The Bait

by Dorothy Uhnak

  “This fella here,” Stoney said, pointing at Christie, “had some black coffee which I don’t think was agreeable in view of the fact that this fella here is a notorious tea drinker.”

  “You want a cup of tea or a sandwich or anything, Christie?”

  She shook her head. Her fingers touched the dark brown stain on her clothing; Rogoff’s blood was still slightly damp and was beginning to stiffen darkly. “I’d like to go home and shower and get out of these things.”

  “Right. Sam Farrell is standing by with his car to take you home.” He looked at his watch, grimacing. “Two A.M. Hate to do this to you, guys, but it’s necessary: get home, sleep a couple of hours and be in the office first thing. Nine A.M. okay?”

  “You want me in at nine A.M., I’ll be in at nine A.M.”

  He studied her face for a moment, a small, familiar grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, but he bit back whatever words he was about to say. He waved his hand at Sam Farrell who had just gotten off the elevator and had walked directly into a water cooler. Rubbing his thigh, Farrell approached them, his eyes wide and glassy from lack of sleep. “Hey, Sam, you got something on for tomorrow A.M.?”

  Farrell dug in his pockets, then came up with a scribbled notation. “You told me to get that tape to the Police Lab, Mr. Reardon, first thing.”

  Reardon considered for a moment: Farrell lived in the Bronx. “Sorry, Opara, I can’t give you transportation in the morning, you’ll have to subway it in.”

  “No problem,” she said shortly, entering the elevator, nodding good night to Stoney, then, her eyes on Reardon’s, meeting them fully for the first time in the brief moment before the elevator doors slid shut, she warned him: Whatever it is you’re looking for, you won’t see it in my face.

  19

  JOHN DEVEREAUX’S FACE WAS marked by deep burrows of fatigue. All the natural lines of some forty-seven years of his life were cruelly evident His pale gray eyes were oddly flat, surrounded by the redness of long sleepless hours and the consumption of nearly a fifth of Scotch, steadily swallowed, a shot at a time, in a manner that served not to increase his efficiency and alertness but merely as a necessity which enabled him to remain relatively awake and relatively able to continue his tasks.

  When Christie Opara arrived at the Squad office and offered to complete his typewritten report, he merely nodded heavily, sliding his chair to one side, watching her push another chair into place before the machine. His eyes seemed fixed in an unblinking stare and every pore of his body exuded the heaviness of alcohol and fatigue. He shook his head over his words, but his voice displayed not a trace of emotion.

  “This guy Rogoff,” he said heavily, “God. He kept a shoe box under his bed.” There was something terrible about the flatness of his voice. He ran a large hand across the disheveled sparseness of his hair. “Shoe box of souvenirs: notebooks and hair clippings. A notebook on you, by the way—it was in his pants pocket last night.”

  Christie’s mind did not hold onto this as a fact: just some words that Devereaux was saying to her. A cold shower and careful makeup hid the fatigue outwardly but her brain was numbed and functioning mechanically.

  Devereaux held his hand up, his thumb and index finger measuring. “About an inch of hair in each little box.” Then, his words heavy as stone, “There were seven notebooks and six little boxes of hair clippings.”

  Christie’s mouth went dry as the light gray eyes staring at her revealed no shock and no surprise: John Devereaux had lived with this knowledge for several hours now. “Seven?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “We’re going to be digging up cases from years back; all over the city. Cases that technically have remained open but haven’t been actively investigated for a long time.” He was talking more to himself now, “God. There was this kid in Brooklyn three years ago: I worked on it for a while before I got transferred to the Bronx.”

  “Seven,” Christie repeated, and then, it just occurring to her, her own involvement just occurring to her, “seven notebooks and six boxes of hair.” Her fingers touched the short hair on the back of her neck.

  Devereaux’s eyes blinked and he rubbed them. “Hey, Christie, you were real good last night. It was tough, huh?”

  “Yes. You had some bad moments yourself, didn’t you?”

  His eyes were fixed again. “It was worse later; afterward. Jimmy O’Neill and I and some of the other guys from my Squad went to Rogoff’s place; spent hours tearing it apart.” He rubbed the back of his neck, screwed his face into deep creases, tested his jaw. “That was what you call tough. The brother was there: from Long Island. Poor bastard. He’d been notified and he had to tell the parents. By the time we got there, you could hear the old woman shrieking. A real little women and his father is a little guy: funny. Rogoff was so big, you know. Jimmy told the brother to get a doc to give the old people a shot to quiet them down but the old woman kept screaming for nearly an hour after she got a shot. The brother came back into the apartment after a while, when the old folks calmed down in a neighbor’s apartment and he just kind of stood there, watching us, trying not to get in our way, you know?”

  The pale face of David Rogoff had registered in Christie’s mind after all: she could see him now.

  “You know Paddy Leary? Big guy, heavy set? Well Paddy got a rough mouth, you know, and when we found that shoe box he held it up to Rogoff’s brother and he said, ‘Nice brother you got there, huh, buddy? Been going around killing all these little girls,’ and the brother just stood there and his knees just gave way on him, and Jimmy told him to go into, the kitchen and make us a pot of coffee.” John shook his head. “Coffee. Christ, and all of us were belting down White Label the whole time.”

  “Let’s get this report typed up, John, okay?”

  Jimmy O’Neill, a tall, bony man with a crew cut and boyish face, bore no resemblance whatever to his partner. His cheeks were concave and his eyes were like two bright black marbles. Yet, weariness had made them identical and when he arrived, distributing containers of hot coffee, relieving Devereaux, dictating to Christie, it was the same heavy flat voice, wearily spelling out details, and Christie typed rapidly, looking up in surprise at Reardon’s voice.

  His sleeplessness, though evident in the heavy squinting of his eyes and bright reddish-gold glints along his cheeks and chin, was more revealed by the hard, artificial brightness of his voice. “Hey, Opara. I didn’t think that fast typing was being done by the talented fingers of our Homicide colleagues. Listen, when you get finished I have some rough drafts that need doing, okay?” His hand pulled his loosened tie downward and there were bright red hairs showing at his neck. Reardon looked at his watch, wound it, went back into his owe office.

  Stoner Martin arrived, waved a quick greeting, hunched himself over a steady series of telephone calls, then informed Christie that Marty was in a lot of pain but Ferranti was feeling pretty good.

  Tom Dell entered the office, a package under his arm, rubbing his newly shaved chin. He looked fresh and clean and rested and he carefully placed his hat on the aluminum rack.

  “Boy, I feel crummy,” he said. “We really should have a shower on the floor.”

  O’Neill winked at his partner. “Dapper Dell himself, looking like a Saturday night date and crying because he missed his shower.”

  “Were you out all night?” Christie asked, surprised, because he didn’t look it.

  “Don’t I look weary?” Dell asked, sounding offended. He held up his package. “This is the rottenest neighborhood to try and get a decent shirt.”

  Devereaux pulled his own sweaty shirt from his neck. “Sonny, you D.A. people kill me. Never go around-the-clock and then some in the same shirt?”

  Dell shook his head, regarding the two Homicide men distastefully. “We have a little class around here, gentlemen.” He shook the package at them. “Mr. Reardon and me, we’re not like some other slobs I’m too polite to mention. We meet all emergencies as they come along, but with class and style, at all t
imes.”

  The men exchanged insults good-naturedly, the weariness receding, the coffee taking hold, their minds resharpened. Dell brought one of the new shirts into Reardon, returned with an electric razor.

  “Stoney, Mr. Reardon says can you fix this thing: it buzzes but it don’t cut. Me, personally, I wouldn’t feel cleanshaven unless I had that nice hot lather all over these tender cheeks, but the boss goes for the electric.”

  Dell’s face was relaxed and unmarked by the long hours of waiting he had spent, the hours searching Rogoff’s apartment, the hours driving Reardon from one location to another. He sat down, carefully preserving the crease in his trousers, his feet stretching to the top of a desk.

  Stoney brought the repaired razor in to Reardon, then told Dell, “You better get that new shirt on, if you’re intending to, son, because the Man says he’ll be ready to roll as soon as that red beard is electrified off.”

  Dell moved quickly, setting his hat on the back of his head, pulling the shirt from the package. “Tell the boss I’ll be out front,” he called, unbuttoning his shirt as he moved toward the men’s room.

  Reardon adjusted his collar and tie, scowled at himself in the small rectangular mirror in the Squad room, then turned to Devereaux and O’Neill. “I just spoke to your Squad Commander, fellas. You finish your reports?”

  They nodded. “He wants you both; better grab a bite. Jesus, it’s lunchtime, isn’t it? He’s got some brass coming over and he wants you there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Martin and Opara, stick around. I’ll be back in about an hour.” The amber eyes, sharp and clear again, caught her expression of annoyance. “Chin up, Opara,” he said lightly, tossing a copy of the Daily News at her. “How often do you get mugged on the front page?”

  Christie watched him leave, her eyes angrily on the dark red cowlick. Her mouth fell open when his hand pressed the lock of hair down and he turned at the door, grinning directly at her. Damn him.

  Devereaux and O’Neill made short, muttered phone calls, explaining to long-experienced wives that they weren’t to be expected until they arrived home. Resigned to their continuing tour, they left for their own office. Christie and Stoney, paced by each other, typed rapidly, piecing together the seemingly endless reports which Reardon needed for the case file. Christie had called her brother’s home, spoken briefly to her sister-in-law, assuring them she was fine. She had tried to engage Mickey in conversation, but he was too excited and too obviously annoyed by the interruption: Aunt Alice was taking him and all his cousins and two neighborhood kids to the movies and yeah, he saw her picture, yeah, it was swell and gee, he couldn’t talk now, Mom, because Mary Poppins was going to start in ten minutes and yeah, he would see her later and yeah, goodbye.

  It was four o’clock before Reardon returned, and Christie wondered if he and Dell had gone somewhere and slept for a few hours. They both looked rested and starched and fresh. Christie felt exhaustion in every part of her body and a strong and growing resentment at being in the office. She wanted to be home; under the shower, in bed. Reardon scooped up the stack of papers, took his time reading them. Dell handed her a copy of the afternoon Post: her picture was on the first page. Not reading the copy, just staring at the photograph, she hated the girl, standing there, legs apart, thumbs hooked into the pockets of her dungarees: she looked like some delinquent arrogantly admitting she had stolen an old woman’s pocketbook.

  Stoney’s voice was sad. “Christie, Christie. You got to learn not to glare at those men with the cameras, because baby, they got the final word.”

  Reardon walked rapidly from his office, not breaking pace as he crossed the Squad room. “C’mon, c’mon, let’s get going, fellas. Dell, you get the wheels out front? Come on, Opara, let’s move it.”

  Following Reardon, she exchanged glances with Stoney, who shrugged. “Just do what the Man says and follow where the Man leads.”

  Sitting slumped in the back seat of the Pontiac, not taking part in the conversation, Christie slid her wristwatch around, checking the time, but the sharp voice from the front seat informed her, “It’s five-fifteen, Opara. What’s your problem?”

  “No problem, Mr. Reardon, none at all,”

  He directed Dell into a parking slot that was clearly marked “Doctors Only,” then hurried them through the hospital lobby, ignoring a nurse who tried to tell them something about “visiting hours”; he stabbed the button of the elevator and waved at the nurse as the doors closed. “Come on now, Opara, let’s see your best visitor’s smile.” Christie stretched her lips, showing two rows of white teeth. “Great,” Reardon said. “That’ll send Ginsburg into a relapse for sure.”

  Striding past the floor nurse, Reardon called, “It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t worry about it,” and he hurried them along, despite the fact that the nurse was rushing around the small desk behind which she had been toiling over official records.

  Reardon flung the door open and his voice startled the other two patients sharing the room with Marty Ginsburg.

  “Well, exactly how long do you intend to hang around this place, Ginsburg? How long do you think I’m going to carry you?”

  The two other patients leaned warily into their pillows and stared at the group of intruders.

  Incredibly, it seemed that Marty had lost a considerable amount of weight; his large cheeks were drawn and empty like airless balloons and his lips were white and pulled back in a half smile. He offered his left hand to Reardon. “I’d give you my shaking hand, boss,” he said in an odd imitation of Marty Ginsburg’s voice, “but as you can see, it’s a little out of order right now.”

  Reardon stood beside the bed quietly for a moment, his eyes a different color than Christie had ever seen them: softer and with an expression of concern. He leaned close to Marty and said something the others couldn’t hear and Marty nodded once, heavily, as though in reassurance. It was so quick an exchange that Christie wasn’t even certain it had taken place for Reardon turned easily to meet the outraged nurse and his face was animated again and his voice was loud and playful. “It’s okay, honey, relax. You just take very good care of this guy here and watch out for his stitches.” He leaned into the startled face. “This guy has skin like leather: when it starts to mend, those stitches might go flying all around this place like bullets.”

  Marty joined in some light banter and his voice, oddly enough, sounded familiar again. They followed Reardon out of the room and Christie could hear the nurse warning Marty to settle down, but the woman’s voice wasn’t really angry.

  Bill Ferranti was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine, his cheeks a healthy pink. He was having some difficulty keeping his head in a comfortable position because the bandage covering his neck wound was bulky, and he touched it when Christie asked how he felt.

  “This is a little annoying. I don’t see why they made the bandage so large. The cut actually is only about an inch.”

  “An inch?” Reardon asked. “Boy, it’s a good thing they have that cast on your ankle or I’d have you up and out.” His voice softened and his fingers touched the cast lightly. “I understand you have a fracture?”

  Ferranti made a clicking sound. “That really surprised me. It didn’t hurt that much. In fact, it doesn’t hurt now, just feels a little uncomfortable.”

  Reardon’s fingers moved along the cast for a moment and Christie noted a kind of gentleness in the gesture, but Reardon’s voice was tough and mocking again. “What a hell of a Squad: two of my guys flat on their backs and you”—he turned to her—”plastered all over the front pages.” There was no special expression when he faced her, just that amused, hard grin. “Comes the cold weather and I can just hear you all groaning with aches and pains. Anything hurt you, Opara?”

  “Nothing hurts me, Mr. Reardon.”

  No one seemed to notice the coldness of her voice. If Reardon caught it, nothing in his face indicated that she had even spoken. “Boy, you guys sure knocked the D.A. for a loop,” he said. �
�He was so impressed he almost smiled. Not quite, but almost.” He snapped his fingers. “Damn, I almost forgot. I put you all in for promotion and commendation. Not you, Stoney—you got nowhere to go, but they might give you an extra medal. The D.A. endorsed the recommendation but that doesn’t mean anything. We’ll have to see what the availabilities are.”

  Then, brusque again, “Well, let’s move. Ferranti, you stay put, I’ll have to think up something good for you—we must have a case where a guy on crutches will come in handy.”

  Ferranti signaled Christie to his bedside and Reardon impatiently called out, “Make it fast, will you, Opara, we’re ready to move!”

  Christie, puzzled by the deepening color rising along Bill’s cheeks, leaned toward him.

  “Christie,” he said hesitantly, “I want to apologize.”

  “Apologize? For what?”

  Ferranti licked his lips, adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. “Last night: when the lights went on and all the action and everything, well, in all the confusion and all”—Ferranti took a deep breath—”well, some of the language that was tossed around—well, some of it was mine and frankly, I wasn’t even aware of it. But lying here all day, thinking about it, well, I realized all of a sudden some of the words I used and I want to apologize to you.”

  Christie felt a giddy sensation, a lightheadedness. She reached for his hand, pressing it firmly to keep herself steady. “Bill, in all the noise and confusion, I think I probably added my own touch of ‘blue’ to the atmosphere, only under the bed, I doubt anyone heard me. At least, I hope no one heard me. Anyway, apology unnecessary, but accepted. You take care now.”

  “You too, Christie. You were great. Really. Just fine.”

  Reardon was involved in some animated conversation with the nurse who followed his every word and gesture with a delighted, if somewhat wary, smile and her only comment, repeated several times, was “Oh, you cops!”

  Reardon was humming in the elevator and Christie wondered where this surge of energy had come from: he must have slept a few hours. The cool breeze felt good against the clamminess of her dress and Christie let it envelop her, consciously enjoying the cleanness of the air, not listening to the men, not even aware of their voices, until she felt Stoney pressing her hand. “You take care, little one,” he said, waving to them.