Stone Cold Dead James Ziskin (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📖

in flagrante. I doubted it was Fadge. He’d closed up the store about an hour earlier and asked if I was interested in a late-night cheeseburger and fries at Whitey’s. I told him I had retired for the evening and wasn’t putting my face on again for a cheeseburger. Besides, Fadge made more noise climbing the stairs than the Rough Riders charging up San Juan Hill. And he wouldn’t have troubled himself about disturbing Mrs. Giannetti’s sleep. (Fadge enjoyed an antagonistic relationship with her, having once emptied his garbage can on her lawn after she’d complained he wasn’t keeping the store’s stoop clean enough for her liking.) In any case, I was alarmed. I was certain it wasn’t Fadge and couldn’t imagine who else would be creeping up my stairs in the middle of the night.

“Dick?” called Irene Metzger, startling me with the volume and coarseness of her voice. The creaking on the stairs stopped. “Dick, come on up so you can say your apologies to Miss Stone properly.”

There was no answer from the stairs, and Irene Metzger looked puzzled. “Dick!” she roared.

The only answer she got was the sound of retreating steps scrambling back down the staircase. Irene Metzger and I both leapt up from the kitchen table. I grabbed my trusty broom and committed the same blunder as the first time, holding the hard end, ready to attack with the soft. Irene Metzger lunged for the back door and didn’t hesitate to follow the visitor down the stairs. I made my way down more cautiously; I’d had a few more drinks than she.

Outside, I stood on the porch, looking up and down Lincoln Avenue through the rain, seeing no one except Irene Metzger crossing the street to her husband’s green pickup, parked directly in front of Fiorello’s.

“Dick?” I heard her call. “Dick, what did you run away for?”

Braving the wind and rain, I joined them across the street. Irene Metzger now wore an expression of distress. She squinted into the darkness and rain in both directions, trying to see something.

“What is it?” I asked, still clutching the now-wet broom.

Dick Metzger echoed my question. “What the hell’s wrong, Irene?” he demanded.

She turned to me, ignoring her husband for the moment. “Dick was fast asleep in the truck just now.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The city police arrived ten minutes later. I doubted the utility of asking for their help after the treatment I’d received the day before, but Irene Metzger had insisted. I breathed more easily when I saw the responding officer climb out of his patrol car. Vic Mature had come to my rescue. Over a cup of coffee at my kitchen table, Officer Palumbo listened patiently as I described the eerie visit. Irene Metzger nodded and embellished, peppering my account with her details as well. Dick Metzger leaned against my icebox and said nothing.

“Well, it’s not a lot to go on,” said Palumbo in his deep baritone. “No breaking and entering, no assault. You didn’t even see him to give a description.”

I stared at him, knowing full well that there was nothing he could do. Still, I wanted him to say something useful to help me make it through the night. My flimsy kitchen door had been breached before, just a month earlier when I’d made the wrong person nervous investigating the Jordan Shaw murder.

“I can ask the duty sergeant to put a patrol in the neighborhood,” he offered.

“Who’s on duty tonight?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

Palumbo cleared his throat. “Joe Philbin.”

My head fell into my hands. I could call Frank Olney, but what kind of person would that make me? Ready to ignore his wishes one minute, then begging him to fight my battles the next. There was Fadge, of course. But I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. And Steve Herbert? No thanks. Why did I need to run to a man anyhow? Because I was terrified, that’s why. It could have been Joey Figlio on my stair, a bully of a city cop, Ted Russell, Bobby Karl Jr., or someone worse. I didn’t know who was responsible for Darleen Hicks’s disappearance, which made my sense of security even shakier. In fact, one of the men I suspected most of all was standing in my kitchen at that very moment, preventing my icebox from falling over, glowering at me the whole time. And he still hadn’t apologized or offered flowers or chocolates.

“Thank you just the same,” I said to Officer Palumbo. “I’ll take my chances with the thugs and murderers prowling about.”

Palumbo smiled softly. I love it when big, tough guys smile like that. And when they’re cops, well, doubly so.

“I’m on duty till morning, miss,” he said. “I’ll circle around Lincoln Avenue a few times and keep an eye on things.”

I’d have preferred he just spend the night, but thought better of suggesting that. I nodded and thanked him instead.

Irene Metzger asked me to keep her informed of my progress, then she and her husband took their leave. As they stepped through the kitchen door, Dick Metzger turned and regarded me uneasily. Still no apology. We stared at each other for a long moment as I considered my options. He was very close, but Officer Palumbo was just behind me. That was no guarantee of my safety, but I thought I’d never have this kind of protection again. So I asked him. Slow and measured: “Did you ever kiss your daughter on the lips?”

He blanched. His wife grabbed his forearm to still him, and his eyes bulged the same way they had the last time I’d asked that question. But then they darted to my left, over my shoulder, just for a split second. He pinched his lips together, holding back his rage. I didn’t move or breathe. I just stared deep into his eyes, trying to read his thoughts, waiting to see what secrets they might betray if he finally consented to answer my question.

“Yes,” he said, quiet but hard. “It’s our way to