Reardon didn’t know how many people accepted the explanation, but it seemed to have worked. All violence in the city was contained. All the members of the Secret Nation who had been found armed had been arrested and were being held pending bail.
The other part of the city’s trouble—that part was being kept quiet. Reardon switched stations, tuned in soft music. Well, it couldn’t be kept quiet for very long. He thought of the Police Commissioner’s face: white and waxy, like that of a man who had just been kicked in the stomach. It was rough on him, being brought back into the Grand Jury. The chairman demanded to know why Reardon’s people weren’t going to continue with the investigation; they were the ones who had uncovered it.
Reardon had replied, “The Commissioner is entirely capable of cleaning up his own house. I have turned all pertinent information over to the Commissioner. It is his responsibility and I have the utmost confidence in his ability to handle the matter properly. If I were in his position, I would insist on this as my right.”
The Commissioner had thanked him with one small nod and Reardon was certain he would do a good job. He wanted no part of it himself.
He turned from the radio, grimaced at the disorder of papers and folders and books and reports scattered across his desk. He picked up his calendar, puzzled over the circle around next Friday’s date; then, remembering, he swore out loud. He had to prepare that goddam address for that goddam convention: all those out-of-towners. Great. Terrific. Just what he was geared up to do. Maybe he ought to tell the yokels— The soft tap on the door distracted him. “Come on in.”
Christie Opara stepped in tentatively. He motioned her to a chair. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m leaving, Mr. Reardon. Stoney said you told him I could when I finished that report for him.”
“Going out to the island, huh?”
“Well, for two weeks. I’ll save the other two weeks for Christmas, if it’s all right with you.”
“It’s okay with me. You could use a little sun on you. How are all your cuts and bruises and trick knees and things?”
Christie smiled. “A little stiff, but all in all, I’m in good shape.”
Reardon smiled. His eyes moved slowly over her. “You certainly are.”
“Well, I guess everything worked out all right.”
“Oh, I think we’ll be able to manage without you for a few weeks. I mean, I think there are a few capable people left.” Reardon stopped. He hadn’t intended to be sarcastic. He didn’t even realize he had been until he saw his words register in her eyes: the green deepened and glittered. “Christie, before you leave, I want to tell you that you did one hell of a job. I really mean it.”
She watched him suspiciously, waiting for his wisecrack. Reardon laughed. “Hell, put your guard down. I’m not needling you. You were good. Out in the field; with Barbara; before the jury. You really earned your vacation.”
“Thanks, Mr. Reardon. I can use it all right. Oh, by the way, Barbara told me about her sister—Ellen.”
“Yeah,” Reardon said reflectively, “how about that kid? Leaving school to join the Peace Corps. Last kid in the world you’d expect to do something like that. But apparently it was a well-thought-out decision: She convinced me, anyway.”
“You sound proud. You should be.”
Reardon’s mind wasn’t on his daughters. He sat down on the couch, arms folded across his chest, his eyes on Christie. “Stand up and let me take a good look at you. Face looks okay, cut pretty well healed. Your legs are still pretty messy. Pretty, but messy. It’s a little ridiculous for a grown-up lady to have scabs on her knees. Only little boys and girls are supposed to have scabby knees. Opara, you will have to learn to take better care of yourself.”
“I manage.”
“What did O’Brien say about you? About the way you got yourself all cut up?”
“I haven’t seen him.” Christie stopped, bit her lip. That was exactly what Reardon wanted to know. She knew that much, but she didn’t know why.
Reardon slapped his hand on the arm of the couch and stood up. “Well, Jesus, how come he didn’t see you? If I was a guy crazy about a girl—”
“Gene isn’t. Not really. At least, I’m not. We’re ...”
As he spoke, Reardon moved closer to her. He spoke softly, rapidly, ignoring her interruptions. “Hell, I wouldn’t let any girl of mine work at a job where she could get herself all—”
“He has nothing to say about my—”
“I’d be goddam sure that she wouldn’t be mixed up in all this mess.”
“I don’t see where you can say ...”
His eyes were on her lips and Christie lost the sense of what she was saying and what he was saying, and all she knew was that Reardon was kissing her. And that she was kissing him. And that it felt warm and natural and good and—
And Casey Reardon stepped back abruptly and gestured impatiently at the door. “Detective Opara, will you get the hell out of here? You’re supposed to be starting on vacation, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, get going. Unless you want to type up a speech for me. Hey, I’ve got loads of work for you, if you’re going to hang around.” He faced her again and shook his head. His voice lost the sharp, bantering tone. It was quiet and serious. “Christie, Christie. Look, do me a favor. Do yourself a favor. Find some nice available guy who sells shoes or something and get married and stay home and have lots of kids and take care of them and a house and ...” He rubbed the back of his neck, his hand lingering against the bristles. “Christie, why don’t you quit the job? Or—I’ll tell you what: This squad is no good for you. You’re getting too pushed around. While you’re away, I’ll arrange a transfer for you. You name it, you got it. Any spot in the Department. How about it? All you have to do is say the word.”
His eyes were intent on her.
“Do you really want me to request a transfer?”
“I’m asking what you want.”
Slowly, Christie shook her head. “I like it where I am.”
Reardon released his breath, touched her arm, then turned and began moving papers on his desk. He looked up, his face set into an expression of mock annoyance. His voice was too tough, too impatient. “What are you waiting for, Opara? You’re on vacation, right? Get going—out!”
Christie Opara smiled, then came stiffly to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir, Mr. Reardon. See you in two weeks, sir!”
“Don’t be so fresh.”
Reardon watched her move across the office. He anticipated the quick turn, the quick smile, the quick wave. He picked up his calendar, counted off the days, then drew a circle around the date when she would return. It seemed a long time off.
A Biography of Dorothy Uhnak
Dorothy Uhnak (1930–2006) was the bestselling, award-winning author of nine novels and one work of nonfiction.
Uhnak was born in New York City, where she attended the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Before she turned to writing, Uhnak spent fourteen years as a detective with the New York City Transit Police Department, where she was decorated for bravery twice. Her memoir, Policewoman (1964), chronicles her career in law enforcement, and was written while she was still on the force.
The Bait (1968), Uhnak’s first novel, won the Edgar Award for Best First Mystery Novel, and introduced NYPD detective Christie Opara, who appeared in Uhnak’s next two novels, The Witness (1969) and The Ledger (1970). All three novels were adapted for television and eventually became the series “Get Christie Love!” starring Teresa Graves. Uhnak followed the Opara trilogy with Law and Order (1973)—a novel about three generations of Irish American police officers—which earned critical praise and was considered her breakout novel. Next came The Investigation (1977), another blockbuster. Both of these were also adapted for television.
Uhnak has been credited with paving the way for authors such as Sue Grafton, Sara Paretsky, Patricia Cornwell, and many others who write crime novels and police procedurals with strong heroines. Additionall
y, she was hailed by George N. Dove as “an experimental writer who . . . tried new approaches with each undertaking.” Her books have been translated into fifteen languages. Uhnak died on Long Island in 2006.
Dorothy Uhnak, around age one.
Uhnak, age four, holding a childhood pet.
A teenage Uhnak pictured with Mildred Goldstein, her only sister. Throughout her youth, Uhnak enjoyed doing odd jobs at the 46th Precinct station house on Ryer Avenue in the Bronx, near her family’s home.
Sixteen-year-old Uhnak at the beach, around 1946.
Uhnak, age twenty-four, poses with her husband Anthony “Tony” Uhnak. (Photo courtesy of Harold Ellis.)
A feature on Uhnak in the American Electric Power Company’s CURRENT magazine, following the release of her second book, The Bait. “It’s been a fantastic year,” Uhnak said. The Bait went on to win a 1969 Edgar Award.
Uhnak with Police Chief Thomas O’Rourke, in a photo taken during the ceremony promoting her to detective in the New York City Transit Police Department. Uhnak would keep this title for fourteen years.
Uhnak poses in front of Scottish wards at the 1964 World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows, Queens—one of the largest world’s fairs to ever be held in the United States.
Uhnak pictured with her husband, Anthony; mother, Josephine Goldstein; and daughter, Tracy.
Uhnak with her daughter, Tracy, and husband, Anthony.
Uhnak and her mother, Josephine, at her daughter’s wedding in 1987.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1969 by Dorothy Uhnak
cover design by Kelly Parr
978-1-4532-8353-0
This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media
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The Witness Page 21