Yom Kippur Murder

by Lee Harris

  He sat down. “Who told you that?” He still sounded belligerent. I wondered what Hannah had seen in him. He was a handsome man, but he had a repelling manner.

  I sat down, too. “No one told me. No one would tell me. I figured it out. I want you to confirm it for me. I don’t intend to tell anyone.”

  “We were lovers,” he said.

  I felt a surge of elation. “When? How long?”

  “Long.” He turned to look at a piece of sculpture, and his eyes glazed. “The circle started in the late forties, after the Herskovitzes arrived. During the war it had been less formal, more like individual friendships. Nathan seemed to bring them all together. I was in my mid-twenties, but I was still living at home. There weren’t any apartments in New York, not for what I could pay, and I was still going to school part-time, working a little, trying to open a gallery. Even after I moved out, I would come home to see my parents once a week and come to the circle when it was at their place. It was fun. I knew them all. And Hannah was there.”

  I watched him get himself together. He was so impatient, so brusque, I had not imagined anything could affect him this way.

  “We met when the circle started. I suppose even then I thought about her in relation to me, not as his wife, but it was a long time before anything happened. They looked like father and daughter to me, not like husband and wife. He was in his forties, she was in her twenties. She was so beautiful, so—light. I finally moved out when I was about thirty. That wasn’t unusual then. I had a lot of friends who were working on degrees and living at home in those days. I had a little place downtown in the Village for a while and I used to think about having her down, but she’d had a baby around forty-nine, and I didn’t see how it could work. We were friends by then. We’d sit and talk together when the circle met. I knew she felt something. I remember when she was pregnant with the girl, I couldn’t believe …

  “Eventually it happened, that’s all. She found somebody to watch the children and she went downtown and we met.”

  “Why didn’t she leave him?” I asked.

  “She was afraid of losing the children, and she was afraid … Did you know Nathan?”

  “A little.”

  “I thought he’d kill me.”

  “Literally?”

  “Literally. We all knew what was going on between him and Black.”

  “What was going on?”

  “He hounded him, followed him, waited for him outside his house or at the university. Plagued him. Badgered him. Threatened him, I suppose. The guy was eventually found dead in the street of a heart attack. I certainly thought Nathan provoked it.”

  “Maybe his conscience provoked it, Mr. Granite. Do you have any idea why Nathan didn’t try to get the book back through the courts when he got to this country?”

  “They used to talk about it at the circle,” he said. “They were all willing to testify for him. But he said, ‘Here’s what Black’s lawyer will do. He’ll put each of you on the stand and ask, “Did Nathan Herskovitz give you a book?” And you’ll say, “Yes.” And he’ll say, “To keep or as payment for services rendered?” And you’ll say, “To keep.” And that’ll be their defense.’ ”

  “There’s certainly a kind of logic in that,” I said.

  “There was one guy, Aaron Strauss, who could have testified differently for Nathan, but he was never very well, and Nathan didn’t want to subject him to being a witness. Or so the story goes.”

  “So Hannah stayed with Nathan, and you lived by yourself, and you had an affair for a long time.”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “Why did she kill herself?”

  “You know it’s none of your damned business.”

  “I do know that, Mr. Granite. But someone murdered Nathan, and everything that happened to him leads me toward his killer.”

  “You think I killed him?”

  I wanted to say that I thought he was too weak to have done it, but I restrained myself. “Not really. What happened to Hannah?”

  “What happened to Hannah is that she got pregnant.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling pity for her.

  “Yes,” he said. “That was no picnic in the nineteen fifties. She couldn’t have it, although I—There were plenty of reasons why she couldn’t go through with it. I got her an abortion, the best you could get.”

  “Did she want the baby?” I asked.

  He thought about it. “I’m not sure.”

  “But she agreed to the abortion.”

  “She agreed. And then”—his voice thinned—“she just went into a terrible depression.”

  “How awful.”

  “And one day”—he shook his head as though he still didn’t understand it—“she did it. It very nearly destroyed me,” he said, his voice catching.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know if anyone knew,” he said, his voice a little stronger. “There must have been suspicions. We were very discreet. She was so lovely.” He sat with his head down. When he looked up, his face was wet. “The bastard didn’t even go to her funeral.”

  I got up. It was growing dusky in the room. He had not put any lights on when we came in, and some of the sculptures had begun to look like lurking shadows. I put my bag over my shoulder and went to the foyer. He stood and followed me.

  “Why did you go to Nathan’s funeral?” I asked, my hand on the doorknob.

  He looked at me as though I had missed the point of everything. “Without him, I wouldn’t be alive today,” he said.

  23

  When I got home, I called Franciotti. He was actually there and he talked to me.

  “Glad you called,” he said. “I took a clue from something you said yesterday and checked out the keys in Finch’s pocket. One of them opens the downstairs door at the building Herskovitz lived in.”

  It was the best news I had heard all day. “So he could easily have gotten in without breaking in or going over the roof.”

  “That’s probably how he did it. We picked up Angel Ramirez and found a gold tie clip in his pocket with Herskovitz’s initials on the back. While Finch was looking for that address book, Angel must’ve been shopping the place for souvenirs, although Finch obviously didn’t want him to.”

  “How’s your case against Jesus holding up?”

  There was a pause. “We’ve got a few loose ends.”

  So Arnold was right. “What about Angel? Could he have killed Nathan?”

  “Also shaky. But he had one hell of a lump on his head when we picked him up.”

  “I figured he was my man. By the way, did you find any keys belonging to Nathan Herskovitz that might open a safe-deposit box or vault in a bank?”

  “Oh yeah, we found that.”

  “Any old books in the box?” I asked hopefully.

  “Nothing but paper and an old wedding ring. He owned some municipals, had some certificates, that kind of thing. No life insurance, in case you care. But I found out some thing you’ll be interested in. I checked back to 1975. Herskovitz’s apartment was burglarized—the detective squad file says it was really torn up—but nothing seemed to be missing.

  “They were looking for the book.”

  “Looks that way. And there’s something else. About that time a warrant was issued on a complaint by a Mrs. Mildred Black to search Herskovitz’s apartment.”

  “She thought he’d stolen the book.”

  “But it wasn’t there.”

  “Thanks for the information, Sergeant. I’ll keep you posted if I find out anything,” I said, wanting to keep our relations cordial.

  “I appreciate that, Miss Bennett.”

  A little after six, Arnold called. From the sounds in the background, I was pretty sure he was still at his office.

  “Got a call from Bert Finch today,” he said. “Sounds like you’ve been twisting arms.”

  “I got tired of being nice and getting nowhere. It seemed to me that Paterno and Nathan stayed in that building to be near each
other. If they moved, they had no guarantee they’d get apartments in the same building. Gallagher stayed because they did and because he wouldn’t pay an extra dollar if he moved. Once Nathan was gone, Mrs. Paterno wanted to be gone, too, at least from 603. I let Gallagher hear my conversation with Finch so he’d know what I was bargaining for. I think he loved it.”

  “He should have. It sounds as though he won’t have to pay much more than what he’s paying now, if what Finch told me is accurate.”

  “I said ten dollars more a month. Believe me, Arnold, Gallagher can afford it. He’s got a pension from the city, Social Security, and savings. He probably gets more a month than I do. He just likes to complain.”

  “What the hell, he’s a New Yorker. That’s half the fun.”

  I was starting to think he was right. “Is Finch going to cooperate?”

  “Looks that way. I’ll hear from him in the next day or two. But I’ve got some news for you.”

  “About what?”

  “I got a look at Nathan’s will today.”

  “He wrote a will?” I had never thought about that.

  “He was a lawyer, wasn’t he? Lawyers write wills.”

  “Did he have anything to leave?”

  “Cash and a bunch of CDs. He left everything to his children.”

  “His children,” I said in amazement.

  “Who else do you leave your money to?”

  “His daughter considered him dead for twenty years, and he barely spoke to his son.”

  “Probably all a misunderstanding.”

  “Probably,” I agreed. And then it hit me. “Arnold, what did he leave Amelia Paterno?”

  “Not mentioned.”

  I think it struck us both at the same moment, because we started talking together.

  “You think she found out?” he said when I had relinquished the floor.

  “And killed him in anger. It’s possible. It sure gives us a motive. And she and I went through his apartment together the other day, looking for a missing possible weapon. She said she couldn’t see anything missing. If she used it and took it, she sure wouldn’t want to identify it.”

  “Why would he have told her?” Arnold asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Arnold. I don’t know why anyone does anything anymore.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had a bad day.”

  “I have. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  “So here we are, sitting on a nice piece of information.”

  “I’ll go see her tomorrow.”

  “Are you nuts? If she did it to Nathan, she could do it to you.”

  “I’ll tell her you told me. She’ll know I’m not the only one who knows.”

  “You’d better watch yourself, Chrissie.”

  “I’ll watch,” I said, thinking I was starting to sound like an elderly New Yorker.

  I still had the keys to Mrs. Paterno’s apartment. She had not asked for them, and I had decided to keep them in case something happened that might make them evidence in the case. If I told Franciotti I had had them and given them back, they wouldn’t be of much use. But I had promised myself I would not use them to enter her apartment.

  She wasn’t home, and I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait all day. If she was delivering sketches somewhere downtown, she might not be back for hours.

  I went to see Gallagher and told him that things looked good for a move. He was delighted. Finally I asked him something that had been on my mind for a long time.

  “Are you and Mrs. Paterno friendly?”

  “Friendly? With that dragon?”

  I stifled a smile. “But she gave you her key.”

  “She had to give it to someone. And I think she wanted the key to Herskovitz’s.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled slyly. “Oh, he’s got a little more in the bank than me. That counts with Paterno.”

  “OK, Ian. We’ll keep this conversation to ourselves.”

  “And who would I be tellin’? Do the walls have ears?”

  I went back up to six—I was developing real muscles in my calves—but Paterno was still out. I went downstairs and waited in the lobby. About ten minutes later she walked in with a bag of groceries.

  “Can I help you with those?” I asked. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you.”

  “I can help myself, thank you.” She headed for the door to the stairs, and I followed.

  We went up to six, Mrs. Paterno lugging the groceries, I holding my flashlight to light her way, something that I think annoyed her.

  When we got to her apartment, I went in with her and waited while she put away what she had bought. When she was finished, I said, “May I take you to lunch today?”

  “I can take myself to lunch, but it’s too early.”

  I had thought it might be safer talking to her in a public place, but her living room would have to do.

  “Mrs. Paterno,” I said when we were more or less comfortable, “Arnold Gold called me yesterday. He’s seen Nathan’s will.”

  If it frightened her, she showed nothing.

  “Nathan left everything to his children.”

  I tensed, but my news fell like a wet rag.

  “There was no mention of you at all in the will.”

  “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “I thought somebody should,” I said, starting to feel silly.

  “I don’t know why. I wasn’t a member of his family.”

  “I thought …” I was really pushing it now. I had hoped he’d make some provisions for you. You were friends for so long.”

  “He did.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. Is that something I must now discuss with the police? After thirty years of keeping everything quiet and discreet, must we now hang everything out to dry, as they say?”

  “No, of course not.” I stood up to go. It was too early in the day to feel weary, but this was getting me down. “Just between us, Mrs. Paterno,” I said, grasping at straws, “how did Nathan provide for you?”

  “He gave me a certificate of deposit for a large sum of money. I argued with him for years about it. I have my work, I have something from my ex-husband.” It was the first time she had ever mentioned him to me. “I will have Social Security when I choose to take it, and I am not an extravagant person. But he insisted, and finally he just gave it to me.”

  “When was this?”

  “A month or so ago. I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Would you mind—I’d like very much to see it. I don’t care how much it’s for. You can cover up the amount.”

  “It’s in my box.”

  “In the bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could we—we have no one, Mrs. Paterno. The case against Ramirez is falling apart. I don’t know where to look next. If Nathan was killed over the book, we just don’t know who could have done it. People are killed over money every day. Maybe, somehow …”

  She gave me a hard look, then got up and put her coat on. I had no idea what I was looking for at that point, just that this was a new piece of information, and I had to follow up on it.

  We walked over to Broadway and then up to her bank. I waited while she got her box, opened it, removed the certificate, and put the box back. She came over to where I was standing and handed it to me.

  All it was, was an ordinary passbook. The conditions were typed on the inside cover, the owners’ names, the interest rate, the term. The joint owners were Nathan Herskovitz and Amelia Paterno. The amount was seventy-five thousand dollars. No interest was noted, but the certificate was only four or five weeks old. The certificate had been taken out on September 6. Then it occurred to me. Interest was usually paid at the end of each quarter.

  “Shouldn’t you have had the interest credited at the end of September?” I asked.

  “There isn’t any interest. It’s sent to him.”

  “Of course,” I said, feeling stupid. “That’s what he lived on.”

  “That’s w
hat we all live on.”

  “And now the checks will be sent to you. Have you notified them that he’s—passed away?”

  “I never thought of it. The money means nothing to me.”

  “Why don’t you do it now?” I said gently. “It is yours.”

  She seemed to consider it. “It’s another bank,” she said.

  “I’ll walk over with you.”

  Nathan’s bank was the other side of Seventy-ninth Street. On the way down I persuaded her to have lunch. She ate sparingly, a salad and black coffee. When we were done, I grabbed the check and ignored her protests.

  We found a young, attractive black officer named Mrs. Dickson at Nathan’s bank who was free to help us. She told Mrs. Paterno what proof she would need to have the certificate transferred to her name alone, or to her name and that of her daughter, which was what she wanted.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m helping out the Herskovitz family since Mr. Herskovitz’s death. I understand there are tax complications when someone dies.” I knew a little about this because I had inherited all of my aunt Meg’s “estate” earlier in the year. “I assume this is money that used to be Mr. Herskovitz’s and now will be Mrs. Paterno’s.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Mr. Herskovitz took this certificate out in September. Can you tell me where the money came from?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, did he write you a check for it or roll over an old certificate?”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure …”

  “Please,” I said ingenuously. “It’s so important.”

  In books the detective always has a source he can call at banks and insurance companies and places of employment to get the kind of information you and I aren’t privy to. It’s true I had Jack in the police department and Arnold to help me with legal matters, but that’s hardly enough. I just asked and crossed my fingers that she would accommodate me.

  “I’ll have to check the computer,” she said, and I held my breath.

  I guess everyone has a computer nowadays. She turned toward her screen and pressed keys while we waited. There was a lot of keying.

  Finally she said, “He rolled over a certificate of the same amount.”

  “In his name?”