The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (popular books of all time .txt) 📗

I’m on my knees scooping up old correspondence and muttering to myself when it hits me. Whoever did this could be in the house! I freeze and listen but all I hear is the thumping of my heart. I try to convince myself they’re gone. They’d have heard me enter the house and escaped out the back door.

Even so, I have to force myself upstairs, taking one dreaded step at a time and straining to hear intruders. My chest hurts and my breathing is uneven as I imagine Josh or Gabriel finding my body crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. I brace myself against the wall to remain steady as I ascend the steps, then tiptoe past the boys’ rooms. They’re untouched, which is a relief. But a few steps on, at the entrance to my bedroom, my heart sinks. It’s a nightmare. The contents of my bureau have been dumped on the ground and my clothes are strewn across the bed, carpet, and chairs. The sight of my bras and underwear on the rug leaves me feeling naked and vulnerable.

I run into the closet, where my dresses and nightgowns are heaped on the floor. My jewelry box is splayed open across a black beaded evening gown, and bracelets and necklaces form a tangle of silver and gold on the fabric. But the good pieces, including my mother’s diamond necklace and opal ring, are still inside the box. Nothing is missing. Why would anyone break in and leave behind valuable jewelry?

When I return to my bedroom, a splotch of red catches my eye. I gasp. The intruder has scrawled ASK YOUR FATHER in red lipstick on the mirror above my bureau. The writing is thick and deliberate as though written with controlled rage. A tube of my lipstick, the end smashed, lies on the bureau. Beneath the words, affixed to the mirror with duct tape, is a brown envelope. I race around my bed, panting, to tear the package down.

Inside are two yellowed newspaper articles held together with a rusted paperclip. A photograph falls out when I release the clip. As violated as this break-in makes me feel, the lipsticked scrawl and clippings are even more alarming. This isn’t a random burglary. The intruder who tore my home apart and left the envelope is someone who knows me. And my father. They’re sending us a message. Goose bumps rise along my arms. This has got to be related to my father’s story about Fat Louie and the Jewish syndicate. But who knows I’m looking into it? My father. And Abe.

My mind races through my options—should I call my dad, contact Daniel? How about the police? I grab the phone next to my bed and dial 911 but replace the receiver. My father must have done something horrible to provoke such a violent invasion. What’ll happen to Tootsie if the police get involved? Could he land in jail? My breathing returns to normal as my fear subsides. No one’s in the house. I’m safe. I need to talk to my father before I call the police. And I need to find out what the clippings are about.

Pushing aside a tangle of bathing suits and the cat, who’s followed me upstairs and settled among the mess, I sit on my bed and read. The first clipping is similar to the article I found at the historical museum about Uncle Moe’s testimony before the Kefauver Commission. No surprises there. The second is a two-paragraph item, dated 1949, reporting that my father and uncle’s business was awarded a lucrative contract to supply restaurant equipment to several Miami-area hotels. Scrawled in pencil at the top of the clipping is the notation “S&G?” The handwriting is identical to the scrawl on my mirror.

The photograph unsettles me. It’s an old police shot, taken in what looks like a morgue. A man’s bloated body, pallid in the harsh tones of the black-and-white photograph, lies on a metal table. The face, or what was once the face, is a pulpy mass of lips, nose, and mouth that have been partially chewed away by . . . I don’t want to think about it. I turn the photo over and find a caption. It’s dated May 17, 1948, and reports that a gangster known as Louis Giovanni washed ashore on Miami Beach the day before. According to the clipping, the body was wrapped in linen as though prepared for a traditional Jewish burial. Miami Beach police, the article says, have no leads.

I become nauseated, then dizzy, and lean my forehead against the bedpost to stop the room from spinning. My house has been ripped apart by someone who wants to frighten, maybe hurt, me. My father has altered his will to support the wife of a dead gangster’s charity. And a stranger has left me newspaper clippings—and a grisly photo—that date back fifty years.

If I had any doubts before, I’m sure now that the break-in has something to do with my dad’s past. I recall his reaction to the arrival of the officers at Schatzi’s funeral. The old man is hiding something. But what could be so awful he won’t tell me? I sit on my bed, torn.

Only one person can tell me what this is about. But I’m afraid he’ll hand me more lies. I haven’t called the police because I want to protect my father. If I tell him that, could he be selfish enough to lie to me? I can’t rule it out so make a deal with myself. If I sense he’s making up more stories, I’ll go to the police. It’s the only way I’ll feel safe again.

I call the locksmith and wait while he changes my locks.

Then I dial my father.

It’s time we had a talk.

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17

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My father didn’t say anything about going out tonight and I’m surprised by what sounds like a rumble of thunder and loud cheers