Blood Innocents (20 page)

“Any message?” the voice repeated.

“Yes, thank you,” Reardon said. “Would you tell him that John Reardon called? I'm with the New York City Police Department.” Reardon gave the woman his number. “Have him call me as soon as possible,” he said, and hung up.

It was the first break, Reardon recognized. Lee McDonald had confided something to someone. That was a beginning. He could not guess where it might lead.

He stood up and walked to the front of the precinct house. Outside a gray bleakness was tightening in on the city like a constricting serpent. The last mildness of fall would soon be lost, and after that the relentless cold and frigid careering winds would drive the people from the streets and parks.

It would be his first Christmas without Millie. Tim and Abbey would try futilely to make up for her absence. They would bring expensive gifts that he did not want and could not use. They would bring him a case of Irish whiskey when a fifth would do. They would try to be jolly, as the season required.

He opened the door and stepped out into the street. Toward the end of the block he could see a group of young people slouching against a car. They were giggling and poking each other playfully. For a moment, he felt an intense desire to join them, to stroll over to where they were, buy them all a slice of pizza, and there, in the casual warmth of the pizza parlor, tell them all he had seen and felt and learned, release it all in one sudden, chaotic tumult like bats set free from the darkness of a cave.

The phone on Reardon's desk was ringing when he returned. He picked it up with one hand and pulled his chair under him with the other. “John Reardon.”

“Mr. Reardon, this is Phillip Cardan. I understand you wanted to talk to me. I'm with Bailey, Merritt and White.”

Reardon tried to picture the man who was speaking. Fortyish, paunchy, beset with nervous mannerisms; a slightly high-pitched voice, lacking the authority of a lawyer with significant courtroom experience; a man, Reardon suspected, who held a low-level position in the firm, advancing only in salary; perhaps, Reardon thought, though he could not be sure of this or anything else about Cardan at this point, a man on the make.

“That's right,” Reardon replied cautiously, “I'm investigating the murder of Lee McDonald and her roommate.”

“What's that got to do with me?” Cardan asked hurriedly.

“Well, I understand that —”

“She wasn't my secretary,” Cardan interrupted.

“I didn't say she was,” Reardon said.

“Well, I don't understand … I mean … Miss McDonald … I …”

“I understand that you had a more intimate relationship with Miss McDonald,” Reardon said.

“Who told you that?” Cardan gasped. “I mean … I don't … I … I don't understand …”

“This is a murder investigation,” Reardon said ominously.

“I didn't have anything to do with that,” Cardan said.

Reardon said nothing, allowing his silence to sink into Cardan's mind like a heavy stone. He did not know what Cardan had to hide, but something between Cardan and Lee McDonald was whipping Cardan into a self-protecting frenzy. Maybe he had had an affair with her that the wife and kids in New Jersey would not be pleased to hear about. Maybe he was afraid Jamie O'Rourke would hear about it and flatten his head against a cement wall. Maybe he had killed Lee McDonald and Karen Ortovsky. Maybe anything.

“I didn't have anything to do with that,” Cardan repeated, almost in a whisper. For another moment he said nothing, then he sighed resignedly. “She was supposed to be discreet,” he said, with a touch of resentment.

“When did you see Lee McDonald last?” Reardon asked.

“Not over the phone,” Cardan replied in a low, conspiratorial voice.

Reardon faked annoyance. “Where then?”

“The Sheep Meadow in Central Park,” Cardan said.

“That's a big place.”

“Meet me in the middle.”

“That's a big place too,” Reardon replied irritably.

“Carry a handkerchief in your hand.”

“Forget it,” Reardon snapped. “I'll see you in your office in fifteen minutes.”

“No, no please!” Cardan pleaded. “Please don't. I have a reputation. I don't want to be seen in my office with the police, being questioned about murders. For God's sake.”

Reardon said nothing.

“Please, do me this favor,” Cardan said. “I'll take good care of you. Just please don't come over here. Meet me in the Sheep Meadow. In the middle.”

“This is ridiculous,” Reardon said.

“I'll make it worth your while,” Cardan said.

“What time?”

“About a half hour from now.”

“All right,” Reardon agreed with feigned reluctance.

“Carry the white handkerchief,” Cardan said. “Please.”

“This better be worth it,” Reardon said.

“Yes, yes, all right. One other thing,” Cardan said, “come alone.”

21

Standing in the middle of the Sheep Meadow, a white handkerchief dangling from his right hand, Reardon felt like a perfect ass. Surreptitious meetings in crowded locations were common enough, but the handkerchief gave the entire plan a character of silly melodrama. He wondered if this was the way it would all end for him, standing in some crowded public place, dangling a bandanna from his hand, waiting for a voice to materialize … and then, the flash of a gun, a shot, buckling knees and blackness.

A voice came from behind him. “Detective Reardon?”

Reardon turned to face a tall, heavy-set man dressed in a three-piece blue suit. He had a thin black mustache and tiny, reptilian eyes that made the elegantly tailored suit look like a costume.

Reardon nodded. “That's me.”

“My name is Phillip Cardan.”

“I wasn't expecting anyone else,” Reardon said dryly.

Cardan thrust out his hand. “Thank you for coming,” he said, as if he was welcoming Reardon to an art exhibition at some fashionable gallery.

Reardon did not take his hand.

For a moment Cardan stood with his hand outstretched and motionless like a department store manikin. Then he slowly withdrew it, placing it deep in his overcoat pocket. “Would you like to take a stroll?” he asked.

“I didn't come all the way out here for a stroll.”

Cardan looked as though he had been physically assaulted. “Oh,” he stammered. “I'm sorry.”

“What's on your mind?” Reardon asked at once.

Cardan glanced nervously around the Sheep Meadow. “Let's walk and I'll tell you.”

Reardon did not feel like arguing the point. Together they started walking slowly toward the west side of the park. A small wind crackled through the leafless trees on either side of the meadow. Reardon buried his hands in his overcoat pockets.

“Okay,” he said, “what do you have to tell me?”

“Like you said,” Cardan said, “Miss McDonald was indiscreet. She was supposed to be absolutely discreet. We had an agreement. She was to memorize everything. She was not to have anything in her apartment that could possibly connect her to me or to any of my associates.”

“Like an address book?” offered Reardon.

“That's right,” Cardan replied.

“I see,” Reardon said, knowing he was getting close to something, suspecting that it was important, perhaps more important than he could have guessed.

Cardan offered Reardon a strained smile. “Before I go on,” he said, “may I ask you a question?”

Reardon nodded.

“How did you come to associate me with Miss McDonald?”

“I can't tell you that,” Reardon said crisply.

“I understand,” Cardan said quickly, as if wishing he had not bothered to ask in the first place.

“Why did you want to know?” Reardon asked.

Cardan shrugged off the question. “It seemed odd, that's all.”

Reardon did not believe that was all. “Why odd?” he asked. “You did have a relationship with Miss McDonald, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Cardan said. He looked up from the ground, nervously cast his eyes over the line of trees at the far side of the park, then let them fall directly on Reardon. “She was very unhappy with her life.”

“I know that,” Reardon barked belligerently, purposely pushing Cardan further.

Cardan flinched at Reardon's manner. “Can this be considered a voluntary statement, even if you already know everything I tell you?”

“If you're completely frank,” Reardon said.

Cardan shook his head worriedly. “I don't know where to begin,” he said. “I just want it all to be in confidence, that's all.”

Reardon nodded. “We'll see.”

Cardan stopped and looked helplessly at the ground. When he looked up again his face was flushed.

Reardon stared bloodlessly into Cardan's face and said nothing.

“You see,” Cardan said, “Lee didn't like it in New York. She wanted desperately to get out of the States. To go to Europe. She and her roommate were planning on moving to France, I think. Anyway she needed money. And she couldn't get it. She couldn't save any money on her salary. So she came to me. She thought I might know of some way that she could get some extra money, savings, you know, for the move to Europe. So I helped her.” He paused. “I need to be protected.”

“From what?” Reardon asked.

“From being dragged into this case. Quite frankly, I didn't come forward before because I dreaded such a possibility. My reputation could be endangered if that connection were made public.”

“Keep talking,” Reardon said without emphasis.

“You see,” Cardan said slowly, lowering his voice, “I did know the young women in question.” He paused. “Rather well, actually.” He looked at Reardon but said nothing.

“How well?” Reardon asked.

“You might say that I employed them from time to time.”

“Employed them how?”

“That is the delicate point. You see, some friends of mine and I have a circle, you might say.”

“What kind of circle?”

“An entertainment circle.”

“You want to explain that?” Reardon asked coldly.

“It's not material.”

Reardon stopped walking. “I'll decide what's material. You just answer the questions. You're the one who called me out here to the goddamn Sheep Meadow, remember?”

Cardan looked shaken, as if he was being shot at by a high-caliber pistol at point-blank range. “Sorry,” he said meekly. “Of course I did. But I had hoped that all the details might not be necessary.”

“This is a murder investigation,” Reardon said bluntly. “That means that every detail is material.”

Beads of sweat began to form on Cardan's upper lip, just above the little mustache. His hands fidgeted in his coat pockets. “Well,” he said, “what I want to prove to you is simply that I could not have murdered those two women. My name could come up in the investigation and I simply need someone in the Department, the Police Department, to be aware of the fact that I could not possibly have been involved.”

“In what way did you employ Karen Ortovsky and Lee McDonald?” Reardon asked.

“In an unusual capacity.”

“How?”

“Are you aware that Miss Ortovsky and Miss McDonald were lesbians?”

“Yes,” Reardon said. He did not see how that mattered one way or the other.

“They also had another trait,” Cardan said, “which turned out to be a profitable one for them.”

“What?”

“Exhibitionism.”

Reardon nodded.

“Some people are exhibitionists and some people are voyeurs,” Cardan said.

“What's the point?” Reardon asked. He could guess that it was going to get pretty squalid now, and he wanted to get through it as quickly as possible. Such testimony always made him feel as if he was leaning over window sills into darkened bedrooms.

“Well,” Cardan said, “some people in this city like to enjoy the … well, you might call them … you might call them
performances.
They enjoy seeing various sexual acts performed in front of them.” Cardan smiled what Reardon took to be an ugly, leering smile.

“What does that have to do with murder?” Reardon asked.

“I don't believe it has anything whatsoever to do with murder.”

“Did Karen Ortovsky and Lee McDonald give sexual performances?”

“Yes. They were not prostitutes, you must understand. They performed only with each other.”

“For money?”

Cardan smiled. “For a great deal of money.”

Reardon said nothing, letting his silence draw Cardan on.

“The point is,” Cardan continued hesitantly, “I sometimes acted as their agent.”

“For whom?”

“For certain people who desired their services.”

From the way he talked, Reardon thought, you might have taken Cardan for a jewelry clerk at Tiffany's. “Wealthy people?” Reardon asked.

“Very wealthy people,” Cardan replied. “Not the usual porno crowd.”

Reardon did not understand the distinction. “Go on,” he said.

“Simply this,” Cardan said. “It will not be hard for the police assigned to the case to associate me with Miss Ortovsky and Miss McDonald. I knew them very well. I know a lot of people very well. But I could not have had anything to do with their murder. I was very saddened by it, as a matter of fact. But I was in California when it happened.”

“Who did you arrange these performances for?”

“That's confidential.”

“This is a murder case,” Reardon said. “Nothing is confidential.”

“I can assure you personally that none of my clients could possibly have had anything to do with the murders.”

“You arranged for Karen Ortovsky and Lee McDonald to perform sexually for money, is that right?”

“I have already said that,” Cardan said.

“You're under arrest.”