Compromising Positions Read Online Free PDF Page A

with diamond pinky rings and white-on-white shirts who paid off legions of equally tacky politicians and distributed heroin by remote control.
    Something sounded wrong. I called Bob on his private line.
    “Me. If Fleckstein was going to be indicted, it means he wasn’t testifying against the Mafia.”
    “Judith, I have a lunch date and I have to get to the club for a quick workout first.”
    “Come on.”
    “Well, I don’t know. I guess you’re right. Let me try to remember what Clay said.” I waited. “From what he said, it sounded like Fleckstein was in pretty thick; he wasn’t talking or anything.”
    “So if he wasn’t testifying against the Mafia, why would they kill him?”
    “I don’t know. Judith...”
    “And they don’t stab people. They’d gun him down. They would have booby-trapped his car. Or cut off his balls and carved a black hand on his chest and left him on his front doorstep.”
    “Maybe. But what’s so important about this? He’s dead.”
    “I don’t know. It’s not so nice to kill. It offends me.”
    “People are starving to death in Africa and you don’t ask me to make phone calls.”
    “That’s unfair. And I sent a check to CARE. It’s just that this is close to home.”
    “Not close to my home,” he declared. “Now, look, you know he was involved in a nasty business, and people who get involved in nasty businesses get into trouble. Right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. I have to run now. I’ll see you for dinner.”
    At least he hadn’t told me not to worry my pretty little head about other people’s dirty laundry. Although in reality that’s exactly what he had said. Bob only wanted me to worry about his dirty laundry. And his dinner. And to make sure his children were carefully tended. It’s not that he wanted a robot, a smiling automaton to make his bed and giggle on cue; he enjoyed what he called my “intellect.” I could comprehend his business problems, appreciate his latest press release, savor with him the courtship of a new client. And I could be trotted out to dinner with a wide range of business contacts and never make an ass of myself. During political conventions, I could remind him who were the two vice-presidential candidates in 1956. In short, a pleasure to have around, a housekeeper of reasonably pleasing countenance guaranteed not to steal, an accomplished lover with hips as fast as lightning.
    “Mommy, the doorbell.” Joey tugged the leg of my jeans.
    “Coming,” I called, and strolled to the door. Kate wasn’t due home for another fifteen minutes.
    “Mrs. Judith Singer?” the man on my doorstep asked. I gripped the knob and peered at him. Blue-eyed, about my age, with crisply cut short hair. He smiled with a mouth full of bright, white teeth. Very good-looking. Totally unappealing.
    “Yes, I’m Judith Singer.”
    “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we’re investigating the murder of Bruce Fleckstein. Dr. Fleckstein. I know Sergeant Ramirez spoke to you, but there are just a couple of things we’d like cleared up.” He showed me his ID: Detective Steven Christopher Smith. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. Is this a convenient time for you?”
    “Of course. Please come in.”

Chapter Three
    Smith stepped into the house. “Do you happen to know where Mrs. Tuccio does her shopping?” His voice was gentle, soothing, like a doctor on a TV show about to give the family some sad news about their loved one.
    “Shopping?”
    “For groceries, ma’am.”
    “I don’t know. I guess Waldbaum’s or the A&P. They’re the closest.”
    “Mrs. Tuccio never mentioned where she shops?”
    My relationship with Marilyn was obviously less intimate than the police had assumed. “No, she never did.”
    “I see. Well, ma’am, would you happen to know the time of day Mrs. Tuccio went shopping?”
    “No.” I paused, concentrating on Smith’s plump, pink cheeks. “Are you trying to establish some sort of alibi?”
    “I really can’t say, Mrs.