(2012) Cross-Border Murder by David Waters Read Free Book Online Page B

broadcasting network had constructed its operations a few blocks to the east. And less than a quarter of a mile to the north a private television station had located its production studios. In the process the character of the tenants had changed: they were now better educated and commanded better salaries. Much of the area had become gentrified. Tenements had been gutted and their interiors redesigned, cultivated gardens had now sprouted in the small front and back yards where once only weeds and crab grass had survived the trampling of too many children.
    I got out and went up the wrought iron, outside stairs to the second story balcony and rang the bell. Someone pulled the door curtain aside and stared at me through the window. Finally the door opened half-way.
    “Yes,” she asked in French.
    “Madame Bronson?” I asked.
    “Yes,” she replied, this time in English. Her hair was a light red, short, and cropped close to her skull. Her skin was pale, almost translucent like fine bone china. Her eyes were a light green, or so they seemed to me in the soft light cast by a ceiling fixture in the vestibule.
    “My name is Thomas Webster. I was the reporter who covered your husband’s murder. May I come in? There’s a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
    There was a slight flicker of recognition. Her thin lips turned downwards in distinct displeasure. “Now is not a good time.”
    “I need only a few minutes.” In truth, I wanted much more but tonight I was prepared to settle for a sense of what she was like.
    She backed slowly away from the door and I followed her inside. From somewhere inside the apartment a woman’s voice asked in French, “who is it?” Naomi Bronson answered also in French, “a reporter who covered my husband’s death.” The other women appeared in the doorway to the living room. She was in her early forties, wiry, aggressive, protective. She scanned me up and down, her glance hostile. Naomi Bronson smiled at her friend, said she was going to be okay and that I would only be staying a few minutes. Her friend shrugged, smiled with her lips only and returned to what I assumed was the kitchen area of the flat.
    I explained that Frank Montini had died and that Gina, his daughter, had come to see me. Naomi Bronson raised her eyebrows. I added that Gina had asked me to help clear his name.
    “Well, you can tell Gina that I’ve always felt sure he was innocent.” She said it as a simple statement. “Gina was a nice girl. I always liked her.” She did not ask me to sit down, and I felt I would be pushing my luck if I asked.
    Some private memory seemed to amuse her. She sighed. “You can also tell Gina that her father had decided to end our brief affair before my husband was murdered. His death was certainly not the result of some pathetic love triangle.”
    “Did you tell the police that at the time?”
    “No. I did not. Why should I?”
    “Because the police probably believed otherwise.”
    “They would have anyways. The police were bunglers. They did not ask the right questions. I was angry. I did not volunteer the right answers.”
    “What were the right answers?”
    “She shrugged, “it was a long time ago. It no longer matters.”
    “Do you have any idea who might have murdered your husband?”
    She hesitated. I held my breath. “No. And as I’ve said, it no longer matters to me who did.”
    “It matters to Gina.”
    “You said Frank is dead.”
    “Yes.”
    “Tell Gina to get on with her life. That’s all that matters.”
    “Did your husband ever talk to you about his involvement with Professor Bull’s artillery project?”
    “I knew about it.” The compression of her lips showed her disdain. “But my former husband felt no need to share anything with me, Mr. Webster. Whatever I felt for him at the beginning, whatever he felt towards me, had died before we arrived at Winston University. We had our reasons for keeping up appearances. He was a cold man. He was certainly