“Now,” he said, turning to face Reardon, “what were you saying?”
“I wasn’t saying, but I will.” Reardon swung the wheel slightly; they passed a cruising car as if it were standing still. Dondero swallowed, Reardon’s eyes were narrowed. “They’re a close-knit family, all right. But then, everybody told me that from the beginning...”
Dondero frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what it says. Everybody told me what a pity it was that Tom Bennett’s youngest boy went bad — but it never occurred to me to ask in what way he went bad. Or why.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I could have told you all about the boy.”
“I’m sure.” Reardon’s voice was cold with anger at himself. “Fifty people could have told me about the boy if I’d thought to ask, but it didn’t occur to me until tonight, and then Records gave me the whole story. Hooked on drugs in high school by one of Sekara’s pushers, with the result that Tom blames his wife’s death on the boy and his habit. But more definite than that, the boy starts out stripping cars for the price of the habit, and when the price went up — as it does — the degree of crime necessary to raise the scratch also went up. Naturally. So now we have him for armed robbery with a minimum of five years facing him. And when he gets out — in three or four, with luck — we’ll have him up for murder next, probably.” His voice was expressionless. “That’s a good university they run up there at Q.”
Dondero shook his head in bewilderment. “I still don’t see what one thing has to do with the other. You’ve got me confused, buddy.”
Reardon kept his foot locked on the gas pedal, pressing it to the floor, screaming around the curves of the elevated highway, his tires barely missing the curbing most of the time. The little traffic there was at that hour of the morning fled to one side before the onslaught of the keening siren. He spoke as if he had not heard Dondero, as if speaking to himself.
“When we pick up Bennett — which should be at the airport, because I’m sure he kept under the speed limit, not expecting trouble, and I’m sure we called Security there in time — anyway, when we pick him up, we’ll ask him some questions. For example: were the other three — Capp, Falcone and Martin — killed in order not to have the Sekara killing stand out? Or was it simply that morally, or at least morally in his mind, Tom Bennett was able to justify the death of all four as being equal contributors to a breakdown in the society he had spent his life working for? And which resulted, in the end, in his son’s going sour, and his wife’s death?”
“Bennett?” Dondero stared at him. “Hell! Bennett was at headquarters at the time Falcone went out that window! And we were with him ourselves at that Belly-Button place when Sekara got shot!”
“But Billy wasn’t with us. It’s like I tried to tell you before,” Reardon said softly, “they’re a close-knit family. They probably decided in a family council. One each. Tom Bennett did the Capp killing. The fright wig and the mustache and the lumber jacket were all the disguise he needed. He knew Capp’s routine. Hell! He’s been on that patrol beat for years. But he didn’t think about his shiny shoes. Who has the shiniest shoes in town? Especially down on the Embarcadero and Berry? A cop, my friend — a cop! He passes uniform inspection every day. And when Tom went back to the bar in his official capacity, you notice he didn’t take any chances of being studied too long by those who were witnesses to the killing inside at the time-he made it in and out fast and then whistled up a foot man and put him on watch inside. Is that natural? A sergeant moving traffic along while a patrolman watches a murdered body? I should have seen the discrepancy in that a long time ago, except that my mind was on other, more important things—”
Dondero was listening intently now. “Such as?”
“Such as that nice, ripe smell of booze that Tom Bennett practically blew in my face.” Reardon’s voice was bitter. “He wasn’t taking a nip in that gas station john — he was changing clothes. And rinsing his mouth out with whiskey.”
“But, why?”
“Because he was damned sure a stiff-necked bastard like me would report him, and when we check tomorrow, five will get you ten — no, make that nine will get you thirteen — that when Captain Tower had him on the carpet, he — Tom Bennett — was the one who suggested working with the brilliant Lieutenant Reardon on the case. It never hurts to know where you stand.” He shook his head in disgust, remembering. “Nor does it hurt to be assigned to find where a fake beard and mustache were bought, especially when you were the one who bought it.”
Dondero was pale. “If you’re right, of course, it would mean—”
“Yes,” Reardon said quietly, interrupting. “It means that Gabriella was the one who invented Gremlin’s Grampas, and who helped Pete Falcone out the window. It always was hard for me to believe that with all his experience, Falcone could possibly have been taken in by an impersonator like Georgie Jackson.”
“Little Georgie sure fooled me.”
“You weren’t up that close, and I doubt he could have fooled Falcone.” He shrugged. “In any event, he didn’t have to.”
“What you’re saying, then, is that Tom took Capp, Gabriella handled Falcone, Tim killed Martin and Billy Bennett was the one who shot Sekara.”
“That’s right. Our graduate student. Probably via bicycle, since the Bennetts only have the one car and that was in use by us. And they found some bicycle tracks, though that doesn’t prove anything by itself. Anyway, a bicycle isn’t a bad means of getting around if you don’t want to be seen — not in that particular neighborhood. Two minutes and he’d be in Golden Gate Park, and once he was in the park he could go where he wanted without being seen — or at least without being noticed. They probably had a meeting place set up — the park, in fact, would be ideal. At night you could hide a bike where it wouldn’t be noticed or found until morning, and the chances are whoever finds it tomorrow morning won’t even bother to report it. He’ll just thank his lucky stars, take it someplace and hock it, and buy himself some sticks with the bread.”
Dondero stared ahead in thought. He leaned over and crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray and then leaned back again, his mind so occupied that their speed didn’t bother him. The lights of Daly City rose on the hills to their right; beyond the cutoff, Route 101 — the Bayshore Freeway — extended almost trafficless. Reardon switched off the overhead rotating lamp and then bent down, disconnecting the siren. The silence was wonderful. Dondero cleared his throat. When he spoke he sounded extremely doubtful.
“Those are pretty serious accusations, Jim. I hope you can prove them before you go out on a limb. Because for my money, all you seem to have is a lot of guesses, and pretty wild ones, too. So they didn’t put liquor in their Bloody Marys; so Billy wasn’t home when he said he would be. So what?”
Reardon snorted angrily.
“So what? Wild guesses? Hell!” He forced himself to simmer down. After all, if he couldn’t convince Dondero, who could he convince? “Maybe I’m telling it badly. Take it the way I did — start with the Sekara killing and then go back to the others and maybe it’ll make more sense.” He took a deep breath. They swerved with the road; to their left the shadow of Candlestick Park stood out against the night-lights of the naval shipyard. “All right. Yesterday I put Stan Lundahl and Tom Bennett on Sekara for protection, one shift on, one shift off. Tonight — the second night Stan’s on the job — somebody calls Sekara from the lobby of his apartment — somebody who’s been waiting patiently for him to come home — just after Stan leaves, and Sekara is obliging enough to open the downstairs door for him, and then unchain and open the door of his apartment for him, too. And gets shot three times for his trouble. Right?”