by Delia Rosen
He motioned for the rest of his team except for the medic to wait as he came over, carefully sidestepping anything in the immediate vicinity of the body. He stepped between me and the body, his back to me, as the doctor squatted, took the man’s exposed wrist between his fingers—it was already a bluish white—and made sure he was dead. He laid it back down and shook his head. Grant motioned him off. He turned to me.
“Were you hit anywhere?”
“No.”
“Any breaks, cuts—?”
“I’m all right. He protected me.” I rolled my chin in the direction of the body.
“Who is he?”
“Ken Chan,” I told him. “He has a martial arts school. New in town, just six months out of New York.”
“I know the school,” Grant said. He took me gently by the upper arm. “I’m going to get you to the ambulance, have them check you out.”
That was probably a good idea, but my mouth didn’t want to work at that moment. I nodded.
Police tape was already up, so the onlookers and picture takers and cell phone videographers were back a distance as I was walked out to the ambulance. I don’t crave attention, and ordinarily the gawkers would have made me very uncomfortable. But I was alive. As I began to realize how close I came to that no longer being the case, the more I didn’t care about the crowds—and the more my heart began to drum and my breath to speed up. Grant went back inside when he had handed me over to an EMT. She sat me on a gurney in the ambulance, which is where it really hit me: the young woman had barely gotten the band around my arm to take my blood pressure when I started to panic.
“I need to get out,” I said.
“Ma’am, we really need to make sure nothing’s broken or—”
“No. I’m fine. I’m leaving.”
In the past year I’d slipped on water, grease, slices of tomato, and a pork chop. I’d taken worse falls than this. Still, when I stood, it was unsteadily. Her partner, who was a five-foot petsl, put his hands on my shoulders to convince me to sit back. I rolled my arms and shrugged him off; he held up his hands in the universal “it’s your ass” sign and turned to enter the session in a laptop on the medicine cabinet behind him.
I walked cautiously down the little fold-out stepstool. The tzimmes inside didn’t have to do with the fall but with the event itself. As I reached the sidewalk and turned to my left, I saw, for the first time, my shot-up deli window. It was ugly, unfamiliar, dead. I had a vision, probably from my great-great relatives having talked about it, of broken Jewish storefronts in Germany before the war. I felt nauseous, something that didn’t happen often. Police were photographing the pavement, the asphalt, were walking around with tape measures that stretched from the window to imaginary points at the curb. That’s the sad thing about urban police. They know the drill.
Back inside I saw Grant and his team surrounding the body, collecting evidence. The rest of the staff was in the kitchen talking to another detective, one I didn’t know, a woman of color. I walked that way, not wanting to be around the body. The woman was talking to Newt by the back door, which was opened to the fenced-in area and dumpster. Luke and the rest of the waitstaff were standing behind the stainless-steel table where I’d scooped out the cottage cheese. They were huddled, round-shouldered and whispering, like Shakespearean conspirators. Thom was at the other end of the table, in front, leaning on one hand and clutching a napkin in the other. She was staring low, at nothing, while her mouth moved. In prayer, I was certain.
I walked over to her and touched the sleeve of her floral-pattern blouse. She grasped my hand without looking at me or stopping her silent prayer. She touched the napkin to her eyes. I hugged her arm lightly.
Newt came over and quietly informed me that the detective would like to talk to me. I nodded, squeezed Thom’s hand—noticing now that my fingers were swollen and hurt—and went over to the open door. The woman’s eyes were fresh, alert, sharp like those of one of my cats. She was about six-one and built like she belonged on a beach volleyball team. Her hair was straightened and pulled back in a very severe ponytail. She was probably in her early thirties but carried herself as though she was older, battle-hardened. I saw a long scar on the back of her right hand when she extended it.
“Detective Jill Bean,” she said.
“Gwen Katz.” She had a grip like giant pliers.
“Ms. Katz, I’m sorry to have to do this now, but we need to talk while the memory is still fresh.”
“A half hour ago I was talking to a man who’s dead now. That’s pretty fresh.”
“I understand, but sometimes there are details—”
“This event is like canned goods,” I said. “It’ll keep a very long time.”
I hadn’t intended to make a joke, but it sounded like one and it fell flat. Detective Bean gave me a mild if-you-say-so look before asking if I wanted to sit. I told her no. I leaned against the jamb with the smell of the kitchen to my right and sun-ripened trash to my left. It fit the situation. She turned on her iPad voice recorder and asked me to tell her what happened in as much detail as I could remember.
As my staff quieted, apparently listening to every syllable I uttered, I told the detective everything from the moment Ken Chan walked in until Grant walked me out. She did not interrupt. When I was finished, she asked what I had seen when I looked out the window.
“I saw the tail end of a car, a motorcycle, and the front of another car,” I told her. “There were flashes, like sunlight hitting the window, and then the room turned over as Mr. Chan threw me to the floor.”
“Did the flashes originate in one of the vehicles or on the sidewalk?”
“It was from above the street, definitely not the sidewalk.”
“How far above?”
“I think—about the height of a delivery truck.”
“A rooftop, perhaps?” she asked.
“Maybe. Yes, probably.”
“You’re sure.”
“There was a pedestrian—she looked across the street. Up, I think.”
“So there was the tail end of a car, a motorcycle, the front of another car, and a pedestrian. They all may have seen the shot?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What did this pedestrian look like?”
“A woman. Short. With a dog. She was dressed in jeans and a white blouse.”
“Were there earbuds? Was she listening to music?”
“I don’t know. Most likely. Everyone does.”
“Okay. You’re sure there was nothing else.”
“Yes. Isn’t there surveillance video?”
“We’re checking,” the detective said.
“You say Mr. Chan threw you . . .”
“It was more like he stuck his arm out and pushed me.” I showed her, with my hands, how we were sitting at right angles to one another.
“He clotheslined you,” she said. “It’s like when you run into a clothesline you didn’t see and it knocks you flat on your back.”
“That’s pretty much what happened,” I agreed, “except that I wasn’t moving before that. He provided all the force. His arm didn’t look strong, but it was.”
“Had you ever met Mr. Chan before today? Know anything about him?”
I shook my head. “The first contact I had was when he phoned this morning.”
“He called first?”
“Yes.”
“What showed up on your phone? What name?”
Good question. I had forgotten about that. “May Wong,” I told her.
She wrote that down. “The number is still on your phone?”
I nodded.
“Did he say anything about his personal life?” she asked.
“He said he left New York because of pressure from gang members.”
That got her attention. “Did he mention any affiliations?”
“He said something about the triads.”
“You say he was ordering food for a belt test,” she said. “When was that for?”
&
nbsp; “Tomorrow night.”
I choked on the words; I don’t know why. It hit me behind the eyes, and I started to sob. The detective stepped back to give me space, and I turned away. I looked out at the clear, sharp sunlight smeared by my tears. Maybe I had just realized that this wasn’t about me or even Ken Chan. What was supposed to be a happy time, a joyous place, would now be a scene of mourning. I wondered suddenly if I should cater whatever kind of memorial service they would have. Would that be a welcome gesture or in poor taste? I would have to find out.
“Was he married?” I asked.
“Yes, with a young daughter,” the detective told me. “We have someone with them now.”
“Those poor people.”
“What about other impressions?” she asked. “Did he seem relaxed, attentive?”
“He sampled the food, wanted to be sure the menu would please his students and their guests, and—”
“What?” she asked as I hesitated.
I was replaying the moment in my head. Then it hit me. “No, he wasn’t looking at the matzo ball. I thought he was, but he was looking just past it. At the napkin holder?”
The detective scrolled backward on the tablet, which was auto-transcribing what I told her. “You said he was looking at the matzo ball. Now you think it was the napkin holder?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t seem like he was seeing something, actually, but thinking something. I just don’t know.”
Still reading from the iPad, she said, “But you still say you had time to turn and look out the window. ‘Like Governor Connelly in the Zapruder film,’ you put it.”
“That’s right.”
“Could he have seen something or someone reflected in the napkin holder? Something or someone he thought he recognized? A vehicle, a person, a weapon?”
“It’s possible. He just froze there with a matzo ball on the end of a shrimp fork.”
“And you’re certain he didn’t turn to the window?”
“Positive.”
“Do you think he was afraid someone would recognize him?”
I thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Why would he be afraid of that? We were sitting right in the open. He didn’t sneak in.”
“Just pursuing angles,” the detective said. “Ms. Katz, this is a tough question, and I’m asking you to speculate. Impressions are important. Are you sure he pushed you, or could he have just struck you while he was getting out of the way?”
“He pushed me. That was my very, very strong feeling at that moment. Why does it matter?”
“Because it could be the difference between diving for cover in an unexpected situation or knowing he was out of time and wanting to avoid collateral damage. That will help me to sharpen the questions I ask Mrs. Chan, spare her a longer interview.”
I nodded.
“Are you still as sure as you can be that he pushed you?”
“I am very, very, very sure. That arm came at my chest, level and precise. I’ve probably got a bruise. Mr. Chan could have shoved me to one side. But that would have exposed me to the track some of the bullets ended up going as the gun passed by outside. No, he got me totally out of the line of fire and then grabbed onto me to keep me there. He saved the life of someone he didn’t even know.”
Detective Bean smiled. “Thank you. That’s helpful. One more question, and I need you to be really candid with me here. You can even be creative.”
“Murder arts and crafts?” My mouth was moving, that was all.
Bean ignored the comment. “Is there anyone, Ms. Katz, who might have a grudge against you? Say, a customer you might have argued with today or last week? An angry former employee? A jealous significant other? I understand you inherited this place—were there other family members who might have wanted it?”
The question surprised me, along with the exceptionally wide reach of her net. I felt oddly naked and a little violated.
“Are you asking my staff the same question?”
“I’m doing a thorough homicide investigation,” she replied. “Is there anyone we should talk to?”
She was clearly going to be a linebacker on this matter, so I ran through my mental yearbook. Was there anyone voted Most Likely to Kill Gwen—other than the people who had already tried in the course of my short but storied career as a private eye, a regular Jessica Fleyshik? I gave her a few names, adding that Grant already knew about them. She said she’d check them anyway. But I assured her they were nothing.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because none of them was NRA material, to my knowledge; their attacks on me were more or less crimes of passion, heat of the moment; most are in jail; and none of them has enough money or anything to trade to hire a hit man or woman.”
She asked for the spellings, corrected them on the transcript, then reviewed what I had said.
“You didn’t mention what time Mr. Chan first called,” she said. “Do you remember when that was?”
“Height of the rush, between a quarter and half-past eight.”
“Would it be possible for me to borrow the credit card receipts from that time until the attack?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Someone might have been casing the place, knowing that he’d be here,” she said. “It’s routine.”
“But the credit card information—isn’t that confidential?”
“I’m not going to buy a flatscreen TV or plane tickets on someone else’s dime,” she said. “I want to see if anyone who ate here this morning has a criminal record. I want to catch a murderer, and I’m sure you do too. I’ll scan them to a file, then delete them when I’m done. They won’t even have to leave the premises. But if you want to waste time while I get a subpoena—that’s your call.”
“No, it’s okay,” I said.
I wasn’t a member of the ACLU, and given how I ran the place, I believed in a little benevolent dictatorship. And she was right. I asked Thom to gather the slips. Detective Bean thanked me. She ran them across a plug-in to her iPad as if they were items in a grocery checkout line.
“Oh, and I’m sorry,” I said when she was done.
“About what?”
“My crack about the freshness of my memory. Apparently, you did need to prod me.”
“People recall a lot but remember selectively,” she said. “Trauma causes what we call the Disco Ball Effect. The bright spots shine, the details are sometimes lost.” She gave me a card. “If you remember anything else.”
“Sure.”
I was left feeling stupid and empty. You always wonder how you’ll respond if you’re ever really tested by something horrible. I always imagined I’d keep my head, deal with the situation like Molly Pitcher ramrodding her Revolutionary War cannon at the Battle of Monmouth. The truth is, even as the event rolled out in what seemed like slow motion, I didn’t have time to do anything except turn my head. I didn’t process the danger fast enough. Even falling, my arms barely had time to take the hit. I don’t know what Ken Chan saw, but now that I thought about it, he obviously took that second or two to assess the threat, decided he was doomed, and made his move to save me.
Jesus.
My fingers were throbbing now, and I looked at my palms. They were black-and-blue from wrist to mid-thumb. So were the edges of my pinkies and all the tops of my fingers. But that, and some tightness in my shoulders, was all I got. I wondered when survivor’s guilt would hit me. That was another bequest from my great-great relatives.
I went to my office, looked down the hall, and saw local WSMV Channel 4 TV reporter Candy Sommerton shooting video over the crime-scene tape, past the cop at the door, right at me. If poor Mr. Chan hadn’t been lying on the floor a few feet away I would have flipped her out. That seemed disrespectful, under the circumstances. I just turned, entered my office, and shut the door.
Chapter 3
Crime is like a loose tooth. When it’s in your face, you can’t stop playing with it.
Grant kindly stopped by the office to see how
I was, showing old-Grant concern for me. I was touched without being moved. In my defense, I was busy calling my insurance agent and various contractors and glaziers. If the past was any indication, business would boom due to what had happened. That wasn’t why I made the moves to get repairs on the calendar; my staff needed to work, and so did I.
The calls were all rote. They took about a half hour, after which I went back to the kitchen. Detective Bean was talking with Thom. As I looked down the corridor I saw the body of Ken Chan being wheeled out under a white sheet. There was very little blood. Most of that was probably on my floor.
Grant was following the body out. He looked back, saw me, came over.
“We’ll keep the tape up and two officers to move the rubberneckers along,” he said. “I can recommend a good cleanup crew if—”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Gwen—”
I held up my hand to stop him. I saw the blood on my sleeve. “If I don’t do it myself, it’s always going to be there like a snapshot.”
He looked at me sadly. “I understand. Anything I can do?”
“Yes. When you talk to his family, please tell them I’m sorry.”
“Sure,” he told me.
I knew him well enough to know, from that tone, that he wouldn’t be mentioning my name anywhere near them. That was okay. I’d do it myself. They had to know what their husband and father did for me.
Detective Bean followed Grant by a few minutes, after which I marshaled the troops in the kitchen. There was no door—swinging doors are just as dangerous as they appear in the Three Stooges—so we moved to the enclosed pantry. Though open, it was out of view of the dining room and Candy Sommerton and the flashing of cameras in the street. There, among the shelves of canned goods and bags of flour, sugar, and other perishables, we were like a little family in a bunker.
That was when we all lost it. We hugged, huddled, clutched, and said nothing. It may only have been a minute; I don’t know. But we all felt cleansed somewhat when we were through.
“We’re glad you’re okay,” A.J. said, as she blew her nose with a handkerchief from her apron.
“Did anyone call Dani?” I asked.