No Good to Cry Read Online Free PDF Page B

handiwork, smudged now but still jarring.
    Hank bent down to examine the railing. “It strikes me that the muggers didn’t intend to kill, just rob. I mean, if he fell a foot ahead”—he pointed to a clump of overgrown ornate yews lining the sidewalk—“he’d have toppled into the bushes.”
    â€œRalph was a feisty guy. He fought back.”
    â€œAnd died because of it.”
    â€œThere had to be witnesses.” I checked out the neighborhood. “Crowds everywhere. Around four in the afternoon. The suburbanites fleeing Hartford. Farmington Avenue into West Hartford.”
    â€œA busy street,” Hank agreed, but added, “but not so much right here.”
    He pointed to the red-brick three-story building next to the bakery, the entranceway cluttered with overgrown evergreens, an ancient metal rental sign on the wall, plywood covering the windows, another wooden sign nailed to the door. FOR SALE. A number to call. To the right of the bakery was a nightclub. Lola’s Fantasy Club. A lit neon graphic of an upturned cocktail glass in the window, but an otherwise dark building.
    â€œNightlife,” I said. “Closed now.”
    â€œSo the muggers chose their spot carefully.”
    I shook my head. “But there’s sidewalk traffic. A busy avenue. Cars, buses. Broad daylight.”
    â€œAnd their victims. Two old men, walking slowly.”
    â€œWhat about across the street?” I asked.
    A line of apartment buildings, canopied, shadowy in the afternoon light.
    â€œWe’ll see.”
    Hank sounded frustrated. “Somebody had to notice something, no?”
    The woman behind the display counter of Roma Bakery greeted us as we walked in. A plump woman in her forties with a round, flat face and a pin-curl hairdo, she smiled warmly. “Hello,” she sang out.
    I introduced myself and Hank, told her I was an investigator and the partner of Jimmy Gadowicz, the man injured yesterday. I lowered my voice. “Ralph Gervase, the dead man, was his friend.” Immediately her welcoming expression became mournful.
    She stepped out from behind the counter. “Maria Lombardi.” She grasped both our hands. “The owner. Please, have a seat.”
    We sat on white ice-cream parlor chairs around a small marble-topped table. Without asking, she poured us cups of coffee and placed them before us.
    â€œA pastry?” she asked. “On the house.” She glanced back toward the kitchen. “A warm almond cookie?”
    Both Hank and I shook our heads, though I did welcome the aromatic, rich coffee. This was a place I’d return to. The tantalizing aroma of baked bread wafted from the unseen kitchen. My stomach growled. Yes, an almond cookie. She must have read my mind because she scurried to the counter and returned with a plate of them. I bit into one, and smiled. She was watching me closely, a smile on her face.
    Dangerous—this bakery was down the street from our office. I figured Jimmy already lived here.
    â€œI’m so sorry about your friend. Jimmy—him, I know.” I nodded. “He buys…” She stopped. “So sorry the man died.” She looked down into her lap. “I was the one who called the cops, you know. I was standing by the front door.” She pointed. “Sometimes the smell of baking bread pulls them off the sidewalk.”
    â€œI can believe it,” I said.
    â€œAnyway, I sort of notice the two old men walking, pausing, and I thought they was arguing. I ain’t really paying attention. The fat one—I couldn’t see that it was Jimmy—raising his fist. Like making a point.”
    â€œSounds like Jimmy.” I looked at Hank.
    â€œThen out of nowhere these kids come running, so fast I didn’t understand what was happening. One of them is running real fast. He bangs into the old guy who starts to fight the kid. Then I seen him fall. I mean, the kid…slugged him in