Dondero could only nod silently. Reardon glanced over, saw the expression on the other’s face, and returned his attention to the road, satisfied.
“All right. Now; what could this unknown person have said to John Sekara in order to get him to open those doors? This is your neighborhood Welcome Wagon and would you like to have a girl? Stan says no. This is your granddaughter, Little Red Riding Hood, and I brought a ham sandwich through the woods for you? Dubious. Open Sesame? Even more doubtful.” He dropped his sardonic tone. “No, sir. What that person had to say, was something like this: ‘This is Sergeant Lundahl. When I was upstairs with you in your apartment just now, I think I must have dropped my warrant card’ — or words to that effect. Then Sekara would have opened those doors, but otherwise, never! Remember, he was a man who felt threatened. He was on his toes.” He smiled faintly, but there was no humor in his smile. “And who knew Lundahl by name? And knew he was protection for Sekara? And on that shift? Damned few people — and Bennett was one of those few.”
Dondero objected. “That’s still only circumstantial evidence.”
“But damned strong circumstantial evidence! And then when I find paint on my pants—”
“Paint on your pants?” Dondero was mystified.
“That’s what I said,” Reardon said with satisfaction. “I thought at first I must have sat down on a make-up kit by accident in that dressing room at the Belly-Button, but I didn’t sit down and I knew it. But where I did sit down, though, was on the back seat in Tom Bennett’s car. Something either had been on that seat that had paint on it, or something was still on that seat with paint on it. Blue paint. And there’s more than enough on my pants for the lab to analyze. And nine will get you thirteen — to coin a phrase — that it matches with the paint from the railing on the Bay Bridge.” He glanced over. “And what will you say then, my friend?”
Dondero sighed. He shook his head slowly, unhappily.
“I’d say then, my friend, that your odds aren’t long enough.”
“That’s what I thought,” Reardon said evenly, and lapsed into silence, tramping on the gas...
Saturday — 1:50 a.m.
They turned from the freeway, slowing down abruptly; the patrol car swayed as they rounded the curve and bounced up onto the overpass ramp and then began to descend. Ahead of them the gate had been opened; they rolled through and turned as they had been directed, slowing down even more. They were on a macadam road, built more for wide-tired airplane tractors than for cars. The hangers loomed over them, monsters of shadow against the lights from the runways beyond. Reardon slowed down further, braking to a stop beside the end hanger, frowning at the silence and the darkness.
Where was Cassell, the Security man? Somebody had opened the gate... With a muttered curse the stocky lieutenant climbed down and walked around to the apron before the hanger with Dondero hurrying to catch up. The large doors had been rolled aside; the space inside was vacant except for an empty jeep parked near the entrance. There was the sharp smell of fresh gasoline in the air. Reardon’s jaw clenched in anger; he turned, prepared to get back to the car and the radio-telephone there, when he heard a rustle from the depths of the hanger, a slight thrashing sound.
“Don! Where are the lights?”
Dondero’s hand found the switch; the two men ran to the back of the large hanger. A security guard lay there, trussed in wire, gagged with a rag. His eyes were raging. Dondero started to work on the wire as Reardon worked the gag loose. The man rolled over, spat, and then glared up at Reardon.
“Police,” Reardon said abruptly. “What happened?”
“You Lieutenant Reardon?”
“That’s right. What happened?”
“What in hell kind of message was that you gave me? Why in hell didn’t you say there were four of them? And that they were armed? You made it sound as if you wanted them to wait so you could go along, too. For Christ’s sweet sake!”
“Squawk later,” Reardon said, angry with himself. The man’s accusation was all too true. “Right now, just tell me what happened.”
Dondero had the wire loose. The guard came to his feet, rubbing his wrists and then brushing himself off. He looked up.
“What happened? They’re out at the end of Runway Two-seventy right now, if they haven’t already taken off. They were just climbing into the plane when I come up in my jeep. I told them you wanted them to wait until you got here, and the next thing I know Tom’s got a gun jammed in my gut and I’m being wound up like a top.” He glared at Reardon. “Some goddam way to send a message! If you wanted them held, why in hell didn’t you say so? Or say there were four of them? With a gun? If that’s the way the cops in town work, all I can say is—”
“I know, I know!” Reardon stared across the field. “Can they take off without filing a flight plan? Without clearance?”
“Can you drive a car through a red light?”
Reardon barked. “Can you answer a question without asking one?”
“Of course they can take off without clearance! For Christ’s sake!” The security guard had been rubbing his wrists; now he raised one hand. “That’s them now. I know that Beech.”
A small, neat twin-engine plane was coming down the runway in their direction, picking up speed, its landing lights tiny puddles against the stained concrete runway. It seemed dwarfed by the huge airliners drawn to each side of the runway; it was halfway down the wide concrete strip before the sound of its engines could be heard. Even as they watched, spotlights operated from the tower picked up the small, illegally flown plane. The double empennage raised slightly, and then the plane was airborne, lifting feather-light from the land. It banked slightly over their heads, its registration number visible; and then it had straightened out, heading out over the water, its navigation lights blinking steadily in the night. The landing lights flicked off; the plane drew beyond the limit of the land-based spotlights. Reardon pulled his eyes from it and turned to the security guard.
“Get me up to the control tower right away, can you?”
“Sure.” The security guard seemed to have recovered from his justified anger. He climbed into the jeep, reaching for his walkie-talkie while Reardon and Dondero piled in the back. He started the engine, shifting gears and backing from the hanger as he spoke into the hand radio. “Cassell here,” he said in a low monotone. “Get me Mr. Warren on this thing...”
He shifted gears and swung the jeep around, heading down the row of hanger aprons, easily swinging the jeep to clear baggage carts, ladders, tractors and gasoline trucks. His one hand managed the jeep while the other held the walkie-talkie steady at his ear.
“Mr. Warren? Cassell here. Yes, sir, I know the Beech took off. It wasn’t my fault. I’m with the police right now. They want to get to the tower right away. To talk with the plane, I imagine. What?” He turned to Reardon speaking over his shoulder. “Mr. Warren will meet us there.” He spoke into the mouthpiece once again. “I was talking to Lieutenant Reardon. Yes, sir. Right. In a couple of minutes.”
He put the walkie-talkie aside and stepped on the gas.
Saturday — 2:15 a.m.
From the height of the control tower pyramided above the main passenger terminal, the runways spread out fan-wise, the ribs running down to the edge of the water to intersect a cross-runway there. Each of the wide concrete strips was clearly edged in lights, with the areas between them black shadow inhabited by unlighted planes. As Reardon watched, twin landing lights suddenly flashed on in the sky above, bathing the field in lights; a huge 747 slowly began to settle toward the ground.