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

asked.
    “Because none of them was NRA material, to my knowledge; their attacks on me were more or less crimes of passion, heat of the moment; most are in jail; and none of them has enough money or anything to trade to hire a hit man or woman.”
    She asked for the spellings, corrected them on the transcript, then reviewed what I had said.
    “You didn’t mention what time Mr. Chan first called,” she said. “Do you remember when that was?”
    “Height of the rush, between a quarter and half-past eight.”
    “Would it be possible for me to borrow the credit card receipts from that time until the attack?”
    “Why?” I asked.
    “Someone might have been casing the place, knowing that he’d be here,” she said. “It’s routine.”
    “But the credit card information—isn’t that confidential?”
    “I’m not going to buy a flatscreen TV or plane tickets on someone else’s dime,” she said. “I want to see if anyone who ate here this morning has a criminal record. I want to catch a murderer, and I’m sure you do too. I’ll scan them to a file, then delete them when I’m done. They won’t even have to leave the premises. But if you want to waste time while I get a subpoena—that’s your call.”
    “No, it’s okay,” I said.
    I wasn’t a member of the ACLU, and given how I ran the place, I believed in a little benevolent dictatorship. And she was right. I asked Thom to gather the slips. Detective Bean thanked me. She ran them across a plug-in to her iPad as if they were items in a grocery checkout line.
    “Oh, and I’m sorry,” I said when she was done.
    “About what?”
    “My crack about the freshness of my memory. Apparently, you did need to prod me.”
    “People recall a lot but remember selectively,” she said. “Trauma causes what we call the Disco Ball Effect. The bright spots shine, the details are sometimes lost.” She gave me a card. “If you remember anything else.”
    “Sure.”
    I was left feeling stupid and empty. You always wonder how you’ll respond if you’re ever really tested by something horrible. I always imagined I’d keep my head, deal with the situation like Molly Pitcher ramrodding her Revolutionary War cannon at the Battle of Monmouth. The truth is, even as the event rolled out in what seemed like slow motion, I didn’t have time to do anything except turn my head. I didn’t process the danger fast enough. Even falling, my arms barely had time to take the hit. I don’t know what Ken Chan saw, but now that I thought about it, he obviously took that second or two to assess the threat, decided he was doomed, and made his move to save me.
    Jesus.
    My fingers were throbbing now, and I looked at my palms. They were black-and-blue from wrist to mid-thumb. So were the edges of my pinkies and all the tops of my fingers. But that, and some tightness in my shoulders, was all I got. I wondered when survivor’s guilt would hit me. That was another bequest from my great-great relatives.
    I went to my office, looked down the hall, and saw local WSMV Channel 4 TV reporter Candy Sommerton shooting video over the crime-scene tape, past the cop at the door, right at me. If poor Mr. Chan hadn’t been lying on the floor a few feet away I would have flipped her out. That seemed disrespectful, under the circumstances. I just turned, entered my office, and shut the door.

Chapter 3
    Crime is like a loose tooth. When it’s in your face, you can’t stop playing with it.
    Grant kindly stopped by the office to see how I was, showing old-Grant concern for me. I was touched without being moved. In my defense, I was busy calling my insurance agent and various contractors and glaziers. If the past was any indication, business would boom due to what had happened. That wasn’t why I made the moves to get repairs on the calendar; my staff needed to work, and so did I.
    The calls were all rote. They took about a half hour, after which I went back to the kitchen. Detective Bean was talking with