Blood Innocents

20

Names, Reardon knew, led to other names. Father Perry had led to Jamie O’Rourke. Now Jamie O’Rourke had led to someone called Phillip Cardan. Cardan had represented himself as a lawyer, but Reardon could not be sure that was true. It would be easy enough to find out; the Yellow Pages under attorneys might be enough. But Reardon decided to try something else first.

Back at his desk in the precinct he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the law firm where Lee McDonald had worked for the last five years before her death.

“Bailey, Merritt and White,” a female voice answered.

“May I speak to Mr. Phillip Cardan, please,” Reardon said.

“Just a moment, please.”

Reardon waited, feeling the pressures of passing time, knowing that Petrakis was not safe in prison, that no one was safe in the Tombs, least of all an unstable middle-aged family man who had never been forcibly detained in his life.

Finally the voice returned to the line. “Mr. Cardan is out of the office at the moment. We expect him to return at approximately four-thirty. May I take a message?”

Reardon looked at his watch. It was four fifteen.

“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.”