“Describe what they were wearing. In detail.”
If he were testing her accuracy of observation, she could meet him easily. “They had on school uniforms. Parochial school. Navy blue jumpers, white blouses with navy bowties and navy berets.”
“Any school emblem or insignia?”
She nodded, recalling; her hand touched her head, then her chest. “Yes, on the jumpers and the berets; gold insignia.”
“What school was it?”
Closing her eyes tightly, straining for the bit of information he was demanding, knowing it had registered somewhere in her brain, she blinked, then said, “Holy Sepulcher Academy.”
“Uh-huh. Where is the Holy Sepulcher Academy located? On what street?”
Responding to her blank expression, Reardon tapped the walnut cabinet against which he was leaning. “Get out the Manhattan directory and look it up.”
Christie knelt down, pulling the telephone book from under a pile of books and magazines; still kneeling, she could sense his eyes on the back of her head. She flipped the pages, then her finger ran down a row of tiny print, stopping at a pencil line, which underscored the words: Holy Sepulcher Academy, followed by a Lexington Avenue address and a telephone number. “Do you want me to write it down?” she asked stupidly; it was obvious he already had the information.
Reardon shook his head slowly, walked to his desk, held up a small scrap of paper. “No, thank you. I have it here. Come on, put the book away and sit down.” She jammed the phone book into the cabinet, shutting the door firmly so that it wouldn’t topple out after her. “Do you know what street that’s on? Let me tell you. Holy Sepulcher Academy is located on Lexington Avenue between 22nd and 21st Street.” She sat tensely in the chair. “What’s the matter, Opara? You look a little confused, like you can’t figure out what I’m talking about. Think about it for a minute. I have every confidence that you’ll come up with something.”
Christie covered her forehead with her hand for a moment, and he prodded, “Well, how about it? Come up with anything? Any conclusions?”
Resigned, she stated the obvious fact flatly. “That means the children would have gotten off the train at 23rd Street.”
His voice was falsely pleased. “Hey, good. Very good.” Then he cut back into anger. “And if you had ridden one more stop, instead of taking this bum off at 28th Street, if you had ridden just one more stop, instead of rising to the challenge of protecting the public well-being—you would have seen that these vulnerable little children, whose welfare caused you so much concern, were getting off at 23rd Street—which is where you were supposed to get off. And this, this Rogoff could have gone on his way. Right?”
“I ... guess so.”
“You guess so?”
Quickly, she amended her reply, but it seemed to Reardon that there was something oddly harsh in her clipped words. “Right. Yes, sir, that’s right!”
Leaning back, he rolled her report into a cylinder and rested it against his chin. “And you wouldn’t have had to bother to write this up. And I wouldn’t have had to bother reading it.”
Christie breathed slowly; a small cough caught in her throat and she swallowed hard. When she raised her face, Reardon caught the change. Her chin was tilted to one side, the head slightly back; there was a steady pulling at her jaw line and her eyes had darkened. “And those men out there wouldn’t be left hanging,” he continued, “and the whole investigation wouldn’t be exactly nowhere, which is exactly where it is, as of right now.”
He sensed the careful weighing of her words, the effort at control. “Mr. Reardon, the facts are that I did run into this degenerate and there were two young girls involved and I did act in what I felt to be a proper manner as a police officer.”
Reardon smiled without amusement. “You acted in what you felt was a proper manner at the time. Reevaluate your action now, in the light of all the circumstances involved.”
“I acted in a proper manner,” she insisted.
“Technically?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Now considering the fact that four other Squad members besides yourself have conducted an investigation for nearly a month, building up to this particular day, and aware of the fact this was a ‘pressure assignment’ directly from ‘upstairs,’ what’s your evaluation of your action?”
“I had no way of knowing those children were getting off at 23rd Street and in light of the situation in which I found myself, I acted properly. Considering all the circumstances.”
Reardon let the report uncurl on his desk. He stretched his arms, then locked his fingers behind his head. He began a different line of questioning. “When you placed Rogoff under arrest, he was standing against the door that was to open, right?” She nodded. “Okay. Now, when the train stopped at 28th Street and the door slid open, did it ever occur to you to wait until just before the door was about to close and shove him off the train? Dump him out and continue on your way?”
His words were so reasonably stated: the considered offering of one possible solution to a dilemma. Unguarded, Christie answered quickly, confidingly, “Mr. Reardon, I wasn’t going to take this Rogoff. I just wanted to get him off the train. I nearly died when I saw the Transit cop.”
He said softly, “I bet you did.”
Encouraged by his renewed sympathy, relinquishing her own anger, she crossed her ankle to her knee, her hands moving over the denim unselfconsciously. “I was going to let him run. That’s what I expected him to do anyway. He was tremendous; I couldn’t have taken him alone. I was amazed that he even got off the train when I told him to.”
“Yes,” Casey said, “that is amazing.”
“I think he would have run as soon as the train pulled out and he got his bearings. If it hadn’t been for the Transit cop. Then, I would have gotten on the next train and would have made it in plenty of time to my assignment”
“If only the Transit cop hadn’t been there,” Casey said, almost to himself.
“Yes, sir,” Christie agreed easily.
Casey placed his hands deliberately on the desk before him, his weight on his palms, and leaned toward her. “Then, in effect, the whole situation was the fault of the Transit cop?”
He recognized the sudden wariness, the realization that she had been led to say too much, to reveal what she should not have revealed. She bit her lip, not answering him.
“And further,” he accused her, “you’re telling me that your intention, after having placed a man under arrest, was to let him escape. Is that what you consider proper police action?”
Christie felt a cold disgust: she had given him his weapon. She had set herself up; but he had given her a weapon too, and without hesitation, meeting him head-on, she said, “A minute ago you asked me why I didn’t just dump him off the train. Would that have been proper police action?” she demanded.
Reardon shook his head slowly. “That isn’t what I asked you. I just asked you if it hadn’t occurred to you to do that. I didn’t even suggest that would have been a proper course to take.”
He wondered if she were counting: five seconds, six seconds, or if it was an instinctively timed hesitation. He had seen her do it in court: the gathering of a protective cloak of calmness when she had spoken too hastily, rising to the questions calculated to destroy the validity of her testimony. Her face was red but her eyes met his steadily and without excuse.
“Mr. Reardon, are we playing that old game: heads-you-win, tails-I-lose?”
“I don’t consider this a game, Detective Opara. Do you?”
“Well, it seems that no matter what I would have done, I would have acted improperly.”
“And it seems to me that there has been a drastic change in your attitude from the moment you entered this office up to this minute. It seems to me that you came in here seeming to feel that you owed me and the members of this Squad an explanation of why you failed to follow through on your assignment. And that now, you seem to feel that no explanation of any k
ind is in order.”
Her voice no longer able to conceal the anger which had been glaring from her eyes, she said, “You’re accurate on that score, Mr. Reardon. I walked in here this morning feeling like some kind of a culprit. Well, I’m not a culprit and I’m not a defendant in a courtroom!”
“Jesus, I’m glad of that. You’ve made several incriminating admissions relative to highly improper police action which you intended to take and I hope to God you never make those admissions on a witness stand in a courtroom.”
Disregarding some small sense of discretion still warning her, she said, “In a courtroom, I would hope to have someone on my side. Like the District Attorney, so that when counsel for the plaintiff is trying to make me the culprit, I would have legal counsel to protect me!”
Reardon stood up. “It’s a little difficult to protect a witness who doesn’t know when to shut up!” He walked to the window, his eyes fixed on two yellow taxicabs fighting for position along Foley Square, inching so close they seemed to touch, then bounce apart. He turned, switched the radio on, tuned the music low, listened for a moment, then recognized the melody. He looked back at Christie Opara and noted with astonishment, anger and some amusement: the little bastard is furious. She had slid down in the chair, resting almost on the base of her spine, and one long slender leg, outlined by the pale green denim, was crossed on the other, which was stretched out, the foot hidden under the desk. Her hands were gripped around her raised knee and she was completely absorbed in her own thoughts.
Reardon walked behind his desk and she looked up at him, not raising her face, just her eyes. She released her knee, pushed some hair from her forehead, rested her chin against her thumb, the index finger pushing into her cheek. She nibbled absently on her pinky. Her eyes, which had seemed gray, now, in the clearer light of the sun which had shifted to touch her face, were a clear, cold green.
“For Christ’s sakes, sit up and take your finger out of your mouth!”
It was like speaking to one of his sixteen-year-old twin daughters, and her reaction was what he had come to expect from them. Deliberately, she shifted her position in the chair, placed her feet flat on the floor, slid her hands along the armrests and lifted her body so that her spine hit the back of the chair and she was rigidly straight. Her face had a familiar expression, too: a kind of pleased awareness that she had been able to irritate him. He reached for a scrap of paper.
“When does this guy go to court again?”
“May 10,” she answered, “Tuesday,”
“You expect him to cop out?” he asked coldly.
“That’s up to him, isn’t it?”
Casey Reardon looked up. “Look, Opara, don’t get too fresh with me, okay?” She focused her eyes on the edge of the desk. At least she knew enough not to engage him again. She better not. Not now. “Wednesday, okay.” He consulted his calendar. “You can pick the investigation up on Monday and—” He was stopped by the complete change of her expression: the complete absence of any mask. “Well, what’s the matter now?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing.”
Her eyes were shining and her face, he noticed, had been steadily getting paler. He walked around the desk, standing in front of her. “Opara, did you think I was going to dump you? Jesus, look up at me.” She was trying hard to keep her face expressionless and he was curiously touched by her rapid blinking and the quick licking of her lips. “Did you really think I was going to dump you for what happened today?”
She shook her head, shrugged, then whispered, “I don’t know. I guess the thought did occur to me.”
He smiled at her bowed head: that was why she had fought him, then. Because she felt it didn’t matter. Realizing her struggle to keep the tears back, his voice changed sharply. “Oh, boy. Hey, Opara, I think I owe you an apology.” Her chin lifted, her eyes narrowed warily. “You know what the trouble has been here?” He slapped the top of his desk, walking across the front of the room, berating himself. “Damn it, I’m so used to talking to the guys, you know, the other Squad members, as just guys—detectives. When I talk to you as a detective, as a detective second-grade, I talk to you as if you were—just another member of the Squad.” He could see the green eyes hardening. “You see, I forgot, I think we all forget that you’re a girl. A female. Hell, dressed like that, you can’t blame us. You look like one of the guys!” Sitting down, leaning forward, his voice apologetic, “You’ll just have to give us all a second chance to get used to you. You know, to give you the special considerations a girl is entitled to. We just tended to think a cop is a cop.”
Her voice was low but furious. “I’m a second-grade detective, Mr. Reardon, and I got second grade on the basis of my ability as a cop.”
Reardon’s face relaxed and Christie was startled by the sudden sound of his deep, hard laugh. “Opara, don’t ever play poker. You can’t hide a thing. I can hear you loud and clear: ‘You bastard, Reardon!’” He pointed a warning finger at her. “Don’t say it, honey, but when you’re thinking it, don’t let it show so clearly.” He looked at his watch. “Look at the time. I have to get going.” He waved her toward him. “C’mere a minute. Put out your arms.”
Watching him closely, Christie extended her arms as he roughly pushed up the sleeves of her black jersey, his fingers pressing her wrists. “You ever have a busted wrist? Wait a minute—the left wrist?”
She nodded, trying to withdraw her arms, but he held her, his fingers pressing hard on the left wrist. “Okay. You’re going to break it again. Hey, put the chin down. I’m not going to break it. Hell, I wouldn’t tangle with you, you’re probably a karate expert.” Releasing her wrists, looking her up and down, he told her, “You ought to take vitamins or something, Opara.” Then, to himself, “Or something.”
“How am I going to break my wrist, Mr. Reardon? And why?”
“I was afraid you’d never ask,” he said, buttoning his shirt, tightening his tie. “You’re going back to City College Monday morning with your arm in a cast. That’s why you couldn’t show today: it would have to be something drastic to keep you from It Day. Ginsburg has a cousin who’s a veterinarian or something. Marty will take you over there Sunday night and get you into a cast.” He grinned. “It’ll be a nice heavy cast—we want it to look authentic, right?” He slipped on his jacket. “Then, you get back into your little group of pals and we’ll play it by ear from then on.”
“Yes, sir. May I leave now?”
Reardon adjusted the jacket, smoothing it across his shoulders, then he nodded, waiting until her hand was on the doorknob. “Oh, Detective Opara, just a moment.” He held the report which she had typed, carefully removed the first page, held it up toward the light and squinted at it. “Here”—he extended the papers to her—“the original copy almost has a hole in it. I don’t like the reports that almost have holes in them; retype it.” Still holding the report as she tried to take it, he said, “Relax, tiger, you’re getting off easy. And watch the expression, kid, I can read you like radar.”
“Yes, sir. Is that all?”
“For now. Tell Stoney to get his ... tell Stoney to come in. In a hurry.”
Stoney tapped and entered Reardon’s office, offering him some papers. “Here’s the info re the gambling matter on the East Side.”
Reardon stuffed Stoner’s information into his battered attaché case, along with a collection of papers from his desk top, then pushed his hat low on his forehead. “What a fresh little bastard. I mean, really fresh.” Then, looking up, “What’s your opinion?”
Stoney grinned. “I would say—she took you on.”
“Like a tiger cub.” He pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “No, more like a flyweight who sneaked into the heavyweight class.” He laughed, remembering the angry face. “Wow, what guts! She’s pretty cute. How’d she take the guys? They give her the business?”
Stoney considered for a moment. “Well, I would say we were up to our usual form. She’s played boys’ rules before, Casey. S
he can handle herself.”
“No feminine wiles?”
“Well, she’s got a way with her, boss, but I wouldn’t say feminine wiles, exactly. Pretty good-natured. You know—one of the guys.”
Reardon nodded, concentrating now on jamming his overstuffed case shut. “I think she’ll be okay. Make sure Ginsburg gets her to his doctor cousin or whatever the hell he is. This damn thing doesn’t hold enough.”
“You put too much in it is the problem.”
“Nope. I am never at fault,” Reardon said, accepting Stoney’s casual salute. “Let’s move.”
Stoner Martin followed Reardon into the main office where the Squad was expecting him: there was no sudden ducking of heads over suddenly important work, no changing of attitude, yet everyone was aware that Casey was striding through the room, his eyes taking in everyone present, fully cognizant of what was happening in every corner. He nodded at O’Hanlon, who glanced up from the pad on which he was sketching circles and squares while listening to the voice on the telephone. He knew that Christie, staring blankly at the paper in her machine, had hit a wrong key and would correct it as soon as he left. He took the scrap of paper Ferranti, who had just arrived, handed him, scowled, then nodded at the information he wanted. Shoving the paper into his pocket, he waved at Ginsburg, who waved a pretzel back at his boss.
“Hey, Mr. Reardon, you want to buy some bagels?”
“What do you get for them, Marty?”
“Two-fer-a-quarter, three-fer-a-half, but seeing as how you’re the boss, a special price: fifteen cents each, flat rate.”
“You crook,” Casey called out, “you’d swindle your own mother.” Then, “Stoney, you’re top man here. This is a very motley looking group of people. See if you can’t clean them up a little, huh?” His eyes swept the room. “Get Ginsburg out of that apron, he looks like a cook in a greasy-spoon joint.” He looked at Ferranti, then back at Stoney. “No ties, no jackets, what is this? And try to get Opara into a dress: it might help a little.” His eyes stayed on Christie, but she refused to look up from her steady typing. “And if Ginsburg makes any sales, you know, for cash, right here on the premises, have Opara write up a summons, or make an arrest, if she feels it’s warranted.” Christie stopped typing and glared up at him. “We want to build up the Squad arrest record. She might makes us all look good one day.” Reardon walked out without looking back.
The Bait Page 5