Yom Kippur Murder by Lee Harris Read Free Book Online Page B

father repent?” She laughed, a jarring, brittle sound in the quiet room. “He’d have to go to a year of Yom Kippur services to repent for everything he did. I’m sorry. I promised myself I’d behave this afternoon. By the way, how did you find my phone number the other day?”
    “It was on the flap of an envelope with your name and address printed on it. Your father kept it in the back of his address book.”
    A small smile played on her lips. “I wrote that letter a month after we were married, when my stationery was new and I was so happy to be Mrs. Gordon Passman. I told my father that I loved him, that I wanted us to remain a family, that we should meet and discuss our differences. He never responded. I wonder if he ever read the letter. Maybe he just tore off the flap so there’d be someone to notify if he ever ended up dead.”
    “He must have read it. He wrote your telephone number on the flap.”
    The little smile came back. “That’s right. It makes it worse, doesn’t it? He read it and rejected my offer. Well, it left him without a daughter, without grandchildren.”
    That troubled me, but it was none of my business. Several old people had come in while we were talking, and I noticedGallagher and Mrs. Paterno among them. I excused myself and went to say hello to them.
    “Have you thought about leaving the building?” I asked Mrs. Paterno.
    “That’s all I think about, but I have nowhere to go.”
    “Do you know any of these people?” I asked both of them.
    “I see them on the bench sometimes on Broadway,” Gallagher said. “That fellow over there, he and Nathan were old pals.” He indicated a tall, rather solid-looking man who had entered with a woman.
    “That one I see sometimes in the supermarket,” Mrs. Paterno said, looking at little Mr. Greenspan, who was just then lifting himself to his feet with the aid of his cane.
    I realized people were moving toward another room, and we joined the small crowd. It was the first Jewish funeral I had ever attended, and it surprised me in many ways. The coffin was a shock. It was a very plain, unadorned box of a simple wood with a perfectly flat top. I guess we Catholics go in for more elaborate caskets, but the sight of that one gave me a chill.
    My second surprise was the funeral service itself. It lasted exactly seven minutes, including a brief eulogy and what I took to be a prayer for the dead at the end. Then we left for the cemetery.
    Mitchell had ordered a second limousine for Gallagher, Paterno, and me, although I told him I was quite able to drive. It was a long trip to the cemetery, and a fairly quiet one. After we talked about the Ramirez arrest, we were silent. At the burial, I saw Mrs. Paterno wipe away a tear, and Ian Gallagher looked desolate. I watched the simple coffin being lowered into the ground, and then Mitchell shoveled some earth over it. Nathan Herskovitz was gone.
    As we returned to the limousines, Mitchell asked me to stay in the city and have dinner with him. That surprised me because I had expected him to spend the evening with his sister. I accepted, and after Gallagher and Mrs. Paterno were dropped off at home, I continued on to the funeral home,where the Herskovitz car was just arriving. Mitchell picked up the book with the signatures of the mourners, and I went to find a telephone. It was close to six, but I thought I might still be able to reach Arnold Gold at his office. I was right.
    “You go to the funeral?” he asked when I told him who was calling.
    “We just got back. There were a fair number of people at the funeral, but none of them went out to the cemetery except our inner circle.”
    “How’re they holding up?”
    “Pretty well. I think they’re relieved there’s been an arrest. Jack called me this morning and said they’d arrested a man named Ramirez.”
    “Typical dumb NYPD collar,” Arnold said in his usual forthright manner. His sentiments about the police department are not exactly