Tender Is LeVine: A Jack LeVine Mystery by Andrew Bergman Read Free Book Online Page B

straightened as soon as he got a good look at Barbara Stern.
    Breen cleared his throat. “I apologize for the intrusion; I realize it’s terribly early in the morning and you folks have been through a great deal already.”
    The Weissmans introduced themselves, Kurt again emphasizing his bona fides as a dry cleaner, his concern for the welfare of the Stern family, and his need to get adequate rest before another day of Martinizing. He and Use backed out of the apartment like Abbott and Costello in a ghost picture, Kurt never taking his eyes off the cops. Use shook her head at me as if we had a secret compact, then loudly shut the door. I could hear their footsteps echoing down the hallway, and then Use’s raised voice as she railed against her overmatched mate.
    The two cops took their coats off and helped themselves to coffee, before seating themselves in a most gingerly fashion on the cane-backed chairs that flanked the couch. The chairs appeared fragile; the two homicide bulls did not. Hilde and Barbara huddled close to each other on the couch, and I remained standing, as I usually do in the presence of trained law enforcement professionals.
    “We know this is a terrible ordeal for all of you,” O’Malley added. He and Breen were playing good-cop/good-cop. “So we don’t want to overstay our welcome. We’d just like to pull together a few facts to help us get started on our investigation and then we’ll be out of your hair and on our way as quickly as possible.”
    Hilde shrugged. “Who can sleep anyhow? You ask what you ask.”
    The cops didn’t quite know how to play that, so they simply nodded. O’Malley looked over at Barbara and nervously rubbed his wedding band, as if hoping it would disappear. Breen straightened the crease in his pants and eyeballed me.
    “And you’re …?”
    “Jack LeVine, capital V. Private investigator, 1630 Broadway. If you’d like my card …” I fished through my sports jacket.
    Breen threw an inquiring look Hilde’s way.
    “Mrs. Stern, there was really no need to hire an investigator.”
    “She didn’t hire me,” I told Breen. “Her husband did.” I found a card and handed it to the pockmarked cop. “Earlier this week.”
    “Why?” Breen asked me, then regretted it. He looked uneasily at Hilde, as if assessing, and immediately dismissing, the possibility of marital hanky-panky.
    “He had a professional concern.”
    “Things were good between you and your husband?” O’Malley asked Hilde.
    “Things?” Hilde looked as blank as if O’Malley were speaking in Swahili.
    “Your marriage.”
    “He was my husband. Of course I loved him.”
    “Recent arguments, disagreements?”
    Barbara jumped in with both feet.
    “Are you joking?” she asked the hapless homicide dick. “My father was shot to death! This wasn’t some domestic squabble, for crissakes!”
    “Barbara!” Hilde was clearly appalled by her daughter’s fearlessness. She glanced nervously at the door. Like her late husband, she was always on the alert for the sudden, spectral arrival of storm troopers.
    “You see my mother,” Barbara continued. “I mean, do you actually think for one instant that she’s capable—”
    “Certainly not”—O’Malley wanted to stay on Barbara’s good side, which was every side—“but there’s a certain routine we have to follow….” He looked hopefully toward me for confirmation of his methodology, but I just examined my tie for gravy stains.
    Breen continued applying the soft soap. “No matter how outrageous or obvious the questions may appear—”
    Hilde finally tuned in to the line of questioning, as if she had just located her favorite radio station. “You think I have something to do with this?” she asked. “With a shooting ?” She wasn’t angry; she just couldn’t comprehend what they were talking about,
    I grabbed a jelly-filled cookie off the tray. “No they don’t, Mrs. Stern. Everybody knows what kind of a marriage you and Fritz had.