Yom Kippur Murder Read Free Page B

and half-disbelieving.
    “Never understand these people who stay,” he said. “But they got their rights.”
    “Has anyone called Mr. Herskovitz’s children?” I asked.
    “Haven’t found anything on them yet.”
    “I’ve got their names and addresses. Would you like them?” I handed him my notes.
    He wrote it all down.
    “Would you mind if I called them?”
    “Be my guest. Use the phone in the kitchen. The crime scene guys are done with it.”
    “Thank you.” As I left the study, Sergeant Franciotti was looking at the names in his notebook.
    I didn’t volunteer because I’m good at this sort of thing or because I like to do it. It just seemed I’d be a better bearer of bad news than a policeman who complained about people dying on high floors.
    In the kitchen I dialed the number for Nina Passman. It rang and rang, reminding me again that this was Yom Kippur, and Nina and her family were probably in synagogue. I tried the Atlanta number, but there, too, no one answered. As I left the kitchen, I could hear several people talking in the living room, but I kept away. I had no stomach for the scene.
    I went back to the study and told the detective that the Herskovitz children were unavailable, and the probable reason. He said his people would keep trying and that I was free to go.
    “Is Mrs. Paterno still here?” I asked.
    “She left. So did Gallagher.”
    “She’s very frightened about staying in the building now.”
    “Yeah, well, I’ll have the boys drive around the block here for a while, keep their eyes open. Be pretty safe.”
    I wondered. “Good-bye,” I said.
    “Nice meeting you.”
    I went up one flight to Mrs. Paterno ’s apartment and rang the bell. There was no answer. I knocked and called, but there was no sound from inside. I wasn’t afraid she had met with foul play—the police were a noticeable presence inside and out—but I wondered where she had gone and whether she had a place to stay for the night.
    Downstairs I found Mr. Gallagher. He was dressed in worn corduroy pants and a heavy sweater that seemed to top off every outfit. His face was pale, and there was an air of frailty about him that I had never seen before.
    “Come and have lunch with me,” I said.
    “Good idea. Seems safe enough with all the coppers.”
    “Mrs. Paterno doesn’t answer her bell.”
    “Probably wants to be alone, poor thing.”
    “I’ll check on her later.”
    We had lunch on Broadway, my treat, and then I walked him home. Then I drove crosstown to where an old friend of mine from St. Stephen’s had a small apartment.

3
    Sister Celia Rataczak was spending the academic year enrolled in a nursing program at one of the hospitals on New York’s East Side. Since St. Stephen’s is some distance up the Hudson, she had sublet a tiny, beautifully furnished apartment on First Avenue, which had a sleep sofa in the main living area as well as a bed in a little alcove. We’d known each other for a long time, and I was delighted to have the chance to stay overnight with her after my date this evening.
    After I had explained what had happened that morning, I put on a big flannel shirt I had brought along to relax in and hung up my suit jacket and skirt. Celia was wearing the obligatory brown habit of the Order of St. Francis I had once belonged to.
    About half an hour after I got there, I finally found someone home at the Passmans’.
    When Mrs. Passman came to the phone, I said, “My name is Christine Bennett. I’ve been helping your father lately, and I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
    “About my father?” the woman said, and something in her voice made it sound as though there were something preposterous in that.
    “Nathan Herskovitz,” I said. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
    There was a silence, and I wished I could touch her, give her support at this terrible moment.
    “I think you’ve made a mistake,” the woman said. “My father died twenty years ago.”
    It took me a moment to recover.