Getting Away With Murder Read Online Free Page B

of a former deputy chief of police and a tribute to him. I looked for the name: Neustadt. I remembered him slightly. The picture of the serious frowning face of a man in uniform was so old it was no help to me at all. I must ask Savas and Staziak about him. But I had no patience to read the details of how, where or when he had died.
    My second cup of coffee lifted my spirits. So did an ad for McKenzie Stewart’s new book. I was a great fan of his detective, Dud Dickens. Haste to the Gallows was a good title. I’d pick up a copy as soon as I could. Elsewhere in the paper, I read a few captions, headings, the odd fragment, but I couldn’t focus on any more of the stories. I found myself staring at the obituaries—so much for the effects of good coffee—letting the names, dates and pieces of lives that had ended fill my head: Suddenly at Grantham General … in his 57th year … after a brave struggle … survived by … fondly remembered by … resting at … donations in lieu of flowers … followed by cremation …”
    Back in my office, I punched in Dave Rogers’s number. I missed the trio of bald mannequins, leftovers from my father’s ladies’ ready-to-wear store, that I had finally cleared away to the basement. For years they had supervised my activities, covered indifferently with unbleached factory cotton in all the unnecessary places. Whenever I had a half-hour to kill, I rarely thought of all the stored junk that had accumulated in my office. Why didn’t I give in to the family curse and go into the shmate business? I had the window dummies for a start, my clients’ chairs were tubular items from an art deco renovation that my father ordered in the 1940s. There might even be some stock in the basement, where my brother, Sam, and I used to play while waiting for my father to close for the night. The phone kept ringing at the other end.
    “Yeah?” I was surprised to hear a human voice. It took me a moment to return from my memories.
    “Dave Rogers?”
    “Yeah. Who wants him?”
    “My name’s Cooperman. I want to talk to you.”
    “What makes you think I wanna talk to you, Mr. Cooperman?”
    “Abram Wise thinks you will.” That had him. He couldn’t wise-ass me any more. Still, there was a pause.
    “Where are you now?”
    “Corner of St. Andrew and James. My office is on the second floor of—”
    “Meet me at the Chinese restaurant on your left as you come off the high-level bridge. You know the place? Twelve-thirty and don’t bring any friends.”
    “There’s an eager beaver from Wise’s operations hugging my shadow. I can’t do much about him.” Again there was a pause at his end. Finally:
    “Well, if he’s one of Abe’s boys, he won’t give me any heartburn more than I’ve got already. Twelve-thirty,” he repeated and was gone. I nodded to the instrument in my hand and replaced it.
    My watch told me that I had three hours to kill before I had to keep the appointment. I rummaged in a drawer for an old address book that I thought might help me fill the time. The names in it belonged to people who were either dead, moved or vanished into the unknown. Who’s going to throw away a thing like that? Under the “Bs” I found what I was looking for and punched the long-distance number into the phone, trying to imagine the voice I was going to hear at the other end.
    “Hello?”
    “Ella?”
    “Yes, this is Ella Beames.”
    “It’s me,” I said. “Benny.”
    “Benny Cooperman! Well, as I live and breathe! I hope you don’t mean to pay me a visit. I’ve got the painters in and—”
    “I’m calling from Grantham, Ella. I’m not pushing the tourist season. I’m nowhere near Massachusetts. Don’t worry.”
    “Well, Benny, you gave me quite a turn. I haven’t heard a word from home since I got a card from the girls at the library. They think my birthday’s in March and it’s not really until November. But they’ve always sent the card in March. I don’t remember how it