The Ledger Page 20

  “Christie, let me give you a little advice, okay? Never volunteer an excuse unless you’re asked. If you are asked and have to wing it, keep your story simple, believable and open-ended. If it involves another person, either be very sure he knows about it, or else, just keep quiet. Right?”

  She felt her face go hot; she made a short, clicking, self-disparaging sound with her tongue against her teeth. “I guess you think I’m pretty stupid sometimes, don’t you?”

  His hand traced the contour of her face. “Yeah,” he said tersely, “sometimes.”

  21

  THE MANAGER OF THE Arden Hotel was beautifully groomed and everything about him, including his voice, was carefully modulated. “But Mr. Reardon, the point is that even if these items are missing from the suite, we would not have the occupant arrested. There are ways that these things are handled.”

  Casey Reardon sensed it was time to crack the quiet confidence of Mr. Peter Eldridge. His eyes moved rapidly over Mr. Eldridge, who sat forward politely in his chair. “Wait a minute. Did I understand you to say ‘if’ the items on that list we gave you are missing from the suite?”

  Mr. Eldridge’s hand moved slightly. “Well, as I say, I haven’t had an opportunity to inventory ...”

  “We have prepared an inventory. You’re holding it in your hand. The list of items missing from Suite 16A totals merchandise in excess of two hundred dollars retail value. They have been missing from the suite as of yesterday, when Miss Vargas checked out.”

  “But why would Miss Vargas, or anyone else for that matter, walk off with”—he glanced at the list Reardon had given him—“four heavy glass ash trays with gold-plated insignia; one hotel courtesy hair dryer; one French provincial telephone; four complete sets of linen? Et cetera. Surely, we do have experience with souvenir collectors, but this list, under the circumstances, seems highly unlikely.”

  “How the hell would I know? Maybe the girl is a klepto.”

  Mr. Eldridge tried a smile. It was almost pleasant and touched every part of his smooth face but his eyes. “Mr. Reardon, please don’t misunderstand me. Assuming ... no, I’ll go further, accepting the fact that your list is accurate, and even that Miss Vargas did steal these items, we would not prosecute. Particularly under the circumstances of Miss Vargas’s ... stay ... at our hotel. You must realize that we would not want the sort of publicity that would ensue from such a situation.”

  Reardon stood up. “Oh, I understand completely, Mr. Eldridge. The Arden doesn’t want any unsavory publicity, right?”

  Eldridge nodded brightly.

  “And you sure as hell don’t want any scandal, right?”

  The smile pulled uncertainly at the corners of his mouth. “Scandal? What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Reardon said, “it would be â hell of a scandal if it became public knowledge that several well-known, solid-citizen-type gentlemen frequent the Arden periodically for various reasons pertaining to their own particular peculiarities. Which of course is nobody’s goddamn business. Except the newspapers are always hungry for that kind of item. We wouldn’t want that known, right?” He slid his hands into the pockets of his coat and turned to Stoner Martin. “What else we got, Stoney?”

  Stoner Martin dug his toe into the thick carpet and carefully traced a circle in the shaded nap before he looked up at Reardon. “You mean besides the middle-aged homosexual shenanigans? Well, we have the every-other-Wednesday-night, all-night poker game that takes place regularly in Suite 12C, involving six public officials.”

  Eldridge’s voice went higher. “But ... but that’s just a friendly get-together. A friendly game of cards ...”

  Stoner shook his head decisively. “Uh-uh. Stakes are too high for a friendly game of cards. One suicide last month when the stakes got altogether too high. Of course, the suicide did take place in a summer cottage in Pennsylvania. But the motive came from Suite 12C of the Arden Hotel. Are you with us, Mr. Eldridge, or did we lose you somewhere along the way?”

  “Nah, we didn’t lose him, Stoney. Peter is going to sign a complaint for the arrest of Elena Vargas on a grand larcency rap. And as I told you before, Peter, it’s a case that will never get any publicity and will never even come to trial. All we’re asking you for is a little formal cooperation. As a good citizen, interested in seeing justice triumph, you won’t do less than your civic duty. Will you, Mr. Eldridge?”

  22

  ELENA VARGAS GLANCED around the familiar hotel room, pulled the soft warm fur against her cheeks and moved her face slowly inside the mink coat. She enjoyed the sensuous pleasure of the touch of silky animal hair. She closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the voice, rather than the words, of Casey Reardon. Always telling, telling, telling. Elena opened her eyes and wondered what it would be like with Reardon.

  Ralph Marshall’s voice was low and deep and cultivated. He spoke slowly and deliberately as though he wasn’t certain he was being fully understood. “Mr. Reardon, we both know that I will have Elena released by writ within the next few hours. This whole arrest, arraignment, reinstatement of protective custody”—his large, manicured white hands turned upward in a studied gesture—”this is all nonsense at best and intentional harassment at worst.”

  “Why don’t you run down to the Tombs and hold hands with Tonio LoMarco, Counselor? Or don’t you reach down that low?”

  The attorney smiled bleakly. “Mr. Reardon, Miss Vargas is my client and I am here to protect her rights. Had I been present at the arraignment, she wouldn’t be here at all. Bail would have been set, provided, and a hearing date arranged. Now, I have attempted to speak with the so-called complainant, Mr. Peter Eldridge, but it appears that he has disappeared. Would you be so kind as to advise me where I might find him?”

  Casey Reardon moved a Life Saver from one side of his mouth to the other. He regarded the well-groomed, middle-aged man before him carefully. Meticulously custom-tailored, handsomely gray-haired, radiating well-cared-for good health, encased in an aura of subtle, expensive cologne which surrounded him inside an almost unapproachably protective capsule, Ralph Marshall hardly resembled a syndicate attorney. The facts flashed through Reardon’s mind: Ralph Marshall, fifty-two years old; personal worth in the mid-six figures; a home in one of the best New Jersey suburbs; winter home in Palm Beach; recently acquired large tract of land for development purposes in the West Indies; member of four prestigious gentlemen’s clubs; graduate of an Ivy League college and law school; father of four grown children; grandfather of seven young children; senior partner in a law firm which specialized in handling investments for clients who, though barely literate, had been systematically buying into and gaining control over huge essential service industries. Through the years, Ralph Marshall had guided, suggested, advised and steered these particular clients through the intricacies of the investment world. Through his endeavors on their behalf, they had mutually profited.

  Marshall stood perfectly at ease under Reardon’s scrutiny. “Well, I see that you’re not going to cooperate, Mr. Reardon. That, of course, is your privilege. Elena, I shall be back shortly. You don’t have to open your mouth, my dear, you don’t have to say a word.” He leaned forward and his dry lips brushed Elena’s cheek. Elena’s eyes, black and bright, stared past him at Casey Reardon.

  “By the way,” the attorney said, adjusting his topcoat carefully, “it seems to me that you have failed to observe proper procedure. There is supposed to be a female police officer present when a female is being detained. All I’ve seen are men.”

  Reardon jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a female detective in the outer room. She’s just arrived. That makes it safe for me to be in the same room with Elena, right?”

  Elena moved slightly inside the coat. “Ah, but safe is not fun, Mr. Reardon.” She caught the slight distasteful pull downward of his thin lips. “Ralph, stop huddling around me like a mother hen and get your writ and get me out of here. Ralph is not used to this kind of thing,” she told Reardon. “He
handles investments and it disturbs him to have to become involved with people. But you see, Richie Burns is in the Bahamas and Mr. Giardino trusts Ralph almost as much as he trusts Richie.”

  Her voice was soft and playful but she knew how to place it. The well-groomed face tightened; the lips pursed together; the attorney’s sky-blue eyes flickered for just one quick moment and revealed contempt. Elena caught it all.

  “You’re not in the same category with Richie Burns, are you, Ralph? He doesn’t like to be mentioned in the same breath with Burns, Mr. Reardon, but they are the same after all.” Elena laughed a sharp brittle sound. “Ralph, stop looking so alarmed. I will sit here and flirt with Casey Reardon for the next hour or two until you come back to free me from all of this, okay?”

  The attorney gave a short, semi-bow, first toward Elena and then toward Reardon. He did not put his hat on his head until he had left the suite.

  Christie Opara moved her toes but could feel absolutely nothing from the ankles down. She carefully stepped on the toe of one boot and tried to pull her foot out but gave up the effort when Casey Reardon came into the room. He nodded at her briefly, then, one hand on Stoner Martin’s shoulder, he received whatever information he needed, gave whatever instructions he thought necessary. Sam Farrell appeared briefly, his collar turned up, his ears a bright red. His conversation with Reardon was also whispered, hurried, had the appearance of urgency.

  Christie leaned against the hardwood chair and wondered what Reardon had told Farrell: where he had sent him; what Stoner Martin was being told. There were always additional scraps of information, some parts of the whole that were never revealed to her completely. There was always some aspect of every case on which she worked that was not made totally available to her. She had relayed the short, cryptic messages to O’Hanlon and Treadwell as they had phoned in. Jotted down messages from several other men: always incomplete scraps of information that only Reardon fully coordinated. And the phone call from Bill Ferranti; from San Juan.

  Reardon turned to her brusquely. “Christie, what have you got for me?”

  “All your messages were delivered. Marty Ginsburg called. He and Dudley picked up Tonio LoMarco at some girl’s apartment in midtown. He had a stiletto on him; Marty’s at the police lab now and Dudley’s taking care of the booking and interrogation.” She changed the pacing of her words now. “And there was a phone call from Bill Ferranti. From San Juan. In Puerto Rico.”

  Reardon pulled at his mouth impatiently and nodded. “Yeah, what’d he have?”

  “What did he report from San Juan? In Puerto Rico?”

  Reardon’s eyes filled with color: honey held to light, tinged with a darker color around the edges. “Detective Opara, I know where San Juan is. What was the message?”

  “Aside from the fact that the weather was warm and clear and the people very helpful and cooperative? Well, he said that he’s located a bank account and safe-deposit box in Elena’s name; one account in the name of Raphael Garcia, her nephew. The local authorities helped him quite a bit: they examined the contents of the safe-deposit box. Some bonds, some insurance policies with the boy as beneficiary. The rest can wait for a written report. And he’ll call the office tomorrow at noon. Or can be reached at his hotel if something comes up that involves anything in sunny San Juan.”

  Casey Reardon exhaled with a slow, thin whistling sound between his teeth. Confronting him was everything about Christie Opara that both irritated and interested him: her complete determination to reveal her exact feelings, or perhaps her inability to disguise her feelings about a particular situation.

  “Who should have gone to San Juan?” he asked her softly.

  “It was my lead. I should have followed it up.”

  She had answered without hesitation and with total honesty. No other member of the Squad would have complained to him directly about a trip assigned to someone else. Considering the circumstances of the past few days, Reardon shook his head in wonder. She had more goddamn nerve than anyone he had ever met. He had a strong urge to shake her, but instead he smiled.

  “Well, Christie, I tried getting you on the phone for the last two days. There was no answer and you didn’t call in ... so ...”

  “You mean,” her mouth fell open as she considered the implication. “Were you going to send me to San Juan? Were you really going to ...”

  Reardon shrugged. “Ya’ll never know now, will you?”

  “But you wouldn’t have, anyway. Would you?” Her face had a stricken look and she struggled with the possible loss of a trip into the warm and sunny climate. “I mean, actually ...”

  Reardon reached out and lifted a small white thread from the shoulder of her blue sweater. “Look at it this way, Christie. You should really consider yourself as one very lucky girl.”

  “Lucky? To have missed a trip?”

  He shook his head. “No, lucky to have missed being murdered sometime during the last couple of days. By Enzo Giardino. Or by Tonio LoMarco.” He turned her toward the room where Elena waited and his hand rested lightly on her neck for a moment. Very softly, he added, “Or by me, Detective Opara.”

  The tension she had managed to hold down beneath the façade of irritation hit Christie when she saw Elena Vargas. Her hands trembled as she lit a cigarette and she turned quickly in search of an ash tray.

  “Well, Detective Opara, now we are on your grounds again.” Elena sounded amused and unconcerned.

  Christie watched Reardon for some signal, but he wasn’t ready. There was a phone call, for him and he took it in the outer room.

  “Isn’t this getting just a little silly?” Elena asked.

  Christie walked to the window without answering. There was a cold draft of thin, sharp air along the windowsill. The street, far below, was as black and shining as a frozen lake: an endless, ugly winter. An occasional gust of wind blew rain and sleet against the windowpane.

  “Okay, Christie, come on over and sit down.” Reardon’s voice was firm and businesslike.

  “Well, Mr. Reardon, now what?” Elena moved her small body deeper inside her mink coat. Her eyes moved from Reardon to Christie.

  “It’s all going to be up to you Elena. From here on.” Casey Reardon removed the photographs from the envelope and carefully placed them on the cocktail table in front of Elena, then leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

  Elena sighed, made it obvious that she was merely humoring him. She carefully slid the coat from her shoulders. The bright-orange jersey dress was a startling contrast to the darkness of her skin. She ran her delicate fingers through her short, crisp black hair and reached casually for the photographs. She looked through them quickly, then raised her eyes. “So? A little Cub Scout.” She glanced from the photographs to Christie. “Is this your son?”

  Slowly, Christie shook her head. Her voice was hollow and thin, but she knew Reardon wanted her to answer. “No, Elena. That’s not my son. It’s your son.”

  “My son? This boy ...”

  It was between the two of them. No matter what anyone else had done on the case, no matter what knowledge Reardon had obtained, no matter what information all the various detectives and special agents had garnered, this was between Elena and Christie, and both girls realized it.

  Elena tossed the photographs to the table. They fell, some on the table, some on the floor.

  “What kind of fool do you take me for?” she asked Christie. Her hand moved vaguely. “That is not my son.”

  In the silence, she studied their faces: Reardon’s, hard and unmoving, and Christie Opara’s. There was something implacable in Christie’s face, something that frightened Elena. She stood up, reached for the photographs and flung them at Christie. “This is not my son. This little fair-haired boy, in his gringo uniform.” She whirled to Reardon. “Listen, Reardon. Listen, you bastard, what are you trying to pull?”

  Christie calmly gathered the photographs together, extended them to Elena. “Look at him, Elena. Take a good look.”


  Elena turned her back. “No. It is a stranger.” I will not look at the pictures of this child. He is nothing to me.”

  Are you absolutely positive that the boy is Elena’s son? that Elena will know it is her son? The deadly words forced Christie to speak. “Elena,” she said insistently, “his name is Richard C. Arvin, Junior.”

  The girl’s body went rigid. They did not need to see her face, it was all there: in her shoulders, which pulled together, her hands, which clutched her elbows and hugged her body as though to protect herself against an onslaught of blows.

  Reardon stood up, turned her around. Elena Vargas’s face was the sick yellow color of fear; the black eyes, beneath the long full lashes, were dull and flat and empty. The lipstick, perfectly matched to the bright dress, was all wrong for the drained complexion. Reardon reached for the photographs and held them to Elena.

  “Take a careful look, Elena.” There was something terrible and inflexible in Reardon’s voice. “The games are all over, kid. Take a look at your son.”

  She stared without seeing for a moment, then focused on the pictures. There was a low sobbing sound from deep within her throat and Elena doubled up into the chair. Christie stared at her own hands; she did not want to see either Elena’s pain or Reardon’s coldness.

  Elena found the one really good close-up: the small young face, grinning right into the camera. “His eyes,” she said softly. Her finger traced the dark slanted eyes, then tentatively touched her own. “These are my eyes?”

  Christie nodded. “Yes. He has your eyes.”

  “But he is so fair. I did not realize he was so fair.”

  Reardon suddenly snatched the photographs from Elena’s hand. She half rose, her hand reaching out. “No, please no. Let me look at him.”