The Ledger Read online

  Her hands clenched the back of the chair and she tried to control her anger. “I happen to think that I’ve found the key to Elena. That’s what you told me to do, wasn’t it? If you would just listen to me for a moment ...”

  Reardon stood up abruptly and reached for a folder from the windowsill. He leaned across the desk and thrust the folder at her. “Open it. Go ahead, sit down and open it and take a good long look at those pictures.”

  They were photographs of a nude woman. Her body was covered with small wounds and from each wound, a long, dark rivulet of blood ran downward to join a thick, heavy pool on the carpet beside the body. The head was thrown back and a mass of dark hair covered most of the face. There were a series of punctures along the throat, the breasts, the stomach, the arms and thighs.

  It was Celia: not as Christie had seen her, not as the news photographs had shown her.

  She looked up at Reardon when he spoke. “That’s the girl we spoke to, Dudley’s contact. In a matter of hours, we should have enough evidence to pick up that ... what did you call him? ... that ‘Neanderthal little creep,’ Tonio.” He gestured impatiently at Stoney, who handed him another folder which he tossed to Christie. “Here. This is ‘Tonio-the-creep’ LoMarco. Take a look at his arrest record.” He leaned forward, pulled a yellow sheet from the folder and read, “Assault and robbery, 1961: dismissed. Rape, 1961: dismissed. Assault with intent to kill, 1963: mistrial.” He glanced up from the paper. “A couple of key witnesses ‘disappeared’ while that case was on trial. And so on and so on. Fifteen arrests in all, one conviction for a misdemeanor. And Tonio LoMarco is as clean as a newborn baby when compared to Mr. Enzo Giardino. Twelve separate arrests for homicide, and not one conviction. Ten arrests for various and sundry felonies and misdemeanors: no convictions.” Reardon’s hand moved roughly across his forehead, down his face, along the back of his neck. “And you got into a car with him; you felt you were ‘evenly matched.’ ”

  Christie put the photographs of the dead girl back into the folder and placed it on Reardon’s desk. She ignored the almost contemptuous tone, ignored everything he had just told her. “But all of that is beside the point. The point is that I think we’ve finally got something we can use. To get Elena to talk.”

  “Christie, as of right now, you are off this case. Go on home. Take care of your cold. Go on sick leave, but go home. Right now.”

  “You have to be kidding. What about ... what about the pictures? And what I’ve found out and ...”

  Reardon gathered the photographs of Elena and the boy and put them into the envelope. “Here. Take them.”

  “But ... what about Elena?”

  There was a short, sharp whistling sound and Reardon’s voice was tight. “Forget about Elena. She doesn’t know a goddamn thing. Look, Elena was a red herring, to throw us off. We wasted enough time on her. We’ve got other things going in this investigation, Christie. Elena was just one facet and we drew a blank with her. Giardino’s been playing games with us. Now just do what I tell you and forget it.”

  Christie absently felt the contours of the envelope, her fingers outlining the thickness of the photographs. He was wrong. She shook her head. “No, Mr. Reardon. We can’t just drop it now. You told me to find something we could use with Elena. And that’s just what I did and ...”

  Reardon hit the surface of his desk with the flat of his hand. “Okay, now you listen. This is a direct order, Detective Opara. You are off this case. As of right now. You go home and stay there until you are notified otherwise. You got that?”

  Christie clutched the envelope so tightly that she could feel the photographs bending and cracking under the pressure. She could see Reardon’s face through a shimmer of hot, heavy tears and she blinked rapidly. “Yes, sir, Mr. Reardon. Whatever you say, sir.”

  She left the office quickly without looking back but she grasped the doorknob outside the room and slammed the door hard.

  14

  CHRISTIE SAT IN THE phone booth and pressed the dime between her thumb and index finger. If it had been anyone else’s lead, Reardon would have followed through on it. It was a good lead, carefully developed. Damn Reardon and his peculiar moods. Elena had been his idea in the first place. He was the one who had made such a big deal about her. It was impossible to figure him out. One minute he ... Well, that was his problem.

  She held the dime poised over the coin slot for a moment, then dropped it in, waited for the dial tone. She was not about to abandon her part of the investigation. Carefully, she dialed the number. After four rings, an unfamiliar voice answered.

  “Bureau of Special Services, Detective Rhodes.”

  “Is Detective Krupp there?”

  “Hold it a minute.” She waited, listened intently to the background office sounds.

  “Detective Krupp.”

  “Hey, Hank, boy, am I glad you’re in. This is Christie Opara.”

  “Hey, Christie, how’s things? Listen, kid, you just caught me. I’m on my way uptown.”

  “Are you going by subway? Look, I’m right down the street. Can you meet me for about ten minutes, Hank? It’s important. The coffee shop on Canal Street, okay?”

  Christie leaned against the cold plastic seat and carefully stirred a small amount of milk into her tea. Henry Krupp had an ageless face: he had probably never looked really young and would probably never look really old. He was a grandfather four times over, yet his face was unlined, his hair dark, his body lean and his curiosity sharp. He had been Christie’s regular partner for the two years she had worked in the Bureau of Special Services and they had worked well together, carefully building and maintaining the special mutual respect and trust essential to a smoothly functioning investigative team.

  “I’m sorry to have to rush you, Christie, but I figured this wasn’t for reminiscences.”

  “Right. Hank, I need some information. Something very tight.”

  Krupp continued pouring sugar into his coffee and nodded. “Okay. What?”

  “I need the name and address of a family who adopted a child.” She tore a page from her spiral notebook. “Here’s all the information I have. I assume the adoption took place in Westchester County.”

  Krupp stirred his coffee and shook his head. “That’s practically impossible. Chris, couldn’t the D.A. do this with a subpoena or by application or something?”

  “Hank, I haven’t got time to go into details. This is a very touchy area and would get tied up going through channels. I need it right away. Like yesterday morning.”

  Krupp reached for the slip of paper and studied it. “I get the feeling that this is off the cuff.” She nodded. “As I said, Christie, this is next to impossible.”

  Christie smiled. “That’s why I came to you, old buddy.”

  As soon as Christie touched the iron to the shirt, she realized it was too hot. A wide yellow burn mark outlined the shape of the iron. She glanced at the label on the shirt: Dacron. And the iron was set for cotton. She tossed the damp shirt back into the laundry basket and checked the next shirt: polyester and cotton. She set the indicator to the proper heat and waited for the iron to cool off. The kitchen was filled with small shirts, hanging from various cabinet knobs and the backs of chairs. There was a neat pile of freshly pressed blouses and cotton turtleneck sweaters and jeans on the kitchen table. Christie was surprised at how much work she had accomplished. Her mind hadn’t been on the laundry.

  She was filled with words she should have said and with words Reardon had said and with too many other things. Among them, a fact Reardon might have forgotten, but she hadn’t. She was a first-grade detective. It was a rating she had earned solely on merit and that was how she was going to keep it. What other first-grade detective would get dumped off a case just when things started to open up? And he had been complaining about being shorthanded. Was using precinct detectives. But had told her to go home. And had been so nasty about it ...

  There was a faint stirring in the laundry basket, then a rapid series o
f movements. Christie lifted a damp shirt. Sweet William was asleep, stretched comfortably on the pile of clean clothing. His back legs jerked rapidly in a series of running motions, then stopped, and his large, vacant green eyes snapped open.

  Christie knelt and petted the cat, then lifted him carefully and placed him on the tiled floor. “Sweet William, you really do smell pretty sour. You’re going to smell up all those nice clean clothes.” The cat stared at her, then pushed against her legs. Christie took a large bath mat and spread it in the corner of the room. “Come on over and sleep here.” She dove for the cat as he leaped into the laundry basket. There was a deep rumble along his throat. “You better not be growling at me, dumb-dumb, because I’m not going to take growling from anyone else today. Especially not you.” She settled the fat animal on the mat; he stretched, locked his eyes shut and within a minute he was back into his dream. The stubby back legs began their pursuit again.

  Christie licked the tip of her finger, then touched it to the iron. There was a faint sizzle. She reached for the shirt, then changed her mind. The heck with it. She’d done enough for now. She put the ironing equipment away and began collecting clothes.

  Mickey’s little shirts looked starchy and fresh. He had gone to bed early, falling asleep the minute his head hit the pillow. She had done a lot of thinking about Giardino and his remark about her son. Where Mickey was concerned, she would take no chances, but she was convinced it had been a throwaway remark. To scare her. Giardino had nothing whatever to gain by threatening her or her son. But still, she was glad that she had arranged for Mickey to spend the weekend out on Long Island with her brother, Christopher, and his family. It would work out perfectly. Christopher was coming into the city early Saturday morning to have his youngest son’s eyes checked. He’d pick Mickey up on the way home and Christie would bring him back Sunday night. Nora was going to Boston for the weekend to visit her sister’s new granddaughter.

  And if Casey Reardon thought she was afraid of Enzo Giardino or that creepy little Tonio ...

  Christie carried the freshly ironed clothing across the kitchen and toward the hallway. The hangers cut into the palm of her right hand and she couldn’t adjust them. She balanced the large stack of folded clothing against her body and pressed her chin down on the top of the bundle. The telephone rang as she reached the stairs.

  Nora called out at the second ring. “Want me to get it, Christie?”

  “Would you please, Nora? I’m loaded down.”

  Nora met her at the top of the stairs. “It’s Hank Krupp. Here, let me take those things.”

  Christie snatched a piece of paper from her dresser and cradled the telephone against her shoulder. “Hank, did you get it?”

  “Sorry to call so late, Christie, but it’s the first chance I’ve had. Listen, you working on that narcotics thing? I didn’t realize who Elena Vargas was when I saw you this morning.”

  Christie dug in the drawer of her night table for a pencil or a pen. All she could find was a fuchsia Crayola crayon. “Hank, I’m working on bits and pieces. You know: a bit of this and a piece of that.”

  “Okay, Christie. I got what you wanted.”

  It was a clear, bright, hard, clean winter day. Christie turned the heater down to low. When it was set on high, a scorching blast raced up her legs in one concentrated stream and the rest of the Volkswagen was frigid. The Westchester roads had been plowed and sanded and the accumulation of snow surprised her. What had been rain and sleet in the city had been heavy snow in the suburbs. Christie exited from the Thruway carefully, then pulled up outside of a diner to study her map. County Meadow Road was off the main street, not five minutes’ drive away. It was five after eight and, if she had calculated correctly, she had plenty of time.

  Christie went into the diner and ordered a cup of tea, then asked the waitress, a pretty young girl whose long hair kept slipping free of the little starched cap, “Miss, could you tell me where the elementary school is?”

  The girl’s voice was early-morning thick. She adjusted her cap with a languid motion. “Depends. On which one you mean.”

  That was something she hadn’t thought about: that there might be more than one elementary school in the area. “Well, I’m not too sure which one it would be. You see, my husband and I have been looking at a house on County Meadow Road. Our children are in the elementary grades. Which school would they go to?”

  The girl nodded. Oh, yeah, that would be the John Marshall School. Over on Allenby Place. The reason I asked is, see, the district line runs right along Main Road, but John Marshall is the school you want. On Allenby Place right off Parker’s Lane. You going there now?”

  “Well, I thought I’d like to take a look around. It seems like such a nice community, but I want to check on the school.”

  “Won’t do you much good today. They’re closed today. All the schools are closed today in Allenby. That’s how come I’m working. It’s good for me, cause I get to put in a whole day. Usually, I just work after school and on weekends.”

  “What do you mean, the schools are closed today?”

  “It’s county conference day. Like, all the teachers and the principals and the school boards and P.T.A. and like that, get together and discuss the curriculum.” The girl added morosely, “Uh, only ones they don’t include are the students and we’re the only ones really concerned.”

  Christie pushed a quarter on the counter and left the cup of tea untouched. Swell. Great. She had been planning to sit outside the address on County Meadow Road until the boy left for school. Which would have been at around eight-thirty. Except there was no school today. Because of county conference day, whatever the heck that was.

  There went the whole plan. The whole thing. Her hand went to the camera with the zoom lens. It would have been easy, routine observation. Spot the boy. Drive to the school and wait for him. Shoot a roll of film from an inconspicuous location. No one would notice her. She wouldn’t be loitering around his house. It had been perfect. Now what?

  Christie warmed the motor and sat staring vacantly. It was Friday. School wouldn’t be open again until Monday. Three days lost. She couldn’t afford the time. Not from the way the Squad seemed to be moving. She drove to the school. It was a huge, one-story complex of buildings set way back from the main road in a field of snow. And it definitely had a closed look about it.

  Okay. So it wasn’t going to be easy. If one plan doesn’t work, you find another that does. Hank Krupp had taught her that. Carefully, she made a U-turn and followed the road signs.

  The house on County Meadow Road was a neat, two-story colonial, white with blue shutters. There was a large snowman on the front lawn with straw hair and button eyes and a carrot mouth. It was a nice day. The kind of day made to order for a kid who didn’t have school. If he wasn’t sick or bedded down with a broken leg.

  She drove past the house and parked half a block away. One lucky thing: it was an older neighborhood, complete with sidewalks and other parked cars. It would have been impossible to remain inconspicuous in a cul-de-sac. Christie kept the map in her hand so that if anyone became curious about her presence, she could study the map. She glanced in the rear-view mirror, her attention caught by the honking of a horn.

  A large dark-blue station wagon pulled up directly in front of her subject’s house. She turned and looked directly through the back window. The station wagon was filled with children. A boy darted from the house into the station wagon. Christie started her motor. She hadn’t even glimpsed what color jacket he wore.

  She kept a fair distance from the station wagon until they hit the main road, then kept one car between them. It occurred to her more than once that a bright red Volkswagen was not the ideal car for a tail job. The station wagon made two sharp right turns, then a left that led directly to a parking area bordering a frozen lake. Scattered along the edge of the lake were small green tents and little banners proclaiming what particular group occupied what particular area.

  Christie
glanced at the skaters and her heart sank: they were all dressed in Cub Scout uniforms and they all wore blue quilted jackets. About ten boys tumbled from the station wagon: their arm patches designated them as members of Den 4. Christie got out of her car and quickly surveyed the area. It was a hell of a day for a camp-out or skate-out or whatever. The lake area was alive with young boys, pink-faced, red-eared, carrying skates slung over their shoulders, lugging camping equipment, squatting over sputtering fires, shrieking, laughing, complaining, arguing, tussling. The air was filled with their voices and sporadically with snowballs, followed by complaints and wishful admonitions from the few adults present.

  Den 4 was loaded down with equipment. The scout leader, a stout, bald man, was very red in the face. Each time he leaned into the wagon and came out with another pair of skates or another knapsack, he turned a little brighter.

  Christie got back into her car, smoked a cigarette and watched her den’s leader confer with someone who seemed to be, more or less, in charge. Then he led the boys to the location where they were to be settled. They dumped everything where he indicated, then all the boys turned and ran to the long, low wooden canteen building. Christie thought of joining them, but she had seen a steady parade of boys marching in and out of the canteen. She would wait.

  Her hands moved absently over the camera and she closed her eyes: closed out all the little boys dressed in their identical uniforms. There was only one small boy she wanted to see: the son of Elena Vargas. There was a way to find him without anyone being aware of what she was doing.

  There was a way. It would come. She had to relax and not let tension or anxiety block the cool, professional train of thought. In the diner. Something in the diner. She visualized the girl, the counter, the cup of tea. The newspaper on the counter. The Allenby News. One of those small, very local newspapers. Dedicated to reporting all of those small, very local news events. Like a Cub Scout Skate-Out on Lake Draco. At least, that’s what the banner over the canteen proclaimed.