The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (best authors to read .TXT) 📕

not turn Abe in.” I don’t know if I believe that anymore. Or if it matters. I can’t believe this goon broke into my home because of refrigeration stolen fifty years earlier. There’s got to be more to this and my father’s past than I know.

“Of course they didn’t turn Abe in.” His voice is thick with sarcasm. “They were much too loyal for that.”

Landauer hands his mug to Pinky, who pours another cup of coffee from the carafe on my counter and brings it to the table. The old man leans back in his seat and scrutinizes me. “You seem like a nice girl, so I’m going to play it straight with you.” He takes a slow sip of the steaming brew. “Your father’s full of shit.”

“I can’t believe . . .”

He slams his hand on the table so hard that I jump. “Shut up and listen. My friends had a reason for leaving that crap in your bedroom. It’s too bad you didn’t have the smarts to figure it out. If you did, you wouldn’t be talking to your old man and I wouldn’t be here today. Your father killed Fat Louie as sure as I’m sitting here. Then he let me take the rap. And that’s just half the story. So here’s what you do. Go back to your father. Tell him that you met me. And let him know I haven’t talked to my wife and kids in sixty years. You can also let him know that if he doesn’t tell you the truth, his life isn’t worth a red cent. Neither is yours. You got that?”

I nod, too frightened to speak.

He stands. My heart skips a beat as Pinky reaches for his gun, then tucks it into the waistband of his pants.

“I’ll return,” Landauer says. “And if you’re father doesn’t confess.” He glances at Pinky, then me. “You got two boys, right. Well, he knows what I’ll do.”

He walks around to my side of the table and pats my head. “Don’t get up. We’ll show ourselves out.”

Pinky picks up Landauer’s cup and places it in the sink. I’m terrified. Landauer knows about Josh and Gabriel! They could be in danger. My stomach heaves. I’m afraid my knees will buckle if I try to stand so follow the two men with my gaze as they leave the kitchen. I’m too weak to do anything but stare after them for several minutes after the back door slams.

When I hear their car pull away, I pick up the phone and dial the Boca Raton police. I love my father. But this has gone far enough.

The two officers who show up fifteen minutes later are polite but exchange skeptical glances when I tell them about the intruders waiting for me at my kitchen table. As I describe the visit, I understand their skepticism; except for the threats, Landauer’s visit sounds too civilized. After I’ve shown the men where we sat and point out the coffeepot and mug Pinky and Landauer touched, the policemen suggest we go to the family room to talk. Officer Lopez, a baby-faced cop in his early twenties with a shadow of a mustache, stays with me while his partner, Officer Amodio, checks the house. We make small talk about the neighborhood and Boca’s growing crime rate.

“All clear,” Amodio says when he rejoins us. He’s a foot taller than his partner and carries an extra ten pounds, most of it shelved neatly above a thick black belt. “Your rear sliders are easy to break into so you might want to replace them. But from the scratches on the front doorknob, I’d say your visitors picked the lock and entered there.”

“Wouldn’t they worry about being spotted?”

Amodio shrugs. “I guess they scoped out the area before entering. I called the station and a detective will be here soon.” He inclines his head toward the kitchen. “That business you mentioned earlier, about seeing one of the men before. Did you catch his name or any of the other people at the funeral?”

“My father identified a few people, but not Mr. Landauer.” I’m uncomfortable lying, but decide not to mention that I recognized Landauer’s name from my father’s account of Fat Louie. I don’t want to go there—at least not yet. My goal at this point is to feel safe. If that means telling them about Tootsie’s past later, I will. But I want to talk to the old man first. He must have had a good reason for failing to point out Landauer at the funeral.

The doorbell rings and Lopez—announcing “that’ll be Detective Cole”—answers it. I’m surprised when an attractive silver-haired man in a navy sports jacket strides into the hall. He’s broad-shouldered but slim and the angle of his eyes suggests Asian blood. Where the other police officers look official in their heavy black uniforms and shiny badges and guns, this man could be a doctor or lawyer or insurance salesman. I follow the officers to the kitchen to show the detective where Landauer sat, but Cole raises his hand, directing me to stop at the entrance.

“Have you touched anything since the intruders left?” he says, walking briskly to the counter and glancing into the sink. Amodio must have told him about Landauer helping himself to coffee.

“Just the phone and my chair,” I say. “And the front door when I opened it for the officers.”

He nods and sends a silent signal to the policemen, who wish me luck and leave through the garage door.

After Cole checks the kitchen, we return to the family room, where he spends fifteen minutes going over the same territory I covered with the uniformed officers. I can’t seem to get comfortable on the couch and cross and uncross my legs as we speak. He stands before me, blocking my view of the television, arms crossed. What time did I arrive home? Did I notice anything odd before going upstairs? Were the men wearing gloves? The answer is no.

Detective Cole asks if I