“But that’s just the point, don’t you see?” Reardon said harshly. “Damn it, don’t you understand?”
“What’s the point?”
“They don’t drink!” He walked over to the tray of cocktails and raised one of the glasses. He sniffed. “Bloody Mary be damned! Tim fixed the drinks and the ones the family had were straight tomato juice!”
“So what? I don’t see what’s bugging you?”
“You don’t?”
“No...” Dondero suddenly looked worried. “You mean, they might have had an accident on the way home?”
“No, I don’t mean they might have had an accident on the way home! And what would their not drinking have to do with that!” Reardon asked savagely. He glared at Dondero. “Anyway, where’s brother Billy? Our hard-studying graduate student? Why isn’t he home burning the midnight oil? He couldn’t come with us to the nightclub because he had so much work to do — don’t tell me he was in an accident, too!”
Dondero remained silent, non-understanding. Reardon frowned angrily into space for several moments, his mind exploring all possibilities. He grunted as one very large one occurred to him, and picked up the telephone, dialing the Hall of Justice. The phone was answered instantly.
“Police department...”
“Hello. This is Lieutenant Reardon again. I’m at Tom Bennett’s home on Seventeenth. Near Clayton. Do you have a car in service anywhere near here? Or even one out of service on something minor?”
“Just a second, Lieutenant...” There was a brief pause; Reardon could see in his mind’s eye the policeman at headquarters swing around to study the big board, and then swing back. “Park Four is at the Medical Center on Parnassus. That’s the closest. He’s free.”
“Well, that’s not far. Is the driver alone?”
“No, sir. There’s another man with him. They were delivering a baby on an emergency, but they’ve handed the mother over...”
“Well, get them on their way here in a hurry and then come back on the line. Do they know where Bennett lives?”
“We have his address. I’ll give it to them if they don’t know it. Just a moment...” There was a brief pause and the voice came back on the line. “They’re on their way, Lieutenant. What else?”
“Can you connect me with International Airport through your board?”
“Yes, sir. Do you want Security there?”
“Yes...” Reardon thought quickly. “Wait — no. We might as well save time. Connect me with the airport manager — the night manager at this hour, I imagine. And tell him to have his board cut Security there into the call. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir. Right away...”
There was a long wait as the connections were made; it took several minutes but to Reardon it seemed at least an hour. Dondero had slumped to the arm of a chair and was lighting a cigarette, watching, his face expressionless, trying to understand what was in Reardon’s mind. Reardon frowned blackly at the wall and then straightened his face as a voice came on the line. Apparently it had been at least partially briefed.
“This is the night manager, Lieutenant. My name is Warren. Our Security is also on the line. What can we do for you?”
Reardon took a deep breath.
“Mr. Warren, there’s a private pilot for an oil company, I believe, who flies out of your airport. The company’s hanger is there, I think. His name is Tim Bennett. Do you know him?”
Security cut in. “I know him, Lieutenant. He’s Tom Bennett’s boy. By the way, my name is Cassell. Tim flies for Trans-State Oil. A twin-engine Beech. What about him?”
“I think there’s a chance he’s on his way to the airport. It’s far from certain, but it’s a chance. I want to be sure he doesn’t take off in the next few minutes — not before I get to the airport, anyway. I’m at Tom Bennett’s home now. I’ll be leaving here in a very few minutes. I should be there between twenty minutes and a half hour from now.” Dondero shut his eyes, shuddering at the thought of accompanying the lieutenant at the speeds implied, and then opened them to help him hear the rest of the conversation. “Can you do that? Hold him up?”
“We can try,” the night manager said cautiously.
Security was more assured. “Of course we can do it, Lieutenant. I’ll go down there personally.”
“Good, Mr. Cassell. Which hanger does Trans-State use?”
“It’s right off the freeway,” the night manager said. “It’s two or three entrances before the main one leading to the passenger terminal itself. It’s quite clearly marked, once you get off the freeway and onto airport property proper.”
Security was again of greater use.
“Look, Lieutenant, it’s the second exit coming from town after you hit the end of the airport property. You’ll pass an overhead sign on the Bayshore Freeway saying “‘International Airport Two Miles’; it’s the exit after that, roughly half a mile. You turn off to the right, go over an overpass, and when you come down you’ll see a sign that says: Private Sector Three, and an arrow. Turn in the direction of the arrow and take your first left. I’ll see to it the gate is open in the fence. You’ll come out between two hangars. Trans-State is the one on the right. Got it?”
“Got it.” Reardon glanced out the open door to see a patrol car pull up, it’s roof lights flashing. Two uniformed men came out quickly, holsters unlatched, ready for anything. Reardon spoke into the telephone. “Car’s here. I’ll be out as soon as I can make it.”
He hung up and watched the men from the car pause momentarily on the porch, frowning at the broken window, and then they came into the house. They visibly relaxed to see both the lieutenant and the sergeant neither being attacked nor in any apparent imminent danger.
“Hi, Lieutenant. Hello, Don. What happened to the window?”
“No key,” Dondero said, as if that explained everything.
Reardon took over. “Look, Max, you boys are going to stay here; we’re taking the car. I want you to do a full search of this house, from the cellar to the attic. All the closets, drawers — everything. The works.”
“Looking for what, Lieutenant?”
“First, a red plaid lumber jacket, probably with paint on it — blue paint. Then a woman’s wig, shoulder length, brown hair; then a set of falsies for a brassiere — not too big, I shouldn’t judge; she’s well built already. And then a beard and a fake mustache. And last but not least, a long, thin knife — a type of stiletto.” He glanced over at Dondero. “Some of it may be in the back of the sedan — or all of it, I suppose — but I have a feeling at least some of it is here in the house.”
Dondero was staring at him in astonishment. “What on earth—?”
“I’ll tell you about it on the way,” Reardon said, and smiled grimly. “It may take your mind off my driving...”
Saturday — 1:35 a.m.
Dondero hung on for dear life as they rocketed down Seventeenth Street, crashing the light at Douglass, siren screaming, roof light whirling like mad. They swung into Market with screaming tires, narrowly missing a car trying desperately to get out of their way; at Fourteenth Reardon swung right again. Before him an ambulance pulled aside, giving room to this dangerous maniac, its own siren lost beneath the greater sound of that of the patrol car. Reardon headed for South Van Ness and the looping entrance there to the freeway. It was not until they had come into the sparse traffic on the overhead highway that Dondero allowed himself to relax a bit; he was sure his fingerprints were imbedded in the dashboard for all time to come. He reached for a cigarette with shaking hands and managed to light it. Reardon was hunched over the wheel like a racing driver, his jaw set. Dondero tossed the spent match from the window and rolled the glass up, cutting the sound of the siren down to a point where conversation was possible.