could have been from anyone in the building, or even a newsboy, but we cast them for luck, and just to be safe we put it out to the cars to look for anyone on a bike around here, because it’s a little late for anyone to be delivering newspapers, or pedaling for exercize...”
It was a long speech for Sergeant Wilkins, an exceptionally long speech, but it was about all he could offer Reardon in lieu of sympathy. He shrugged and went back to putting away his camera equipment, speaking over his shoulder.
“Anyway, nothing on the bike so far, and nothing on any suspicious characters loitering.”
“So what’s your guess?”
“My guess is that whoever knocked off Mr. Sekara knew pretty much what he was doing. The killer probably parked one or two streets over, and he could have been in his car and on his way two minutes after the shooting. Probably while Stan was still trying to get into the apartment building. Maybe someone will remember seeing somebody in a driveway, once the news gets out tomorrow, for whatever good that will do.” Reardon started to turn away, toward the apartment. “Save your time, Jim. We’ve been over everything and the apartment’s all locked and sealed. You’ll see a copy of the report in the morning.”
Sergeant Wilkins moved to the front of the car, sliding into the passenger side of the front seat while his assistant put the key in the ignition and released the hand brake. Ahead of them the ambulance pulled from the curb, followed in turn by the patrol car. Dondero and Bennett were waiting back beside Bennett’s car. Whatever small crowd had formed at the excitement was beginning to drift away. Wilkins closed the door and looked up at Reardon through the open window. His nasal voice was meant to be kindly.
“Take it easy, Jim. Nobody could have stopped this one.”
“Yeah. Just tell that to Captain Tower, though!”
“Don’t worry about the captain,” Wilkins advised. “He doesn’t just read the words in those reports; he reads the meaning, too. He won’t give you a hard time.”
But I will, Reardon thought bitterly, and watched as the car moved off. His eyes swung about, to the yellow-brick front of the new high-rise apartment, climbing the impersonal face of the building to the second-floor windows with their shades drawn. What could Stan have done to prevent the killing, indeed? He sighed, shook his head in disgust, and then walked back to the car and climbed wearily into the back seat. Dondero and Bennett silently slid into the front seat. Bennett turned around.
“Where to now, Lieutenant?”
Where to, indeed? Reardon thought. Sufficient unto the day is the lousing-up thereof...
“Home,” he said at last, and leaned back against the cushions wearily, closing his eyes.
Saturday — 12:05 a.m.
Jan was waiting up for him when he turned the key to his flat; she was wearing a pair of his pajamas and one of his summer robes, with the sleeves rolled up. They looked like huge doughnuts around her wrists. She was comfortably curled up in a chair, watching him solemnly. He grinned at her, yawned mightily and slipped off his jacket, hanging it on a chair back and straightening it. Whenever Jan was around he tried to at least give the appearance of neatness.
“Can I get you something, Jim? A drink?”
“A glass of buttermilk, if we’ve got any.” He started to pull his necktie over his head and then changed his mind, unknotting it instead. It didn’t look any better that way, he thought, and draped it neatly over his jacket.
“Of course.” She came to her feet and padded into the kitchen; the tight rope belt pulled in her waist, exaggerating her figure. Reardon loked after her appreciatively. There was the sound of the refrigerator door opening and then closing; a few moments and Jan was back, carefully balancing the glass. He took it gratefully and sipped it while Jan sank back into her soft chair, tucking her feet under her again. Her eyes came back to his face. “Was it bad?”
“It was bad for John Sekara. Somebody shot him dead.”
“I know. I heard when we were in the nightclub. I mean, will it be bad for you?”
He shrugged and finished the buttermilk, turning to set down the glass. There was a sudden gasp from Jan.
“Oh, Jim!”
“What?”
“You sat in something!”
He twisted, looking down. “I’m just a natural-born slob,” he said. “I must have sat in some greasepaint down at that stupid nightclub, tonight.” He suddenly grinned, a rueful grin. “That’s the story of my life, these days. Paint on my pants and egg on my face.”
Jan cocked her head to one side. “It sounds like a song.”
“Maybe I’ll give up being a cop and write songs for a living,” he said, and walked into the bedroom to undress. He came out a few minutes later in his pajamas and robe and stood before Jan, smiling down at her, relaxed as always to be home with her. “How would you like that?”
“How would I like what?”
“That’s what I like about you,” he said approvingly, “your remarkable memory. I said, how would you like me to give up being a cop and write songs for a living?”
“How would you like it?”
“Well,” Reardon said, “I couldn’t do any worse than I’m doing right now. Actually, though, right now I think I’d like to be a mattress tester.” He yawned deeply. “Ah, me! I’m tired.” His eyes suddenly came alive, twinkling. “Do you remember that ancient story about the man who was enticed to bed by a widow, and once he was in bed with the woman he asked if he could enjoy a husband’s privileges, and she eagerly said yes. And then he said, ‘In that case, madame, good night!’ And rolled over and went to sleep?”