To Kill a Matzo Ball (A Deadly Deli Mystery) (19 page)

Our way was blocked by the big doorman. He looked like a big, bad biker. His long, black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a full beard knotted at the bottom and had on sunglasses that didn’t quite cover the big mole under his right eye. A snake tattoo went from one hand to the other.

“Give me your wristwatch,” he said to me. “Quickly.”

I thought I recognized the voice, but I was too stunned and too frightened to think about it—or to argue. I handed over the old Bulova from Korvette’s, and he crushed it in his meaty hand. It was a bat mitzvah gift from my father. This was not the time to look for symbols and metaphors in what had just happened.

“Run in opposite directions,” the doorman ordered. “
Now.
”

The surprise of
that
statement lasted about a second as I placed the voice and looked up at the face again.

“Agent Bowe-Pitt?” I whispered. It wasn’t actually a whisper; it was more like a frightened croak, which was the best I could manage.

“
Run! Leave the car and go back to the deli,
” he hissed, looking past us, into the lobby. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Technically it
was
the morning, but I didn’t stand there and argue. I went to the right, and off my push, Banko ran left. Bowe-Pitt made a half-hearted reach for me, out of sight of the lobby, but I managed to slip away while wondering what the hell had brought him here.

He said the SSS was getting fed cash from somewhere,
I remembered.
Maybe he was checking this place out.

Banko and I met back at the deli, where I made coffee and we sat in the dining area to catch our breath, and not just literally. That had been a scary exchange with Bananas, and I couldn’t help but wonder if we’d set something in motion.

Not that it could be much worse than what’s been happening,
I thought.

“Do you think they’re going to come after us?” Banko asked, as I set the full mugs on the table.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It depends on whether they’re the ones who have been after me for the last few days.”

“Who else could it be?”

“A bunch of crazy martial artists or gangsters,” I said.

I told him about the Chinese. By the time I finished he was suitably depressed.

“I didn’t realize that associating with you would require survival training,” he said.

“But it comes with free coffee,” I pointed out.

He didn’t even smile. “All I wanted to do was study the planes of human existence. I never expected the Spanish Inquisition.”

“So that’s really and truly all you do,” I said. “Read etheric lines.”

“Yes. That’s all. I’m not a pimp or a snake oil salesman. I don’t even understand how that idea got into your head. If I weren’t so scared I would really resent it.”

It got there because Richard Richards put it there,
I thought.
Why would he do that if it weren’t true? Could it have anything to do with what had happened tonight
?
Was he getting a kickback for cleaning up their records on police computers ? How would harming Banko help that?

“Why indeed?” I asked, staring into my own reflection in the cup. I still didn’t want to bring up specifics to Banko. I didn’t want him freaking out.

“Why what?” he asked.

“Why would someone lie about someone else?”

“Jeez, that isn’t too broad a question.”

“People lie about other people to gain something,” I persisted. “Can you think of another reason?”

“Revenge.”

“That’s still a gain,” I said. “So my question is, what would someone gain by lying about you being a pimp?”

His shoulders collapsed. “Christ. That. Again.”

“Yes, that again.”

“Hey, shouldn’t I be the one questioning your affiliations?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seemed to know the doorman back there. Or he knew you. How?”

“He’s a fed,” I said.

“Right. And I’m James Bond.”

“He works for the FBI down here,” I insisted. “He’s been investigating hate crimes.”

“At the hotel?”

“No—but it’s a longer story than I care to go into. Though I have to say, he’s a helluva makeup man.”

“Is he the guy who spread lies about me?” Banko asked. “Maybe he saw me there, jumped to those nutty conclusions.”

“It wasn’t him.”

“But
someone
said crap about me,” Banko went on. “Who? A customer? Someone from another restaurant? A different cop?”

“C’mon, I’m not at liberty to say. Anyway, you
do
understand that I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here. The question is not who but why would someone lie?”

“I don’t know, and this is just stupid. You’re tired or you’d see that.”

“Yes, I’m tired, but let’s try it. Throw away that low self-esteem—”

“What?”

“Banko, you’re in a crazy business. People knock you, so you keep to yourself. Even the hotel concierge called you a New Age fruit.”

“That hussy called
me
names?”

“Exactly. Why would someone do just the opposite? Why would someone be afraid enough to discredit you?”

“Because I’m right about human energy being like fingerprints,” he said.

That was still a lot to accept. But then I tapped my cup thoughtfully, causing my reflection to ripple. It settled quickly back into my image. Even my face in java, a completely different medium, reverted to a form that was still identifiably me.

Pseudo-science or not, Richards apparently feared it,
I thought. What did he think the etheric record did, could, or might possibly show? The only person who was doing anything remotely suspect was Bananas. Agent Bowe-Pitt’s own investigation had brought him to that hotel independently. But if Richards couldn’t read the energy lines, how would he know that Bananas was among them . . . unless he already
knew
she had been present and didn’t want that to be revealed? Why would he even care? Unless—

“No,” I said.

“What?”

“It could be that the person who lied about you is involved,” I said. “That’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

And that opened a slew of other questions. The NPD was aware of Ken Chan’s activities in New York. The NPD was aware of the SSS activities in Nashville. Which of those was Richards and the hotel involved with?

There was one way to find out. I had to get back on the horse that didn’t seem to want me enough to throw me.

I gave Banko the air mattress and napped in my office chair until I heard Thom scream. She had discovered my guest when she switched on the lights in the now-dark dining room. Happily, the day got no more exciting than that. Banko decided to head to a local computer café to answer e-mails. Wisely, other than to recover his car, he had no intention of going back to the hotel.

I waited until about ten before I put in a call that had my heart fibrillating just a tad. For the first time in a long time, I was calling someone for a date. What made it worse was that the someone hadn’t shown any interest in me.

Richard Richards answered on the back end of a slurp.

“This is Richards.”

“Hi—it’s Gwen Katz. Of Murray’s Deli.”

“How are you?” he said without too much enthusiasm—but enough to make me not hang up.

“For a human target, I’m not bad,” I said.

“Yes, I heard about those other incidents,” he said. “It’s awful what’s going on. But you still have police protection at your place of business?”

“Yes, thanks. Hey, I was wondering—totally unrelated to anything about me being shot at—would you like to have a drink later?” The question hung there again, like last time, so I added quickly, “I have some questions about the work you were doing. That was pretty fascinating stuff.”

“Computer forensics?” he said.

“Yeah. I used to wonder how some of my old Wall Street buddies cooked their computer logs,” I lied.

My feigned interest made me ashamed . . . and a little worried. Granted, lack of sleep was partly responsible for my skewed reactions. But if my simple wiles failed—

They didn’t.

“Sure, I’ll be happy to talk about data fraud,” he said, with a hint more enthusiasm. “Only thing is, I teach a class tonight.”

“Really? I didn’t know that was something you did.” Ordinarily, I would have made a joke, like, “Community service?” To my credit, I refrained.

“Yes, I lecture once a week on cybersecurity,” he said.

“Hey, that sounds like it could answer some of the things I wanted to ask. Would it be a terrible inconvenience if I tagged along?”

“I don’t see why it should be,” he said—a drop in the enthusiasm scale. “Why don’t I swing by there at seven?”

Score!
Thank God something broke my way. “Perfect,” I said. “I’ll pack snacks if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary, but I appreciate the thought,” he said politely.

“You’re
sure
this isn’t an imposition,” I said.

“Not at all,” he replied.

“Okay. Great. Terrific. See you tonight.”

“Bye.”

The “bye” was flat, unexcited. I hung up feeling unkosher. Not
glatt.
I’ve gotten more enthusiasm from gay men, and I didn’t think Richards was gay. He had seemed nice enough when we met, if a little shy when I pitched my woo; this time he was a little standoffish. Or maybe he’s just distracted?

Isn’t that how you are when you’re working?
I asked myself.
Maybe you caught him in the middle of something and he was too polite to say so. Or maybe he heard about me and Grant and doesn’t want any part of that.

That actually made some sense, and it calmed my stretched nerves and bruised ego. I reminded myself that, in any case, this wasn’t about me. It was about trying to find out why Richard Richards lied about Banko.

The highlight of the morning was the arrival of the glaziers with my new window. I was accustomed to seeing the shadow of the painted words “Murray’s Deli” cast over the diner, but
gloib mir,
it was great having light back in my life. We were still doing takeout only. The staff and the few customers in line outside actually applauded when the big picture window was in place. The sign painter came that afternoon. I know that both veteran tradesmen had put me at the front of the line, a tribute to the high regard they had for my uncle. I also got the sense it was their way of speaking for the rest of Nashville:
Don’t go. Whatever is behind this, we’re behind you.

That afternoon, around three, I got a visit from Bowe-Pitt, minus the motorcycle club accoutrements. He asked to see me in my office. Well, I was in the office anyway. Once again he was in the corridor. His big self absorbed the sound of our conversation.

“You know, it’s a very bad idea to go nosing around the edges of this thing,” he said. He was uncharacteristically stern, visibly annoyed. His moon face had angry little creases around the eyes.

“I do know that,” I replied.

“You almost compromised my operation last night,” he said.

“Sorry. Were you able to—”

“I said I grabbed your wrist, but this came off.” He handed me my watch. The leather strap was torn, the buckle crushed. “I think they believed me.”

“Again, I apologize. Did you learn anything?”

“That is not your concern,” he said. “Your job is to stay alive until the NPD and I have apprehended whoever is behind the shootings.”

I couldn’t dispute that and didn’t. “Just tell me this,” I said. “Do you have any idea whether my abduction and the shootings are connected?”

“There is one connection—you. That is why you have to stay here, under police protection, until we break this. Am I clear?”

I have a problem with someone telling me what to do, especially if that someone is a man. Even if he means well and especially when he runs the playbook that assumes that I’m a helpless female. So I looked up at the big boy and said, “You’re clear. You want me to stay in my cage—”

“We call it an ISH—an Improvised Safe House.”

“I call it Ish Kabibble,” I said. “The bad guys know exactly where I am. My routine is predictable. I don’t like that. I’ve got a new window, which means moving around in the dark and worrying that the enemy has night-vision goggles. I’d rather be a moving target than a stationary one.”

“Detective Daniels has an officer on the roof across the street,” he said. “I repeat: you are safe in here.”

“Safe,” I said. I realized then that I’d loaded a whole lot of bitterness on that one word. I had come down here to hide from the things I hated up north. I was already in a cage, and I didn’t feel safe from aggressive men or corrupt attorneys or crooked fill-in-the-blank. My
famisched
brain was a cage. I sighed. “Thanks for the visit, Agent Bowe-Pitt. Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

“Not in my professional capacity,” he said.

Ouch.
I couldn’t tell if that was anti-Semitic, misogynistic, or just plain Gwen’s-a-pain-in-the-
tuchas
but I’m not allowed to say that. I didn’t care. He left and I sat there, determined to disregard everything he had told me. I hoped this was just a matter of flexing my shoulders and not a secret death wish. My exhausted mind and deflated spirits just weren’t sure any more. Thinking back over the last five or so years, I wasn’t even sure how I’d
gotten
to this point. Was it survival or hostility, a desire to be free or a hunger for change or both? Was it a natural evolution or a desperate fear of being in a rut, owned by a man or profession? Had I come here to shake up routine and push back against mortality—or to cut the waiting time by courting mortality?

Your subconscious is not your friend, Gwen
bubbeleh,
and you need more sleep
. In a bed, not on the floor or in a chair.

The admitted fuzziness of my brain did make me question the wisdom of leaving here with Richards—but I told myself that whatever risk might be involved, I needed to know whether Banko Juarez and Richards and the NPD were my friend. That was something Bowe-Pitt did not seem in a position to tell me.