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

recognized the intruders and I repeat my story about seeing Mr. Landauer at the funeral. He cracks the barest of smiles when I describe Landauer as a bloodhound and asks me to come down to the station to meet with a sketch artist. I agree, though I don’t know how much good it’ll do. Landauer’s been out of the country for years, according to my father, and Pinky looks like every other punk with a shaved head.

When the detective questions me about my conversation with Mr. Landauer, my palms grow damp.

“What do you mean by threatened you?” he asks. “Did he say he was coming back to harm you?”

“He didn’t spell it out. He said he’d be back if my father didn’t tell me the truth. He mentioned my sons.”

“Do you know what he meant?”

“Just that they’d be in danger.”

I’m a lousy liar—thanks, I suppose, to an open face and penchant for blushing. The detective picks up on it. He keeps at me for what feels like hours, posing questions from multiple angles. Why were we at the funeral? Does my father know the older man? It’s not easy to avoid bringing up my dad’s criminal past and I grow increasingly resentful about the position Tootsie’s put me in.

“Why don’t you call my father?” I say, sick of this exercise in deceit.

The detective assures me he will.

Just then, the doorbell rings and Detective Cole opens it to one of the tallest women I’ve ever met. She’s more than six feet and walks into the hall slowly, gazing around. The creases around her eyes suggest she’s nearer fifty than forty, though the curves revealed by her well-tailored black suit hint at the body of a weight lifter. She carries a red tackle box and follows the detective into the kitchen. He tells me to wait at the door.

Cole speaks to her in a voice too low to hear, then turns to me. “Why don’t you show Pam every surface the intruders touched?”

I show her the cup and coffeepot, and indicate where Pinky left his gun and Landauer sat. Then I return to the doorway to watch her. She sets several vials and brushes on the table before selecting a small feathery brush and dipping it in black powder. It looks like she’s painting as she swirls the brush in the sink and on my countertop, then on the cup and carafe. I can’t tell if she’s found fingerprints but suspect she has when she covers the carafe handle with what looks like packing tape, then lifts it off and attaches it to a card. Next she wipes the edge of the cup with a cotton swab.

It strikes me—stupidly after all I’ve been through—as unfair that I’m the one who’ll have to clean up the kitchen once the technician leaves. It’s not bad enough my house has been ransacked and I’ve been threatened by strangers. Now I’m being grilled by the police and will have to spend half the afternoon removing fingerprint dust from counters.

This is all Tootsie’s fault. And I’m ready to kill him.

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24

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“What’s the big God damn secret?” my father says the minute he opens the door to my Mercedes. He slides into the passenger seat and slams his door. “You couldn’t tell me what you wanted to talk about over the phone?”

I’m parked at the entrance to the Schmuel Bernstein, picking up Tootsie for what I know is going to be a rough night. Two nurses having a smoke on the front porch glance up as the door clangs shut. Terrific. The old man’s on the warpath. I can’t wait until he hears about Landauer. And the police.

It’s been five hours since the aging gangster paid me a visit. Two since the detective left my house. I realize I’m being optimistic but hope the police will find the intruders from the prints. I ran to the car the minute they left, leaving the cleanup for later.

On the drive over, I made myself crazy debating how to ask Tootsie the questions Landauer raised. I’ve never been this angry at my father and breathe deeply to calm myself. Attacking him will get me nowhere and if I don’t wrestle the truth out of my dad soon, my life and my sons’ lives may be in danger. The police reassured me they’d look into Landauer’s whereabouts and talk to Tootsie. But that won’t happen until tomorrow. I need answers now.

When I called my father an hour earlier, he refused to see me, claiming he couldn’t “sacrifice” his Friday night poker game. I told him I couldn’t see him Sunday and he relented. Even so, it’s hard to believe his door slamming is because of a couple of missed poker hands.

“I ran into Sadie Goldfarb at breakfast this morning,” my father announces once he settles into the car. “She said her daughter, Mavis, saw Esther at the grocery store Wednesday. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Great. Like I don’t have enough problems.

“She needed to get away,” I lie, “to take it easy, go to the beach. It gets cold in Greensboro.”

There’s no way I’m getting into his relationship with Esther tonight. Normally, I’d hedge my answer but am too angry to worry about sparing his feelings. I thought I’d start yelling at him the minute he got in my car. But I decided to hold off and attempt a rational discussion when we reached the restaurant. That’s enough compassion for one night.

“Esther told me not to let you know she was in town. She wouldn’t tell me why.”

Tootsie shrugs. The movement releases the dead animal stench of wool that’s been stored without washing. It’s dark so I turn on the car’s interior light. I’m surprised to see my father in the cheap leather jacket Daniel bought on our honeymoon in San Francisco. I had no idea he’d given it to Tootsie. It reeks like a dump.

I open my window and pull onto the road.

“You going to tell me