The Bait
Page 17
Reardon let the papers fall flatly before him, his words and reactions catching in his throat, then unnecessary because he could see that, wordless, he had given his message and she could probably still feel his eyes reaching after her behind the closed door, down the corridor to whatever section of the Squad office she had retreated to.
His eyes remained fixed on the door, as though Christie were still standing there telling him: telling him how it was going to be. Reardon whistled angrily through his teeth, then cursed softly and steadily, pulled open the bottom drawer, swept all the papers from his desk in haphazard disarray, then kicked the drawer closed.
That fresh little bitch might very well get herself raped and murdered. If not by Murray Rogoff maybe by Casey Reardon.
16
NORA OPARA WAS THE damnedest grandmother Casey Reardon had ever met. He was momentarily taken off guard by the stunningly bright appearance of the small figure and at first had the impression of a faceless manikin dressed in a slacks set of unbelievable color combinations. Reardon’s taste was not sophisticated enough to accept bold, jagged squares of clear greens and yellows against pure deep pink, but focusing on the woman’s face, it was evident that the colors could not overwhelm her. Everything about her was vivid and clearly defined: the eyes, so definite a blue as to make any other blue eyes slightly questionable, the hair a pure white with no hint or trace of what the original color had been, the nose, short and finely shaped, and the bright, healthy pink of her skin were memorable.
Her hand, when he introduced himself, gave his a good firm grasp and she led him quickly into the living room. At first glance, the room might seem to be disordered or un-tended, but as Nora bent down, rolling up a long narrow mat, Reardon could see that it was, rather, a lived-in room. Without apology, she told him, “This is my yoga mat. Ever stand on your head, Casey?”
She used his first name casually and naturally as though they were well acquainted. Reardon grinned. “Last time, Nora, I think I was about twelve years old. I remember that it made me dizzy.”
She held the mat under her arm and told him, “That passes in a few minutes: it’s great for the circulation. And for brain power, fills all the cells with blood.” She leaned over the couch and called, “Mickey, look up from your picture for a minute and say hello to Mr. Reardon.”
She motioned Reardon beside her and he looked down at the small boy, who was stretched on his stomach, paintbrush over a large sheet of paper on the carpeted floor.
“That’s Mr. Reardon?”
His voice was so innocently revealing and Nora’s reaction to it was so natural that Reardon felt delighted by them. Her hand shot up to her forehead, covered her eyes and then she said softly, “Tact: yes, we have to add that to the list of things.” Then to the boy, “Mickey, remind me to add the word ‘tact’ to the list of things you and I have to discuss in private.”
Reardon caught the quick half-grin and nod the boy gave his grandmother. He cleared his throat and said softly, “I get the very definite impression that someone in this house has much maligned my good name.”
Although he didn’t understand the words, the boy sensed that his grandmother and the redhaired man seemed to be friendly toward each other. Mickey stood up after carefully placing his paintbrush in the jar of blackish water and accepted the large hand that was offered to him.
“Well, how do you do, Mickey Opara.”
The child corrected the pronunciation of his name, and Reardon, serious and polite, repeated the name properly. He noted the firm grip of the small left hand. “How’d you break your arm, Mickey?”
The boy watched Reardon closely, trying to measure the angry, overheard remarks of his mother against this smiling man. Standing his ground firmly, his feet wide apart, the large light blue eyes an exact replica of his grandmother’s, Reardon noted, the boy drew in his bottom lip for a moment, then pushed it out. It was a deliberate pause before speaking and it was familiar to Reardon: not a hesitation, just a consideration.
“The step tripped me,” the child said.
Reardon didn’t smile. “Hey, that was a mean thing for it to do. It must be tough to paint left-handed. Can I have a look at your picture?”
Nora noted that he hadn’t fallen into the typical adult mistake of trying to interpret what the boy was painting; he just squatted down and admired the colors without being patronizing. Reardon glanced up at Nora and nodded just once, a very quick movement of his head which indicated his approval not of the picture but of what he had sensed and observed between the two of them.
“How do you like your Scotch, Casey?” Nora asked, expecting his answer.
“On the rocks, please,” Reardon told her, enjoying the opportunity to look openly around the room. The atmosphere was not what he had expected from two widows living with, one small boy. There was no overpowering femininity, nothing that clearly marked the absence of a man. The room was long and wide and bright: the walls stark white (very different from the soft beiges and golds of Reardon’s own, more formal home). The unexpected hot colors didn’t lurch out: the plaid sofa facing him, a bright orange and pink, covered with an assortment of pillows, wasn’t the kind of furnishing he would have chosen, yet, set in this room, it seemed right and pleasing. The chair he sat in was a deep burnt orange and the tables, holding large wood and iron lamps, were of dark Spanish carved wood. Bookshelves ranged along the long wall, from floor to ceiling, holding a large collection of books of all kinds. Casey’s eyes skimmed titles and subject matter: from popular novels to classics to history to current events. There was a large group of art books and, without being told, he knew those were Nora’s as were the paintings grouped over the low bench on which was set a portable TV. He could see the small but clear signature in the lower right-hand corner: “Nora ’64”; “Nora ’63”; “Nora ’66.” And then, unexpectedly, “Christie ’64.” He rose, came closer to Christie’s painting: it was an ocean scene; the strokes were firm and strong and somehow angry at their inability to draw the energy from beneath the waves which crashed against a sunlit boulder.
“Your mother paints, too?” he asked. Mickey nodded wordlessly. Reardon studied the small collection of photographs on the brick mantel of the fireplace. Mickey, small and sturdy, staring into the camera, apparently disturbed at play. Mickey, standing thigh-high against Christie whose legs were deeply tanned against the white shorts. Reardon reached out, taking the photograph of a young patrolman from the mantel. It was Mickey’s face, fixed in manhood; the eyes wide and steady, the jaw square and strong, the mouth smiling just a bit. Reardon glanced down at the boy and replaced the only evident photograph of his father. He had his father’s dark hair, too; nothing, physically, of his mother; yet, looking at him, catching the concentration, the hard pressing of his lips together, and then meeting the questioning glance of the child, catching the slowly changing look of challenge crossing the boy’s face, there was no mistaking Christie’s son. The boy, hearing a car horn blast twice, leaped to his feet, his face now exploding into a smile.
“That’s Uncle Pete,” he explained, dashing from the room. Nora came, handing Casey his drink, carrying a highball for herself. There was a loud burst of sound from the hallway, moving into the living room. Mickey was enthroned perilously on the shoulders of one of the handsomest men Reardon had ever seen. He moved easily and with an athlete’s grace, extending his hand to Reardon as Nora introduced them. The black eyes, smiling along with the wide mouth, told Reardon Christie’s brother had never heard of him. Whatever was discussed in this house stayed in this house.
Mickey’s uncle bent down easily, letting the boy scoop up his small overnight case. They left in a roar of masculine joking which echoed back into the house until the car pulled away.
“No family resemblance there at all,” Reardon commented, his head tilted toward the door, “between Christie and her brother.”
“You should see Christopher Choriopoulous: he and Christie are ringers. Two Swedes and two Greeks,�
� Nora said. “That’s what Christie’s father used to call them—his Swedes and his Greeks.”
“Interesting combination; two fair and two dark.”
Nora sipped at her drink, then put it carefully on the cocktail table before the couch, and without preliminary she said, “Christie was born on Grand Central Parkway. The family was coming back from Jones Beach one hot summer evening. They were all tired and happy; Christie wasn’t due for about three weeks.” Nora regarded the glass thoughtfully, then looked into Reardon’s face, her eyes pure and intent. “An old man, well over seventy, lost control of his car. Heart attack, probably. There was a head-on-collision and Christie’s father delivered his only daughter in the back of the family’s station wagon.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “Her mother died before they reached the hospital. Never even saw Christie. The doctors were surprised that the delivery went as well as it did, but Christie was a tough little character; right from the start.”
Reardon, holding the cold wide glass between his palms, his face serious and not showing any question, sat listening: and waiting.
“Christie’s told me about this case, of course, and about what is involved in the stake-out. I guess you know, how she feels about doing this job.”
Reardon’s hands moved, rolling the glass. “She’s been sweating it out for this past week, I know that. There were a lot of conferences, a lot of arrangements to be made. I know she’s anxious to get this done, if that’s what you mean.”
There was something in Nora’s voice that made Reardon lean forward just slightly, his mind sharply alerted for the information he sensed she would convey. She nodded her head. “Yes, she’s anxious to get it done. Christie has a need to finish what she’s started.” Nora’s small hands hugged the back of her neck, and she leaned her head back for a moment; then, her head came forward, her eyes closed as she began speaking, her voice oddly flat, as though this needed telling and there was just one way to tell it, she said, directly, “Mickey never saw his father. He was conceived the night before my son, Mike, was killed—in the line of duty, as I’m sure you know.” Her blue eyes were wide now, dry and wide. “It was two months before Christie even knew she was pregnant. That was when we decided to join forces, so to speak: I had this house—it’s where Mike was raised. We talked it over and decided to take the chance.” She smiled. “And it was a chancy thing no matter how you look at it, but it worked. We’ve made a life here for the three of us, and Mickey gets his share of masculine company, what with three uncles all the size of Pete—he does pretty well.”
“I’m sure he does,” Reardon said. He knew he would be surprised by nothing Nora said; she was a completely honest woman and used to speaking her mind. “Go on, Nora. You haven’t reached it yet, have you?”
The blue eyes narrowed, showing the only lines on her face: the crinkling laugh lines. “Okay, Casey Reardon: Christie has to go through this case, even if it involves considerable risk.” She glanced at her hands for a moment, then back at him, moving her legs under her now, “Particularly if it involves risk.”
“I’m not too sure I understand what that means.”
“Relax, Casey; she isn’t looking for unnecessary risk; not that.” Her eyes searched somewhere over his head for a moment. “Let me try and explain it: Christie’s life began with the death of her mother; that was a loss she didn’t really experience in the true sense. She never had a mother, so she couldn’t really conceive of a loss. But,” she said softly, “there was a loss. Mike’s death was a true loss, the worst kind for a woman. Two years ago, Christie’s father was killed. He was a construction crew chief and he was killed on the job.”
She was getting closer to it now, but still not stating it; Reardon put his drink on the table beside him, his voice quiet and patient. “Spell it out for me, Nora—the point.”
“The point: Christie lost three people—all in premature ways, all more or less through violence. Now, Christie has to face it for herself; it involves her personally and she has to be there and prove to herself that she can beat it. Death, Casey, violent, death.”
He visualized the tense young face, defiant, angry, demanding: Murray Rogoff is mine. He had known there was something deeper, something more personal involved than an arrest. He had known it was something more important to her than the arguments he had advanced when the Chief of Detectives told him to keep her out of it (you don’t need a dame lousing things up if the action gets rough). He had taken two definite approaches with the Chief: first, pointing out that as a Squad member, she had the right to follow up on what was essentially her case. Then, realizing that the Chief of Detectives was not interested in a Squad member’s right, Reardon hit on the case itself: unless Opara was there, in the room, they would be in a position to nail Rogoff for nothing more than breaking and entering: her presence was essential to the case they were trying to build. Yet, all during that particular discussion, Reardon himself did not fully understand why it was so essential to Christie that she be there. Quietly, he said, “Yes, Nora. Yes, I think you’re right.”
Nora took a long, slow drink, then held the cold glass against her forehead. For the first time, an expression of concern drew her dark brows down. “You won’t let anything happen to her, will you, Casey?”
“Hell, no,” he said rapidly, “that would make some publicity for the Squad: ‘lady cop raped and murdered on official stake-out’!”
His hard laughter joined hers and she told him, “With that remark, Casey Reardon, I now believe everything I have been told about you.”
It was not a thoughtless remark, blurted out; it was an indication of Nora Opara’s honesty and the fact that she expected the same from him. Reardon tipped his glass toward her, swallowed, then consulted his wristwatch at the melodious chiming which filled the room. “That will be Sam Farrell. Twenty minutes late.”
Nora stopped by his chair before going to the door and her face, though smiling, was somehow serious. “I just wanted you to know, Casey: Christie is someone very special.”
Reardon said, “I know that.” His voice was light again. “A little fresh, but special.”
Farrell filled the living room with heavy breathing and noise, rocking his head in despair over the flat tire he had had to deal with en route from the Bronx. “Second flat in a week, Mr. Reardon, and the car is only six months old. I think I ought to go back to the dealer. I mean, I don’t think two flats should happen to a car that new, you know?”
While Nora went to get Farrell some coffee, Reardon briskly went over his instructions. “Now, Sam, as soon as the phone rings, Mrs. Opara will take the call upstairs and you lift the receiver in here. You know how to set up the tape recorder, don’t you?” A heavy doubt, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, prompted the question, but it was dispelled, not by Farrell’s prompt reassurances but by the remembered words of Stoner Martin (he’s a little clumsy, boss, but you can count on Sam). “Okay, Sam, now you record everything. Now, if and when the call comes from our suspect, you have the phone number up at the stake-out, right?” Farrell dug into his pockets, coming up with a slip of paper. “Keep that right by the phone; when you get the call we’re expecting, dial right away, give the word to Stoney or Ginsburg or Ferranti, then play back the conversation for them and that’s it, right?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Reardon. Hey, you want to listen a minute, I’ll play back what we just said.”
In surprise, Reardon heard his own voice and Farrell’s and he was pleased because he hadn’t even noticed that Farrell had set the compact tape recorder on the table beside the telephone.
“Good,” he said briskly, “but make sure you hook it up to the phone. You know how, don’t you?
Patiently, Farrell set the plug into place, dialed for weather information, then played it back for Reardon. “Good. Okay, Sam, you’re in business.” Farrell nodded silently, bringing the cup of coffee Nora had given him to the table: Reardon would have bet that Sam Farrell, during the course of the next ten or twelve ho
urs if need be, would not be farther away from that telephone than his arm could reach.
Reardon, preceding Nora through the hallway, tripped over a large, gray animal lying stretched across the white tile floor. Recoiling in mock horror, he asked, “What the hell is that thing?”
Nora reached down, taking the large cat in her arms; its heavy paws sprawled unconcerned, the eyes locked in undisturbed sleep. “This is Sweet William,” she said, nuzzling the fur against her cheek.
“It would be: My God—Sweet William.” He stared at the cat, who opened two large vacant green eyes, then snapped them shut again.
She walked with Reardon onto the patio, which was cheerfully furnished with white wicker chairs and table and stone pots of red geraniums, and deposited the cat onto one of the chairs, where he promptly stretched, rolled on his back and continued sleeping. Tom Dell, patiently sitting behind the wheel of the black Pontiac, without turning his head toward them, automatically reached his hand to the key, tuning the engine.
“Nora”—Reardon reached out, placed her hand in both of his—“Thanks for going along with us. I have every confidence that you’ll handle your part without any problem. You’ve done a damn good job with that little guy, by the way.”
“Christie and I go fifty-fifty where Mickey is concerned—credit and blame.”
He added that to his collection of impressions about Nora Opara, turned toward the car, but her fingers pulled lightly at his sleeve and he turned, surprised.
“There’s just one more thing I want to say, Casey.” Her eyes were steady and the blue was not paled by the brightness of the late sun. “This is a little difficult.”
Reardon grinned. “But you’re going to say it anyway, so go ahead.”
“Christie isn’t as tough as she likes to think. She’s really pretty soft and she feels very deeply about things. About people.” Nora’s eyes didn’t waver. “She could get hurt,” she said, not talking about the stake-out now.