His apartment had been searched by a crew of four detectives who worked for two days going over every inch of the place. Nancy O’Hara’s presence did not help the search. She was a mighty pretty girl, and cops are human. But the search was nonetheless a thorough one, and it turned up neither the missing documents nor a key to a possible deposit box somewhere in the city.
“I don’t know,” Carella said to Hawes. “The whole goddamn thing seems to have bogged down.”
“He’s got to have them someplace,” Hawes said.
“Where? He doesn’t belong to any clubs.”
“No.”
“He hasn’t got a summer place, just that one apartment.”
“Yes.”
“So where?”
Hawes thought for a moment. “How about the cars?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“The cars. The Caddy and the Buick.”
“You mean maybe he’s got the stuff in the trunk, or the glove compartment? Something like that?”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t sound like Kramer,” Carella said, shaking his head. “I get the impression he was neat, careful. I don’t think he’d leave important stuff in the trunk of a car.”
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
Carella sighed heavily. “Anything’s worth a goddamn try,” he said. “Let’s hit the garage.”
GEORGE’S SERVICE CENTER in Isola was located three blocks away from the late Sy Kramer’s apartment. It was there that Kramer had had his cars serviced. It was also there that he had boarded them. George was a wiry little man with grease on his face.
“Let’s see your badges,” was the first thing he said.
Carella and Hawes showed their shields.
“Now we can talk,” George said.
“We want to look over Kramer’s cars,” Hawes said.
“You got a search warrant?”
“No.”
“Go get one.”
“Let’s be reasonable,” Carella said.
“Let’s,” George answered. “Is it illegal to conduct a search without a search warrant?”
“Technically, yes,” Carella said. “But it won’t take us-”
“Is it illegal to be doing thirty miles an hour in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone?” George asked.
“Technically, yes,” Carella said.
“Technically or otherwise, would you call it speeding?”
“I suppose so.”
“All right. I got stopped in a speed trap the other day. I’ve never sped in my life. I’m a careful driver. I was doing thirty miles an hour. Technically, I was speeding. The cop who stopped me gave me a ticket. I asked him to be reasonable. He was reasonable, all right. He gave me a ticket. You want to search those cars, go home and get a warrant. Otherwise, it’s an illegal search. I’m being as reasonable as your pal was.”
“A speeding ticket makes you a cop hater, huh?” Carella said.
“If you want to put it that way.”
“I hope nobody ever tries to hold up your gas station,” Carella answered. “Come on, Cotton. Let’s get the warrant.”
“Good day, gents,” George said, smiling.
His revenge had been sweet. It delayed a murder investigation by almost four hours.
THEY CAME BACK with the warrant at four in the afternoon on Monday, July fifteenth. George looked at the paper, nodded, and said, “The cars are inside. They’re both unlocked. The keys are in the dashes in case you want to open the trunks or the glove compartments.”
“Thanks,” Carella said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“One hand washes the other,” George said. “Tell that to your traffic cops.”
“Do you know what impeding the progress of an investigation is?”
“All I know is you had to have a warrant,” George said. He shrugged. “If you’re in such a hurry, now that you got your warrant why don’t you go look at the damn cars?”
“We will,” Carella said.
Together, he and Hawes went into the garage. The Caddy and the Buick were parked side by side. The Caddy was white, the Buick black. Together, they looked like an ad for good Scotch. Carella took the Caddy, and Hawes took the Buick. They searched the interiors of the cars with patient scrutiny. They removed the seats and looked under them. They felt along the material covering the roofs of the cars, in the hope that Kramer had inserted something between the cloth and the metal. They lifted the floor pads. They took everything out of the glove compartments and everything out of the trunks. The search of both cars took three quarters of an hour.
They found nothing.
“Well, that’s that,” Carella said.
“Mmm,” Hawes said disgustedly.
“At least I’ve been inside a Caddy,” Carella said. “That’s the closest I’ll ever get to owning one.” He studied the white convertible. “Look at that baby, will you?”
“It’s a beauty,” Hawes agreed.
“And it’s got power,” Carella said. “Have you ever seen the engine on a Caddy? It looks as if it could power a destroyer. Here, take a look at it.”
He went to the front of the car, unclasped the hood, and raised it. Hawes went over to where he was standing.
“It’s something, all right,” he said.
“Kept it clean, too,” Carella said. “A neat guy, Kramer.”
“Yeah.”
Carella was closing the hood when Hawes said, “Hold it. What’s that?”
“Huh?”
“There.”
“Where?”
“Stuck to the engine block.”
“What?”
“Lift that hood all the way up, Steve.”
