To Kill a Matzo Ball (A Deadly Deli Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

long scar on the back of her right hand when she extended it.
    “Detective Jill Bean,” she said.
    “Gwen Katz.” She had a grip like giant pliers.
    “Ms. Katz, I’m sorry to have to do this now, but we need to talk while the memory is still fresh.”
    “A half hour ago I was talking to a man who’s dead now. That’s pretty fresh.”
    “I understand, but sometimes there are details—”
    “This event is like canned goods,” I said. “It’ll keep a very long time.”
    I hadn’t intended to make a joke, but it sounded like one and it fell flat. Detective Bean gave me a mild if-you-say-so look before asking if I wanted to sit. I told her no. I leaned against the jamb with the smell of the kitchen to my right and sun-ripened trash to my left. It fit the situation. She turned on her iPad voice recorder and asked me to tell her what happened in as much detail as I could remember.
    As my staff quieted, apparently listening to every syllable I uttered, I told the detective everything from the moment Ken Chan walked in until Grant walked me out. She did not interrupt. When I was finished, she asked what I had seen when I looked out the window.
    “I saw the tail end of a car, a motorcycle, and the front of another car,” I told her. “There were flashes, like sunlight hitting the window, and then the room turned over as Mr. Chan threw me to the floor.”
    “Did the flashes originate in one of the vehicles or on the sidewalk?”
    “It was from above the street, definitely not the sidewalk.”
    “How far above?”
    “I think—about the height of a delivery truck.”
    “A rooftop, perhaps?” she asked.
    “Maybe. Yes, probably.”
    “You’re sure.”
    “There was a pedestrian—she looked across the street. Up, I think.”
    “So there was the tail end of a car, a motorcycle, the front of another car, and a pedestrian. They all may have seen the shot?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “What did this pedestrian look like?”
    “A woman. Short. With a dog. She was dressed in jeans and a white blouse.”
    “Were there earbuds? Was she listening to music?”
    “I don’t know. Most likely. Everyone does.”
    “Okay. You’re sure there was nothing else.”
    “Yes. Isn’t there surveillance video?”
    “We’re checking,” the detective said.
    “You say Mr. Chan threw you . . .”
    “It was more like he stuck his arm out and pushed me.” I showed her, with my hands, how we were sitting at right angles to one another.
    “He clotheslined you,” she said. “It’s like when you run into a clothesline you didn’t see and it knocks you flat on your back.”
    “That’s pretty much what happened,” I agreed, “except that I wasn’t moving before that. He provided all the force. His arm didn’t look strong, but it was.”
    “Had you ever met Mr. Chan before today? Know anything about him?”
    I shook my head. “The first contact I had was when he phoned this morning.”
    “He called first?”
    “Yes.”
    “What showed up on your phone? What name?”
    Good question. I had forgotten about that. “May Wong,” I told her.
    She wrote that down. “The number is still on your phone?”
    I nodded.
    “Did he say anything about his personal life?” she asked.
    “He said he left New York because of pressure from gang members.”
    That got her attention. “Did he mention any affiliations?”
    “He said something about the triads.”
    “You say he was ordering food for a belt test,” she said. “When was that for?”
    “Tomorrow night.”
    I choked on the words; I don’t know why. It hit me behind the eyes, and I started to sob. The detective stepped back to give me space, and I turned away. I looked out at the clear, sharp sunlight smeared by my tears. Maybe I had just realized that this wasn’t about me or even Ken Chan. What was supposed to be a happy time, a joyous place, would now be a scene of mourning. I wondered suddenly if I should cater whatever kind of memorial service they would have. Would