Yom Kippur Murder Read online

  We were both thirty, but from something he had said, I had the impression that my birthday came earlier in the year than his, making me a tiny bit older. He had gotten a college degree by going to school nights for seven or eight years while on the job, and last month he had begun law school. I had the feeling it was tougher than he had expected, or at least different. I liked the idea of his becoming a lawyer. He would probably never do the kind of work Arnold Gold does, but they’re pretty different kinds of men.

  I was surprised that he was late. He tended to the early side, at least when he came to see me. Waiting generated a small amount of worry and increased my already powerful sexual tension, which I had promised myself again and again I would not give in to in this calendar year.

  At six-fifteen I saw his car pull into the driveway, and I went to open the door. We kissed and kissed again when he came in.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. He stood in the center of the living room and looked distracted.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I got picked up for speeding on the Hutch.”

  I kept myself from laughing. “He didn’t give you a ticket, did he?”

  “I let him see my ID. I got away with a friendly warning.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “For speeding to get here.”

  He gave me the nice smile, took my hand, and we sat on the sofa. “What burned on your lawn?”

  He sees everything, even in the dark. “The police think it’s a Halloween prank.”

  He looked skeptical, but he dropped it. “What a week,” he said.

  He griped for about twenty minutes. Everything had gone wrong, the car he and his partner drove, a lost report, a disagreement with the lieutenant. Worst of all, he had gotten stuck on a case on a night that he had law school, and he had come to class half an hour late, and the professor had attempted to ridicule him. Jack doesn’t take kindly to that kind of treatment.

  “I told him why I was late, and I didn’t say it as if I was talking to my best friend. It probably cost me the course. He’s not gonna forget me.”

  “He’ll be fair. He’s a lawyer.”

  Jack looked at me as if I’d denounced the flag. “He’s a shit,” he said between his teeth. He stood up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I have to stop this.”

  We went to a restaurant in White Plains, which isn’t far from Oakwood, and had a good dinner, but it wasn’t a good night. It started out all right. He loosened up a bit, and I was glad he’d gotten the law school stuff off his mind. But it wasn’t over.

  After a taste of the main course, he said, “Why’d you have to go out with someone else last weekend?”

  “I thought you understood.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re the first man in my life,” I said, although we’d been through it all before. “I can’t just see one man. It’s a question of my own personal development.”

  “Shit. There are fourteen-year-olds who meet and go through life together—”

  “I am not fourteen years old.” It came out rather harsh.

  “OK. I’ll lay it on the table. You hurt my feelings.”

  “I’m sorry.” I felt teary and awful. “What did you do last Saturday?”

  “I did what I did,” he said, not looking at me.

  “I’m not going out with him again,” I said. It was all very dumb. Mark was exactly the right kind of man to go out with. He was fun, and I wasn’t going to fall in love with him. He was personal development with a capital PD and maybe, somewhere down the line, a friend. But I couldn’t hurt Jack, I couldn’t jeopardize this relationship, which meant so much to me and which I had obviously already threatened.

  “Why? Because it’s not going anywhere?”

  I almost got up and fled to the ladies’ room, but somewhere in my head I knew that coming back would be even worse than staying. I took a hard swallow instead. “Because he’s not you.” I looked him straight in the eye.

  “You’d better eat,” he said. “And I’d better shut up.”

  It sounded like a good idea, and I returned to my dinner. It was the kind of food you only eat in a restaurant unless you’re a very talented cook. Convent fare is not made by very talented cooks, only by hardworking ones trying to feed a lot of people within a tight budget.

  He drew lines on the back of my hand with his index finger, and I smiled.

  “You want to talk about your case?” he asked, all the fight gone from his voice.

  “Just a little.”

  “You know, you may find out that this guy Herskovitz was Jack the Ripper, but it doesn’t mean Ramirez didn’t kill him.”

  “Arnold is really convinced—”

  “Arnold Gold is a defense attorney. His client is always innocent, and the cops are always wrong.”

  “It’s not that way this time.”

  “Chris, he’d defend Hitler if he had the chance.”

  “He wouldn’t,” I said, sounding stony.

  “Then he’d find someone who would.”

  I thought he was probably right. “That’s because he believes that everyone has the right to counsel.”

  “In this case it’s because he wants to put a knife in the police department.”

  “Jack, you’ve got Arnold all—”

  “Arnold Gold thinks every cop in New York is dumb and on the take. Well, he’s wrong. I’m not dumb and I’m not on the take.”

  “I know.”

  “How?”

  “Because I know you.”

  The waiter was standing over us.

  “Yeah, I’ll have coffee,” Jack said. “You?”

  “Please.”

  We drank our coffee uncomfortably and went out to the car. I felt the smartest thing was to keep quiet. If my Saturday night with Mark had prompted all this, anything I said would make it worse. If it was something else, I didn’t want to pry. When it suited him, he would tell me. In the meantime, I sat quietly and coped with my feelings. I didn’t know what we’d been fighting about, but nothing we’d talked about had been neutral.

  We drove to Oakwood silently, but when he pulled into my driveway, my resolve left me.

  “What is it, Jack? Something’s eating you. I’ve never seen you like this.” I said it quietly. I didn’t want another unreasonable confrontation.

  He turned the motor off but left the key in the ignition. “It’s that fuckin’ law school,” he said so low, I could hardly hear him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t do this to you. It’s not your fault.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” He sat back. “It’s harder than I thought it would be. It’s more work. It’s different. I’m not getting it the way I should.”

  “Give it time.”

  “Maybe.” He fingered the keys. “In college, if I put my mind to something, I got it. I’m not afraid of work. This is just different. Maybe it’s not for me. Maybe it’s for people like Arnold Gold.”

  “It is for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you set your heart on it.”

  “You still think I have a heart?”

  I nodded. “Yes.” It came out in a whisper.

  He touched my hand. “I’m not coming in.”

  I gathered my purse and gloves and reached for the door handle.

  “Chris.” He pulled me toward him before I opened the door, put his arms around me, and just held me. It was one of those stupid cars with the stick shift and stuff between the front seats. Getting close was almost impossible below the shoulders, but we did our best. I was so relieved that I was only one small part of what was bothering him that I felt absolutely happy. We kissed, and he brushed away what might have been tears on my face.

  “We OK for next Saturday?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He started to say something about picking me up when I remembered Mitchell. “Nathan’s son and daughter-in-law are coming in next Friday night,”
I said. “I’ll probably go down to the apartment to say hello. Why don’t you meet me there? I’ll stay over with Celia.”

  “OK.”

  “Will you call me when you get home?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a wreck tonight.”

  “I’m fine now.”

  “Please?”

  He kissed me. “I’ll call you.”

  He called so soon after he left that I was sure he must have gotten picked up for speeding again, but he assured me he hadn’t. He said he was wide-awake now, ready to tackle his law school assignment for Monday.

  17

  Bettina Strauss called Sunday morning. She sounded tense and excited. “I got that phone call,” she said.

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked if I had a book. I said, ‘I have lots of books.’ Then he gave me the names of a lot of people who had books like mine. I knew most of the names. They were members of the circle.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Just what you said. ‘I have to call my daughter.’ He said he’d call back later.”

  “Do you feel up to it, Bettina?”

  “You think this man killed Nathan?”

  “I think it’s possible. Or that he had him killed.”

  “Then we get him, right?”

  “Right.”

  I outlined my plan, sounding a lot more confident about it than I felt. It called for making an appointment with the buyer for tomorrow afternoon. That would give me plenty of time to get hold of Franciotti. Bettina said the man had not sounded threatening at all as Mr. Granite had portrayed the caller, just that he was an interested buyer and knew she had something to sell.

  Then I called the police station. Franciotti wasn’t in, but he was expected tomorrow at ten. I left a message with my name, saying that it was urgent that I speak to him as early as possible Monday morning but that I would call him. I was afraid to wait in Oakwood for his call, cutting short the time I would have to drive into Manhattan, find a place to park, get over to Bettina’s, and get the two of us ready.

  I spent most of Sunday preparing for my Tuesday morning class. There had been some discussion of the English Romantic poets, pro and con, and I had assigned some readings in their works. It was interesting to me that a couple of students seemed to agree that romantic equaled sentimentality which equaled garbage, while several other students looked blank when the era and the poets’ names were mentioned. A little explanation was in order.

  I am not enamored of Shelley, although he has turned a number of good phrases—“Hail to thee, blithe spirit!” and “Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought” come to mind—but anyone who can write, “I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed,” is not someone I can turn to for solace or understanding.

  But Keats and Wordsworth really do something to me, and I was curious to know whether my young, ambitious women would agree, whether a healthy sample of poems would confirm or dispute their romantic/sentimental equation. Whenever I turn to Keats, I renew my amazement and admiration; I have already lived four years longer than he, and in much better health.

  Bettina called back about four. “He’s coming at two,” she said. “He won’t give me his name. When he rings the bell, he’ll say he’s the book man.”

  “OK.”

  “And if he wants the book, he’ll pay in cash.”

  “I guess he’d have to if he wants to stay anonymous. How do you feel about it?”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, he doesn’t sound like a murderer. He sounds like an older man who wants to buy a book.”

  “Maybe that’s all he is,” I said. “But where did he get your name from? And the other names he read to you? Somehow he’s connected to whoever broke into Nathan’s apartment Wednesday night. So let’s be very careful.”

  “When will you come?”

  “I’ll try to get there when the parking restrictions end in the Seventies, about eleven. I’ll be there a little after.”

  “Good. We’ll have lunch together.”

  I agreed, although I was already losing my appetite. I couldn’t think of this as quite the adventure that Bettina did, but then, I hadn’t fled a hostile country in a hay wagon with a bunch of enemy soldiers sitting virtually on top of me. It must do something to one’s outlook.

  Someday I’ll learn not to answer the phone when I don’t want to talk to anyone else today, or just pull out the cord so I don’t have to make any more decisions. But that’s still in the future. Not long after Bettina called, the phone rang and I answered it. I still wish I hadn’t.

  “Chris, darlin’,” a familiar voice said, “it’s Ian Gallagher.”

  “Yes, Ian. What is it?” It was a toll call after all. He would only call if he needed something.

  “Somethin’s goin’ on here,” he said. “I thought Mr. Gold got all them squatters outa here.”

  “I thought so, too,” I said, although I was no longer very sure myself.

  “Well, somethin’ isn’t right.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone lit a fire in the apartment next door to mine.”

  “What?”

  “Just a little one, some garbage maybe. I smelled it and put it out with a bucket of water.”

  “You went into the apartment next door and put a fire out?”

  “Well, it was easier than callin’ the fire folks. And quicker.”

  “And more dangerous. Ian, you’re eighty years old.”

  “Don’t remind me, darlin’.”

  “You’re sure you got it out?”

  “Oh yes. But there’s sounds now. There’s people around.”

  I knew what he was asking me. He wanted me to come and look around. I was Arnold’s volunteer assistant, and if the tenants had problems, I was the one to call.

  “I’ll be there in an hour, Ian.”

  “I don’t want to trouble your Sunday,” he said.

  No, of course not. “I’m on my way.”

  It was late Sunday afternoon in October, and the summer stream of weekenders returning to the city had abated. I got to 603 long before an hour had passed, and parked almost in front of it. I took out my flashlight and keys while I was still in the car so that I wouldn’t have to open my bag on the street in the dusk. I didn’t like coming here at night. I didn’t like looking for squatters, who were probably addicts, or any other “folks” who might be inhabiting the building. But I knew that the police had had their fill of calls from 603 and wouldn’t give another vague complaint much priority. I went in the first door, unlocked the inner one, and turned on my flashlight.

  There were, of course, no light bulbs in the lobby. You didn’t notice it that much during the day, but now it was practically dark. I shone my light all around the old marble floor and walls, and saw nothing. I went to the stairwell and pulled the door open. No sound. I flashed my light down toward the basement and up toward the second floor. Nothing as far as the landings. I started up.

  You go into things sometimes knowing in your head that they’re dangerous, but that silly, childish belief in the invulnerability of the self asserts itself. Whoever this man was—if it was the same one—he had attacked me, assaulted me, followed me home, lit a fire on my lawn, and now lit one in the apartment next door to Gallagher, but I couldn’t quite believe he could kill me. I had failed to overpower him when he held me, and still I felt I could come out of an encounter alive. But I was scared.

  I got to three and stopped. I turned off the flashlight and listened. If someone was waiting on the stairs, he didn’t move. I turned the light back on and opened the door. I didn’t hear anything. I walked into the hall. It was quiet.

  As quickly as I could, I went to Ian’s apartment and rang the bell. There was no answer.

  “Ian,” I called, remembering that terrible morning when I had stood in front of Nathan’s door and called his name. “Ian, are you there?”

  No answer.

  My first thought w
as that they had gotten him, too. Something had happened between his call to me and now, something had gotten him out of his apartment again and persuaded him to open his door to a push-in murderer.

  If Ian was dead, only Mrs. Paterno would be left in this building, and it was a cinch she wouldn’t stay long. Metropolitan would have achieved its goal. They could gut and renovate with two deaths to their credit. Or three if I didn’t get out of here fast.

  It was still deathly quiet. I turned off my flashlight. I wrapped my left arm around my handbag as I had the other day. I didn’t like the feeling of déjà vu; I had lost the last time. Tonight I might lose worse. I steadied myself and made for the stairway.

  The shadow glided out of one of the empty apartments the other side of the stairway, and I knew I didn’t have a prayer. I was forced into one of the empty apartments, where I would have to play cat and mouse. I darted in the nearest door and, not thinking very clearly, hid right behind it. There wasn’t even a doorknob to hang on to. Everything of scrap value had been removed by Metropolitan months or years ago as the apartments had emptied. I was now wedged in a corner behind an open door. To my right along the wall was the same kind of long hall that everyone else’s apartment started with. I didn’t want to chance going into one of the rooms, because it was too easy to be cornered there. So I was cornered here. Literally.

  I listened for him. He was probably wearing sneakers, as I was, and he wasn’t in any hurry. Why should he be? He had me.

  But who was it? Jesus Ramirez was safely behind bars. Did Metropolitan have a whole stable of thugs and killers? Or was this a squatter who wanted the whole building for himself? Or someone after me personally? And if so, would he have killed Ian? There were too many questions and not enough answers.

  I didn’t have much time to ponder. There was a sound in the outside hall, and I knew he was coming to get me. Even so, I felt revulsion at having to lean against this filthy, roach-infested wall. Something soft touched my neck, and I reached reflexively to rid myself of it, not caring whether it was a cobweb or a living thing, or whether I made a noise that gave me away. I was absolutely terrified.

  When he stepped over the threshold, I was ready for him. I pushed the door with as much speed and force as I could generate. He made a sound, stepped back, and I pulled the door open and braced myself for a second charge. It came in seconds. Those are heavy doors on those old apartments, fire doors made with metal to last forever. You get hit with it, you get hurt.