The Ledger Read online

  “She came here one lovely summer day and made the announcement I had been expecting. ‘Reverend Mother,’ she said, ‘I want to become a novice.’ ”

  Marty’s voice was loud. “Elena wanted to become a nun?”

  “No, Detective Ginsburg, of course not. Not really. Elena suffered her first contacts with that world outside. She had had her first inkling of what she had to overcome. There was her first contact with a boy, who found her attractive, but not ‘presentable.’ It was at a dance. She couldn’t handle it. No, she did not want to become a nun, she wanted to hide behind the veil.” The nun moved her head slowly from side to side. “I explained to Elena what she really knew herself: that she had no vocation. That in order to serve God through a religious order, she had to know, to be certain within herself that it was a life she would be embracing joyously, completely. That the religious life was undertaken after other choices had been tried, examined, discarded; that the vows had to be undertaken as an inevitable decision, not in a panic and through a need to hide.”

  “What was Elena’s reaction, Reverend Mother?” Christie asked.

  The small hands clenched together tightly, rose to rest on the broad forehead. Then, the Mother Superior dropped her hands to the desk and looked directly at Christie. “Elena told me that I was just like all the others. That I rejected her because she was dark-skinned.” The pain was discernible not in her voice or eyes, but in the set of her lips.

  “Er ... Reverend Mother, maybe it’s out of line, but I’d like to ask you something. Maybe out of curiosity,” Marty ventured.

  “Do I think now that I was wrong? That I should have encouraged her?”

  Marty’s heavy shoulders moved. “Well, something like that. I mean, I guess you know what Elena is ... now.”

  The crisp voice had an edge of annoyance. “That Elena has become a prostitute. Oh, Detective Ginsburg, don’t be delicate with me. Do you know the backgrounds of the children who are in my care? They are the remnants of a society that hasn’t worked. They are the products of rape, ignorance, lust, violence, atrocities almost beyond belief. Yes, I could have encouraged Elena, but it would have been opposed to everything I believed. Elena was equipped far beyond any girl we have ever had before or since. She had an inner glow, an awareness and an ability.”

  “But she didn’t have enough to make it, did she?” Christie was surprised both at her own sharpness and that her question was recognized as an accusation.

  “Detective Opara, there are three hundred and twenty-two children here at this moment. I cannot estimate how many children have come and gone since Elena left us. If I were to cry for each of them, if I were to allow myself to weep, I would have drowned in my flood of tears a very long time ago and what little good I am able to accomplish for any of them would not have been achieved.”

  “I’m sorry, Reverend Mother.”

  “Oh, Detective Opara, don’t apologize. But I am glad that you recognize the fact that there were no tears for Elena. It is a pretty significant fact, isn’t it?”

  Christie nodded. In the brief silence, there seemed nothing more to say. Then, something occurred to her. “When was the last time you saw Elena? Did she ever come back to you, after she went to live with her sister?”

  For the first time, the nun seemed evasive. Her eyes fastened on the folder. Beneath the black robes, her shoulders moved slightly. “That will be something for you to discuss with Elena.”

  “You mean, she did come back?”

  “You’re prodding now, Detective Opara. Touching on an area of confidence I cannot reveal.”

  Christie felt a surge of excitement. There was something else of value here. “Reverend Mother, you may be holding back something that could be very important to me.”

  “Ask Elena,” the nun answered firmly. “I’m not trying to be mysterious, young lady. I just feel I’ve gone as far as I’ve a right to go. Now, is there anything else?” It was clear that the meeting was at an end.

  The Mother Superior led them through the entrance hallway. She was very short, her forehead just about level with Christie’s chin. Sitting, speaking, she had seemed a larger woman. Her eyes moved about the room, she waved to several small girls who walked quietly, whispering and giggling, along the wide staircase.

  Her handshake was quick and firm. “Detective Opara, I hope you’ve learned something worthwhile about Elena. I rather think we might speak again.”

  “Yes, possibly,” Christie answered.

  She held Marty’s hand and her eyes took on a deeper color. “Detective Ginsburg, I want to compliment you on your appearance.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, since you grew up with Rabbi ‘Al’ Winsimer, I must assume you are approximately the same age as he. For a man in your early seventies, I think you are in marvelous condition.”

  Her face was amused. Marty swallowed, glanced at Christie, whose face registered shock. “Well, Reverend Mother,” Marty said, “I’m real surprised to learn that Al is in his seventies already. You know, I always told him that the religious life was too much for him. He wouldn’t listen, though. So, you see, I was right after all. I’m still only thirty-four and poor old Rabbi Winsimer. In his seventies ...”

  The Mother Superior squeezed his hand tightly, then pushed him away. “Detective Ginsburg,” she said, “I always did admire a man with chutzpah.”

  7

  DETECTIVE SAM FARRELL CAREFULLY cradled his bandaged left hand in the palm of his right hand. The nearly severed index finger throbbed with the slightest motion and he tried to concentrate on dictating his report, but Christie typed faster than he could phrase.

  “Hey, Christie, let’s knock off for a minute, okay? Man, I never even knew before that I had an index finger on my left hand, and now it’s like my whole body is my left index finger, know what I mean?”

  “Are you taking anything for the pain, Sam?” she asked sympathetically.

  “Well, yeah. But I took my wife’s allergy pills this morning by mistake, so I thought I better not take the pain pills.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “The combination, you never know.”

  Sam Farrell was a man who should not have helped his neighbor repair a broken snowplow. If, in the entire piece of machinery, there had been only one movable part, that movable part would have somehow taken the measure of Sam Farrell and found something to attack. Sam’s left index finger was being held in place not only by stitches but by virtue of the fact that the owner of the broken snowplow was a physician who had acted quickly. He should have known better than to solicit Sam’s help in the first place.

  Stoner Martin, bent over a series of charts which covered the long gray table across the front of the Squad Room, carefully printed words and numbers with a steady hand. The black india ink gave him a certain satisfaction in his meticulous work. He straightened up immediately when he heard Sam approach.

  “Hey, Stoney, how’s it going?”

  “Sam, stay away. Come on, move about y-a-y more steps back, buddy.”

  Farrell’s innocent round blue eyes registered no offense. He could still see the clear printing. “Giardino Industries. Man, are all those”—his right hand relinquished the wounded left hand for a quick sweep of the table—“all those other charts, part of Giardino Industries, too?”

  “You better believe it. Hey, Christie. Come over here and see what we’re dealing with.”

  Christie drained the lukewarm remnants of a container of bitter tea. “Stoney, it’s pushing five o’clock. If you don’t mind, I’d like to wind up Sam’s report and take off.”

  Stoner Martin massaged the back of his neck. “This kind of work can sure leave you kinked up.” He went to Christie’s desk, reached for her cigarette, and drew a light for his own. “I guess I forgot to mention it to you, kid.”

  “Mention what? Oh, no. Don’t tell me. I’m not finished when I finish this report. I’m going to be assigned with the rest of you to the Great Cataloguer from the Secret Service. Go ahead. Mention it
. Tell me.”

  “The Man said you should stick around until he gets back. Which will be, exactly, when he gets back. Dig?”

  A sudden sneeze caught Christie by surprise. She felt assaulted by unanticipated chills, exhaustion, clogged sinuses. “Oh, boy. My cold capsule just died a sudden death. Stoney, are these things really safe?”

  She handed him the box of medication and he carefully read the small print. “Christie, you’re getting to be a regular pill-popper. What you ought to do is, you ought to go home, take a very hot bath, then rub yourself fore and aft with mentholated salve, flannel up to your chin and down to your toes, sandwich yourself between about five blankets and sweat the cold out for about twenty-four hours. In the meantime, however,” his long brown fingers pushed one of the capsules from the cellophane-covered hole on the cardboard, “here, take one of these with several gulps of water. The effects of these things tend to run down, though, the longer you take them.”

  Sam Farrell moved from the water cooler and stepped back for Christie. Absently, he wiped his dripping chin with his bandaged hand and winced. “Hey, Stoney, I wonder if those cold capsules could keep a cold going indefinitely. Like, say Christie takes one now, you know, so the cold symptoms stay hidden for the next twelve hours. Then they appear again, so she takes another pill. Like, sooner or later, doesn’t the cold have to appear and run its own course?”

  “That’s a very nice thought, Sam,” Christie said. “Thanks very much. Stoney, what are all these companies? And why all the charts?”

  Stoner Martin kept between his work and Sam Farrell. There were ten large white oaktag charts, neatly lined and lettered, partially filled with figures. “It’s very impressive, isn’t it? You might say this is a study in optimism. Hopefully, these charts will be used before a Grand Jury, if this investigation goes the way we want it to. This is a picture of Giardino Industries, but only a partial picture. It doesn’t show where the original capital came from: these are all legitimate businesses.”

  Christie frowned. “But if they’re all legitimate, then what’s the point?”

  “The point is that Enzo Giardino, through his various companies, is doing business with the city, state and federal government. Most of these organizations,” Stoner’s hand swept over the charts, “are in one way or another involved in subcontracting through governmental agencies. Here, for instance.” “Here” indicated the first chart to his left. “Giardino Scrap Metal and Iron Corporation. A three-million-dollar-a-year organization. All the little blue stars indicate dealings with the city; all the red stars, dealings with the state. Now, this chart, “Three Boro Waste Disposal”—a private garbage collection agency which subcontracts during times of sanitation emergency in the city. Otherwise services restaurants, small industrial plants, right down to ye local street merchants. Now, over here,” Stoner moved, carefully avoiding brushing the still-wet lettering, “the Chemical Disposal Corporation of Corona; this one, Sewer Pipe Specialties, strictly city contracts. Here’s another very lucrative business, Metal Sign Corporation of Staten Island, handled over two million dollars’ worth of business with the Metropolitan Transit Authority alone. Now, this particular company, Refreshments, Incorporated, provides most of the candy and gum machines in public locations throughout the city. And this little sister company, Fresh ‘n’ Nice, provides all the goodies that fill all those machines. And this company, Sure-Service, supposedly sees to it that all the machines are in working order.”

  Christie stared at the charts; bright dabs of color throughout each chart were explained by color codes at the bottom of each chart. “But, what’s it all actually add up to Stoney? These are legitimate, right? We’ve done Dun and Bradstreets on most of them. What does this actually give you?”

  “They are legitimate, yes. All genuine, certified companies and corporations. They are all owned or controlled by Enzo Giardino, as well as about thirty or thirty-five other organizations throughout the country. But the catch is, kid, that our Enzo Giardino came to this country with his proverbial shirt on his immigrant back and the first three business enterprises he was involved with failed. But within a period of the last fifteen years—coinciding with the growth of the narcotics industry—Enzo Giardino found the hard cash to invest in all these different businesses. The point is that syndicate money has put away any and all competition in all of these particular areas. You can’t compete with untaxed cash if you’re an honest businessman.”

  “So syndicate money established a virtual monopoly in all of these various enterprises?”

  “That’s the girl, Christie. And it is all but impossible at this point to trace the capital back to its original source. By now, Giardino is strictly legitimate in all of these businesses. But what we’ll hope to bring before a Grand Jury—and baby, we’ve got a lot of hard legwork ahead of us—is that these companies were establish by illegally gotten funds, which gives an illegal edge to them during bidding for governmental contracts. At least, we can hope to get Giardino’s companies disqualified from future bids.”

  “What about import-export companies? Mr. Reardon said something about that, but I’m not sure what.”

  Stoner Martin shrugged. “That area is almost too dense to wade through. It would be a matter of the most complicated research: trying to trace Giardino’s legitimate investments on the stock market. Actually, we’re not handling any of that; the IRS people are pretty skilled at that kind of paper work. All they can hope to do would be to prove that Giardino, somewhere along the line, left a serious gap in his declared and actual income. Then, they could bag him on income tax violation. I’d much rather we get him on the narcotics. All of these companies were founded on the drug trade. Prove it, the Man says.” He shook his head. “Anyway, my charts are nice and neat. I could have been a good sign printer. Step back, Sam, you make me very nervous.”

  Sam sorted his various scraps of paper into some reasonable sequence. He stared at a mysterious india ink stain which had somehow appeared on his bandaged finger.

  “I don’t think you should let Stoney see that,” Christie whispered.

  She typed steadily, stopped only to rephrase and reword as she went along. Sam Farrell had spent most of his day on Long Island, investigating various branches of Giardino’s suburban subsidiaries. Christie rolled the last paper from her machine, carefully indicated where Sam was to sign his name.

  “Oh, Christie, I got some information for you about Elena Vargas.”

  Since Farrell had been working on the Island, Casey Reardon had told him to have a look at the Quiet Haven Rest Home in Great Neck, Long Island, where Elena Vargas had lived and worked for eight months.

  “This was when she was seventeen,” Sam said, consulting some small, cramped notes. “Yeah, here it is. Miss Tinsley, the social worker attached to Youth Division of Criminal Court, found the job for Elena. See, Elena was made a ward of the court after she got locked up on that hokey theft charge, something about stealing office supplies?” His voice rose, then he nodded at Christie’s reply.

  “Yes, I know about that from the yellow sheet and from her sister. That was a bit of a raw deal.”

  “Yeah. Well, anyway, she worked as a secretary. I checked the employment records out there. She had regular working hours, you know, nine to five, averaged about sixty-five bucks a week, plus room and board. She worked directly for this Dr. Henderson, but he was an old geezer even then. Seems he croaked about two years ago.”

  “Was there anyone there who remembered Elena?”

  Sam dug through his papers and shook his head. “Naw, Christie, it’s the kind of place gets a big turnover.” Finally, he found the paper he wanted and handed it to Christie. “Here. I stopped off at the Probation Department, Christie. Figured I’d save you the trouble.” He leaned over and placed his finger under his handwriting. “Here, see the kid came of age when she’d been at this Quiet Haven place about seven months and then she wasn’t a ward of the court anymore. That’s just about when she left, and the court
didn’t have jurisdiction over her anymore.”

  Christie nodded appreciatively. Sam Farrell had saved her a good deal of legwork. “Sam, what kind of place is it—Quiet Haven?”

  “Nice place. You know, class. Lots of lawn facing on Manhasset Bay. Must be real pretty in the spring. Lots of quiet old folks sitting around. Not much for a young girl. I guess that’s why she left. ...”

  “I guess. I still don’t know how she met up with Enzo Giardino, though.”

  Farrell grinned. “Maybe he had his old mother in Quiet Haven. Who knows?”

  Christie asked thoughtfully, “Can you think of any reason I should do a rundown on Quiet Haven?”

  Another detective might have been offended that his evaluation hadn’t been fully accepted at face value. Farrell cradled his sore hand gently. “Nothing visible, Christie. Looks like what it says it is.”

  “Good enough. I’ll drop your report on Reardon’s desk. And thanks, Sam.”

  “Thanks for the typing job, Christie. Boy, I think I’ll get going now and take some of the pain pills. This thing feels like it’s getting bigger and bigger by the minute.”

  Reardon’s office was warm and quiet. Christie placed the report on top of a folder in the center of the desk, then placed the desk pen directly over it so that Reardon wouldn’t miss it. She wasn’t even tempted to scan the collection of papers, folders and reports which covered the desk. She had enough on her mind. As she walked the short distance through the connecting corridor between Reardon’s office and the Squad Room, Christie said, to no one in particular, “Boy, Reardon’s office is the warmest in the winter and the coolest in the summer. There ought to be a law ...”