To Kill a Matzo Ball (A Deadly Deli Mystery) by Delia Rosen Read Free Book Online

out.
    “Don’t you people usually travel in pairs?” I asked.
    “Budget reductions do not always make that possible,” he said. “And this is not, strictly speaking, an investigative visit.”
    “No? What is it?” I asked. I poured, sipped the coffee bitter and black, stayed where I was, and looked back at him. I wanted to be where the cop at the door could see me. I didn’t know why, but I did.
    He came around the counter, his back to the door. There was no way the cop could see me now. If this guy wasn’t the real deal, I was in serious trouble. I had no reason to believe he was a fake other than my own post-traumatic jitters, inherent mistrust, and doubt that this man could have worn even the extra-largest standard-issue FBI gear.
    “We have been keeping an eye on all of the businesses like yours in Nashville,” Agent Bowe-Pitt went on. “Nothing intrusive—just drive-bys several times a week.”
    “Why is that?” I asked, though I pretty much knew what he was going to say. “Like yours” was about as transparent a euphemism as one could use. He meant that some mouth-breather out there had it in for Jews.
    “While it’s possible that someone knew Mr. Chan would be here, that’s a little too fluid a situation for me.”
    “I don’t follow.”
    “Someone would have to have been tracking him,” the agent said. “Given how often he was probably alone at his school, tailing him here doesn’t seem to make the best sense. It’s not impossible, of course, and there are some stupid killers out there, but it’s not the best working theory.”
    “What is your best theory?”
    “We’ve been tracking a well-funded group of radical white supremacists, the SSS,” he said. “It stands for Shock, Shoot, and Slaughter. Mr. Chan, being of Asian descent, a foreigner, new in the city—that would have been something to attract their attention.”
    My first reaction? I didn’t think that a bunch of homicidal rednecks would have had the wit or creativity to conceive of a mash-up between the SS and the KKK. Maybe they had hired an image consultant. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was an opportunity there—rebranding hate. Legitimizing the illegitimate, the way nations did.
    “You heard about the cop who was shot off-road two weeks ago?” he asked.
    I nodded. It was big news for several days. Marcuz Frank, an off-duty police officer, had taken his date to a romantic spot off Briley Parkway. It wasn’t really romantic; it was isolated and located in a woody depression not visible from the road. The gal was abducted, and the cop was fatally shot in the head. She was found later, strangled, in a rusting, abandoned truck.
    “We believe that was the work of this group,” he said. “The officer was African-American. The woman was not. The first flyers were found the next morning, not far from there.”
    “Had the couple been seen around town?” I asked. “How did they know?”
    “We don’t know,” Bowe-Pitt said.
    “I assume you know who these people are?” I asked. “Some of them, at least?”
    “We don’t,” Bowe-Pitt admitted.
    “Then how do you know they’re well-financed?” I asked. “A bunch of fliers pinned to trees isn’t exactly high overhead.”
    “No, but invisibility is,” he said. “These guys leave no data fingerprints anywhere. Either there are no cell phone or Internet communications, which isn’t likely, or they are using highly sophisticated hardware and software. That costs.”
    True enough. It wouldn’t be possible for a bunch of killer hillbillies to hide for very long without help.
    “They’ve also been schooled in up-to-date security practices,” he went on. “We have a flyer they posted. None of the word groups or letter sequences show up in any of our searches. And we don’t know that they’re remote country inhabitants, which I presume is what you meant by the hillbilly reference. For all we know they may be local business owners. Restaurateurs,