Fiddlers Read Online Free PDF Page A

month.�
    �What a month,� Jamie said. �Hottest damn June I can remember.�
    �Said someone was following her?� Parker said.
    �Said she�d spotted this guy following her, yes.�
    �Where, did she say?�
    �Just following her.�
    �Here? This neighborhood? Or where she lived?�
    �She didn�t say.�
    �How many times did she spot him?�
    �Once or twice.�
    �Did she confront him?�
    �No. Well, I don�t think so.�
    �Did she report any of this to the police?�
    �No. Ronnie? She didn�t call the police, did she?�
    �No,� Veronica said.
    �Just mentioned it to each of you.�
    �Yes.�
    �Either of you notice any bald guys lurking around outside?� Parker asked.
    They both shook their heads.
    �Know anything about anyone she might�ve been seeing?� he asked. �Any boyfriends?�
    �She recently broke up with this stockbroker guy,� Veronica said.
    �Would you know his name?�
    �No. Harold something.�
    �When was this?�
    �Breaking up? Around Easter time.�
    �Been dating anyone since?�
    Jamie shrugged.
    So did Veronica.
    �This Harold something? He wouldn�t be bald, would he?�
    �Don�t know what he looks like,� Veronica said, and shrugged again.
    �Would anyone else in the office know his last name?�
    One of the other sales reps did.
    * * * *
    Harold Saperstein was a man in his early fifties, they guessed. Wearing eyeglasses and a business suit. He had thick curly black hair, they noticed.
    He was just leaving his office when they caught up with him at five that Monday afternoon. They identified themselves, told him they were investigating the murder of Alicia Hendricks�
    �Yeah, I figured you�d be around,� he said.
    � and asked if he would mind answering a few questions. They walked over to a pocket park near his office. The three men sat on a bench, Saperstein in the middle. A waterfall streamed down a tan brick wall behind them. It made the day seem cooler.
    �So tell us how you happened to break up,� Parker said.
    �You know about that, huh?�
    �Tell us, anyway,� Genero said.
    �It was The Passion.�
    They thought he was talking about the heat of their love affair.
    �The Mel Gibson movie,� he explained. �I told Alicia it was anti-Semitic. She disagreed. I�m Jewish, we got into an argument.�
    �So whose idea was it to split up?�
    �My mother�s. I live with my mother. She said if we were going to fight already over a fecockteh movie, that was just the beginning.�
    �When was this?�
    �Around Easter time. When the fever was at its pitch.�
    �When�s the last time you saw her?�
    �Passover. At my mother�s.�
    �Ever talk to her since?�
    �Yes.�
    �When?�
    �Couple of weeks ago. She phoned to tell me some guy was following her.�
    �And?�
    �She wanted to know what she should do. I told her to call the cops.�
    �Did she?�
    �I have no idea. That�s the last time we ever spoke.�
    He was silent for a while. Behind them, the water cascaded down the wall.
    �I hate Mel Gibson,� he said.
    * * * *
    �This would�ve been a long time ago,� Meyer said.
    �Forty years or more.�
    �Around the time of the Vietnam War.�
    The woman they were talking to was Abigail Nelson, Director of Music Studies at the Kleber School of Music, Dance and Drama. She was perhaps forty years old, a trim-looking woman who wore her darkish brown hair in a feather cut. Blue pinstripe suit, like what you�d expect on a bank manager. Alert blue eyes behind oversized glasses.
    They were sitting at a long table in the school�s clerical office. Filing cabinets lined the room. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows. Down the hall, they could hear distant music from rehearsal rooms.
    �The sixties sometime?� Abigail asked.
    �Mid-sixties, probably. We have him in Vietnam during the late sixties.�
    �So this would�ve been before then.�
    �Yes.�
    �We wouldn�t even have been