Yom Kippur Murder

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Book: Yom Kippur Murder Read Free
Author: Lee Harris
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on it in raised blue script was “Mrs. Gordon Passman” at an address on Long Island. Under it in ink was a phone number.
    “Passman,” I said.
    “Passman, that’s it.” Gallagher smiled. “I knew he had it.”
    I copied down the information, reinserted the envelope flap, and put the book back.
    Just as I did, one of the policemen who had climbed the stairs with us came into the room. “Mr. Gallagher? Want to come with me? Detective Sloan would like to talk to you.”
    Gallagher lifted himself from the couch, gave me a quick smile, and left the room. A moment later, the policeman was back.
    “Mrs. Paterno? This way, please.”
    Mrs. Paterno stood and walked out without looking at me. She had regained her bearing, although her color was still poor.
    The policeman returned a moment later. “So how ya doing?” he asked as if we were old friends.
    “OK.”
    He made himself comfortable on the sofa, or as comfortable as he could be with the big leather belt and the holster carrying his gun. “What a way to start the day, huh? Walk in on somethin’ like that.”
    “It was pretty awful,” I agreed.
    “Poor old guy. You gotta wonder about New York sometimes.”
    “Yes.” I didn’t feel chatty, but he went on, and I responded to keep from seeming impolite. Finally a man in civilian clothes popped his head in the door.
    “You Christine Bennett?”
    “Yes.”
    “We can talk in here.” He motioned to the uniformed officer, who vacated his comfortable perch.
    “Would you like the desk?” I asked.
    “Sure.”
    I carried my bag to the sofa and sat. As it happened, I was dressed for an evening dinner date, not having wanted to return home and then drive back into the city. I was wearing a suit of a rather beautiful shade of blue, and black sheer stockings. I could feel the detective’s eyes as I walked across the room.
    “I’m Sergeant Franciotti. Can you tell me what you were doing here this morning?”
    I told the story in abbreviated fashion. For some reason, I didn’t mention that Mr. Herskovitz had given me his keys and that they hadn’t worked. I think at that point I had pretty much forgotten that part, and later, when I thought about it, I couldn’t see that it could mean very much. I told him about coming down to five with Mrs. Paterno, how she preceded me down the long apartment hall, how I heard her scream. I had introduced my story with an explanation of who I was and how I was connected to the three holdouts in the building. The detective had heard of Arnold Gold and made a note of his name when I mentioned it.
    I found it amusingly ironic to be questioned in this manner by a police detective. I have what is called in the common parlance a boyfriend, a word I find very distasteful and more suited to high school romances than adult relationships. Jack is not a boy, and he’s much more than a friend. He’s also a police detective sergeant, working out of the Sixty-fifth Precinct in Brooklyn. I met him in June when I was only a few weeks out of the convent. We clicked, probably too soon and too firmly, and I asked for some time apart, a brief hiatus, if only to convince myself that I’d been right the first time. We hadn’t seen each other for a couple of weeks, and that night, under pressure from my neighbor in Oakwood, I was meeting her cousin for dinner in Manhattan. We had spoken on the phone and he sounded very nice, although he must havewondered what he was getting into, taking out a woman who’d spent half her life in a convent. I hoped he would be surprised.
    Looking at Sergeant Franciotti, I could imagine Jack at work. As he asked his questions, I kept trying to guess where he was leading me. But as it turned out, he wasn’t leading me anywhere. He was just getting times and places and relationships straightened out. The only time he was anything but neutral was when I told him about the key arrangement. His forehead creased and his face curled into something that looked half-skeptical

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