The Ledger Page 3

  “Well, Detective Opara. Long time no see. They got you doing baby-sit jobs?”

  “How are you Kathleen? Still knitting?”

  “Passes the time.” As she collected her various possessions—a ball of fluffy yarn, a box of writing paper, several magazines—and jammed them into her huge leather satchel, the policewoman said, “This is Elena Vargas. Elena, you’re coming up in the world. This is Detective Opara. First-grade detective, now how about that? That’s really class.” The policewoman breathed heavily as she changed from house slippers to flat shoes and rubber boots. “Well, so long Elena. See you around, Christie. I mean, if they have you doing this kind of job, for the D.A.’s Squad, we’ll probably run into each other.”

  “You never know,” Christie answered shortly. She looked around the room. It was a bed-sitting room, expensively furnished but without definition. She walked to the window, pushed aside the heavy gold drapes, watched the traffic sixteen floors below, turned back into the room. Elena Vargas faced Christie and made no effort to disguise her curiosity.

  They regarded each other in silence, in that particular way of two women meeting for the first time, but without normal social restraints. Elena took careful, interested measure of the girl before her. About her own age, maybe a little younger, slim in a wiry way that approached thinness. Her body was hidden under a heavy blue turtleneck sweater but it was apparent that she was small-breasted and narrow-hipped. The plaid skirt was short enough to reveal long, slender legs which were covered by blue tights and fur-lined boots to the knees. Elena studied the wide-open, all-American-girl face: fair skin, eyes blue and sharp, reflecting the color of the sweater. The straight nose was reddened and the detective suddenly turned away and sneezed.

  Christie crumpled the tissue and stuffed it back into her pocketbook. She had heard of Elena Vargas: call girl and sometime mistress of a notorious gang lord. In various newspaper pictures, throughout the past few years, Elena had seemed older, larger, fuller. But here was a girl of about twenty-six or twenty-seven, petite, almost fragile. There was no telltale hardness in the face studying hers. It was a dark, creamy brown with high cheekbones and smooth taut skin. The brows were black and followed a high natural arch. Her eyes, curiously slanted, seemed Oriental and were so dark, the pupils could not be distinguished. Her lashes were too thick and dark to be real but they fitted her face perfectly. Her lips glistened with beige lipstick and were turned upward into an odd, mocking smile.

  Bill Ferranti tapped lightly on the open door. “I sent down for some tea, Christie. Might help your cold.” He kept his face down as he arranged containers on the marble table before the sofa. “I didn’t know if you wanted more coffee, Miss Vargas, but if you do ...” His hand indicated the container before her. “And some Danish. If you want.”

  Elena reached for a piece of Danish, nibbled a corner, her eyes on the detective. “You are so kind, Detective Ferranti.”

  Ferranti swallowed a mouthful of scalding coffee. “Wow, this stuff is hot,” he said miserably.

  “This room is hot,” Christie said. “Can’t we open some windows?” She reached for the window and pulled. Bill came alongside of her and Christie stepped back. She felt a deep stirring anger. His hands fumbled, his face was dark red and that girl sat there, smiling. He yanked the window open about twelve inches, backed away as a cold blast of air hit him at chest level. “I better put it down a bit. Is this all right?” He was speaking to Elena, but she merely smiled.

  Christie told him it was fine.

  “Well, I’ll take my coffee into the other room. Lots of work to do.”

  Christie breathed in the cold wet air and felt the draft along the back of her neck as she leaned over the table and opened the container of tea. The cover was wedged tightly, Christie pulled too hard and spilled a small puddle of tea on the table. The tea was lukewarm and tasted of cardboard.

  “How long have you been here?” she asked Elena.

  “Since this afternoon.” She waited, but it had been a vague question, asked without interest. There was a loud, familiar voice in the outer room. Christie jammed the cover on the container of tea and started across the room.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  When Christie entered the room, Casey Reardon waved one hand at her, continued his telephone conversation, pushed his hat forward over his eyebrows, peered out from beneath the brim. He gestured impatiently for a piece of paper. Lieutenant Andrews, closest to him, tore a piece of paper from his notebook. Reardon snatched at it, scribbled some words.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled into the telephone, “right, right.” He folded the scrap of paper into a small wad and dropped it into his jacket pocket. His eyes, now on Christie, caught her expression, seemed to freeze for an instant, then he blinked, taken completely into the telephone conversation. Okay, call me when you have more information. I don’t know, check with the office. I’ll give them a number when I leave here. I’ll be bouncing, just keep trying. Right.” He put the receiver into place, whistled thoughtfully for a moment, then turned and regarded Christie. “You got a cold or something, Opara? You look like hell.”

  She started to answer him, but Reardon turned her toward the room where Elena sat, waiting. “Later, later.”

  The wind howled through the open window. Reardon crossed the room rapidly. “Are you two trying to catch pneumonia? My God, why is this open? It’s about ten degrees out there.” He shut the window and turned toward them, his voice friendly. “Well how are you two girls getting along?” He picked up a container of coffee. “This belong to anybody?”

  “It is mine, Mr. Reardon, but please, be my guest. Really, your detectives are too good to me.”

  “Those are their instructions. Anything you need, you just let them know.”

  Christie dug into her pocketbook for a cigarette. Elena leaned back into the chair and watched them. Reardon moved to Christie’s side, held a lit match for her. There was some interesting tension coming from the girl; she didn’t raise her cigarette to the flame immediately. Her stare was cold and hard and angry but the redhead merely smiled and that made the girl pull too hard on the cigarette. She coughed and smoke came from her nose.

  “Bad for you,” Reardon said quietly and turned back to Elena. “I’m glad to see that you’re relaxing, Elena. This is going to be home for a while.”

  “You’ve shown me your legal papers. This isn’t too bad a place. I’ve been in worse. Of course, I’ve been in better too.”

  The conversation was casual, almost bantering. Elena handled it with one small portion of her brain so that the rest of her was free to watch Christie Opara. The girl was obviously angry; she stared past Reardon, barely nodded in response to his direct comments on the bitterness of the night, the comfort of the hotel. Reardon made a few efforts to draw the detective into the conversation but she sat, lips tight, silent. Reardon stood up abruptly and gestured to Christie.

  “Elena, will you excuse Detective Opara and me for a few minutes. We’ll be back in a little while. Come on, Christie, let’s go.”

  Christie followed him into the hallway, started to speak, but his back was to her and he jabbed the button for the elevator, then turned. “Relax, okay? We’ll have a drink downstairs. You wanted out of the room, right? Okay, you’re out. Now just wait until we get downstairs.”

  Christie swallowed over the sore spot deep in her throat. She began to feel defensive and that made no sense at all. She had had two terrible days of hysterical, heartbroken women, had prepared reports about a strangled child and a retarded boy; she had put in an eight-hour day and had been all set to nurse her cold. Her head pounded with details she needed to be free of, her face was hot with fever, she felt cold and exhausted and in need of just a little sympathy. And Casey Reardon hummed beside her in the elevator, his face hard and alert, District Attorney expression set and ready.

  The cocktail lounge was quiet and dim, the waiter soft-voiced and unobtrusive. Reardon ordered Scotch for both of them without cons
ulting her. He studied the room and hummed until the drinks arrived.

  “Go ahead, drink some. Good for you. You look terrible. Or did I tell you that before?”

  “Yes. You told me that before. But it’s nice to hear it again.”

  He pushed the glass toward her. “Come on, take a sip.”

  Christie took a short swallow, then put the glass down. Absently, Reardon reached across the table, touched her hand. “No blood. My God, your hands are like ice.”

  “Mr. Reardon, I’d like to know ...”

  Abruptly, he released her hand. “Okay, let’s go. You first or me first?” He held up his hand. “But before you begin, let me save you the trouble. You’re mad as hell, right? You worked an eight-to-four and it was rough the last few days. Okay. It was a hell of a deal. And you went home after your tour and got all settled down with your cold and the phone rang and you were told to come down here.” He stopped speaking and leaned back. His eyes moved restlessly around the room. “This is a hell of a nice place, isn’t it? A real class hotel.”

  “Mr. Reardon, if you would let me ...”

  His eyes moved back to her. “I thought we said me first. You going to let me finish?”

  Christie picked up the Scotch and gulped a mouthful. It was sharp and medicinal. She clenched her teeth to keep from coughing.

  “Take it easy, Christie, that’s not cream soda. Sip it.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowed. “You really sick?”

  It was not concern; it was annoyance. Apparently, he wanted her on this particular case. Christie raised her face slightly, her eyes steady on his. He looked a little blurred. “I have a cold. That’s all.”

  Okay. Then let me finish what I started, right? I can understand you’re feeling a little put out at being called back to work.” His tone was reasonable and understanding. “We’ve all been working a hell of a lot of hours. But I would expect you to be a little curious at this point. No, ‘curious’ isn’t the right word. I would expect you to be a little interested in what’s going on.”

  “Mr. Reardon ...”

  “No, just wait a minute.” The change was complete; he moved from her position to his own and his words now were sharp and crisp and accusatory. “Without knowing anything about this case and what is involved and what problems we have, without waiting to find out what it’s all about, you’ve been glaring and sulking and as mad as hell. Boy, Detective Opara, a few rough days and a head cold really are more than you can handle, right? The hell with an investigation that just might lead to ...” Reardon put his hand over his forehead. “Christie, here I’ve been going on and on and not giving you a chance to say something. Listen, you must think I have one hell of a nerve making all kinds of assumptions on your behalf.” He studied her face earnestly. “Listen, you talk for yourself. Go ahead. I’m really anxious to know why you’re so sore.”

  Christie felt a long stream of cold sweat along the side of her body. The woolen sweater was clammy. He had already covered everything: stated her complaints and then dismissed them. He left her with nothing to say, yet waited insistently for her to speak.

  “Well, yes, I do have a cold, and feel, you know. I was in bed when Stoney called me with no explanation, just to get to this ... this Class A hotel and I figured it was probably something ... very important. And then I’m assigned to a baby-sit job with ... with a ... an Elena Vargas and actually I’m just relieving a uniformed policewoman on a routine baby-sit job and anybody from the Woman’s Bureau could ...”

  His face hardened. Her words registered in his light amber eyes. They were like clear stones. His mouth tightened and he continued to stare at her.

  “Well, you want me to be honest, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “By all means, Detective Opara. I want you to be honest.”

  She faltered. Her hands moved over the table, reached for the glass, but he pushed it away from her. “Anything else you want to say, Christie?”

  “Well,” she said uncertainly, “I still don’t know what it’s all about, do I?”

  “No. You don’t. Do you?” The question was cold and accusing.

  “Well, what is it all about?”

  Reardon slammed his palm on the table. “Well, hurray for Christie. She finally got around to asking question number one. After all the dirty looks and face-making and complaining, she finally came up with the one legitimate question. I didn’t think you were going to make it. Hell, you were perfectly right to sit around thinking, ‘that bastard Reardon, assigning me to baby-sit a whore.’ ”

  In the heavy silence, Christie clinked the ice around in her glass. She had started out angry; she had every right to be angry. But Casey Reardon could take things and rearrange them and make it all come out a different way. And the worst part was, she couldn’t find the flaws in his argument. She took a deep breath.

  “All right, Mr. Reardon. Can we start again? Are you going to brief me or not?”

  “Are you working on this case or not?”

  “Are you giving me a choice or not?” The words had come impulsively, unplanned, in a cold harsh tone, but they made her feel better, finally able to meet him head-on.

  Reardon’s face relaxed, his mouth turned upward slightly. “That’s my girl. Fresh. At all times, fresh. Let’s put it this way. I’ll give you a rundown and then give you a choice. You take it on or not. You choose. Fair enough?”

  Christie felt wary; he was playing with her. She watched his face, but it revealed nothing. What she sought was in his voice, in the pacing of his words. “Of course, giving you a choice might, just might, seem to be somewhere in the category of a ‘special favor.’ But then, again, I guess since you are the only woman in the Squad, you might feel that once in a while, you should be entitled to special privileges. Like accepting or refusing an assignment.”

  He was needling her; she knew it, yet could not resist the angry reply. “I have never asked for any kind of special consideration, Mr. Reardon. It seems to me I’ve never been given any. I’m a first-grade detective; all of my assignments have been on that basis, as far as I know. Being the only woman in the Squad hasn’t entitled me to any special privileges that I know of.”

  She reminded him of someone a very long time ago: the neighborhood tomboy of his youth who played every game with the boys, matching them point for point, demanding that they give her no special leeway. Yet, they had all been careful not to hurt her and doubly careful not to let her know of their caution. It was true that Christie Opara carried her full share of the Squad’s work and at times had been placed in real jeopardy. It was also true that his concern for her was very different from the normal concern and consideration he felt toward the other squad members.

  He could mention to her that the very fact they were sitting here was a special consideration; he would hardly need to take an unhappy Pat O’Hanlon or Marty Ginsburg or Stoner Martin or any of the others for a quiet drink and explanation. Actually, he had no business sitting across the table from her now. Except ... that she was Christie ...

  He reverted to a neutral, official tone. “All right, if we’re all squared away, I’ll give you a rundown of what’s involved. Elena Vargas might be the key to something very, very important. Yesterday morning, Stoney got a call from an informant. To the effect that there was some kind of trouble stirring at Enzo Giardino’s. Relative to a long-time feud with Johnnie Brendan. Some of Enzo’s men busted up some of Brendan’s bookie joints, roughed up some of his men. That kind of stuff.” Reardon waved his hand over the details. “None of that is really important. The informant had something of much greater interest, something I’ve been looking for, for a long time. According to the informant, the gambling activities, loan sharking, union goons, strong-arm stuff, all that is more or less a front for the real backbone of Enzo Giardino’s operations. According to Stoney’s man, and this gibes with other information I’ve received recently, Giardino is one of the prime sources in the country for the narcotics market.” He caught Christie’s expres
sion, remembered something. “Listen, Christie, this is not the usual ‘grab-a-couple-of-pounds-and-keep-the-market-tight’ thing. This is big.”

  She had her own personal wound, deep inside of her that had made her turn down an offer from the Narcotics Squad; it was the one area of police work she had avoided. She was genuinely surprised by Reardon’s next words.

  “Christie, this is the big one. The worldwide narcotics syndicate. This could put everyone in this entire area out of business, from the top sources right to the little punks on the rooftops.”

  So Reardon knew about the little punks on the rooftops: the anonymous young boys who had changed her whole life. Reardon knew everything about everybody. She nodded, listening.

  “My information is that the syndicate is run by five top men in five countries. Each top man has well-established interests in a wide range of well-known, legitimate businesses. They receive shipments of goods from all over the world. Included in these legitimate shipments, periodically, are millions of dollars’ worth of uncut heroin. Only the top man in each country knows the exact distribution plan which spreads the stuff throughout the market. It is a very intricate, almost foolproof system. Without the exact plan, we could only catch a very minor amount of narcotics and most of it would reach the market.” He paused for a moment, then added, “My information is that Enzo Giardino is the man in this country.”

  “And Elena Vargas is his girl?”

  “And Elena Vargas is his girl. We staked out Giardino’s place yesterday, a routine stake out to begin to get a picture of what his setup is. And goddamn it, that stupid bastard, Johnnie Brendan, with his penny-ante bookie crap showed up. There was a shot and Stoney and Marty Ginsburg had to step in. Brendan was on the floor with a bullet in his shoulder. Giardino is a lousy shot. We booked him for felonious assault and possession of a weapon and booked Elena as a material witness, but nothing is going to hold too long.”