Free Death by the Book by Lenny Bartulin Page A

eaten poor bastards like that for breakfast.
    ‘Oh, good. Then you can say hello.’ She smiled at Jack, then winked at her mother.
    ‘That’s enough, Louisa.’
    ‘I’ll just go get him.’ She walked out of the kitchen and down the hall.
    ‘You might have to set another place,’ said Jack, bristling.
    ‘This isn’t funny.’ Annabelle walked over and picked up her glass from the dining table and drank: but wine was the wrong drink. It was not for going down quickly. She coughed. ‘She won’t bring him in.’
    ‘Maybe he’s hungry.’
    ‘She won’t bring him in.’
    The extraction fan whined. Jack strained his ears, listening for the front door, for footsteps down the hall. Annabelle was listening, too. A minute later, they both heard them.
    Here he comes
. Jack dropped his right hand to his side and flexed his fingers. His heart beat hard in his chest. He had never thumped a middle-aged metrosexual before.

 
9
     
    H AMMOND K ASPROWICZ WAS FAR FROM M ARXIST , but he strode into the kitchen like a politburo minister of the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. His face was flushed and sweaty: under the whiteness of his hair, his colour reminded Jack of a hot saveloy. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, white shirt, and a broad, pale yellow tie. There was a black leather briefcase in his hand. He dropped it onto the floor beside the island bench and immediately began tugging at the Windsor knot around his neck.
    ‘You should teach your daughter some manners.’
    He said it without looking at Annabelle at all. His voice was gruff, but tired. He removed his jacket, then checked the pockets before throwing it onto a stool.
    Annabelle walked over to the dinner table and sat down. Jack stood looking at Kasprowicz, wondering when the old man was going to acknowledge his presence.
    ‘I thought you were flying back tomorrow night,’ said Annabelle.
    Kasprowicz grunted. ‘Obviously.’ He opened a cupboard door and removed a bottle of Scotch. ‘Are you well, Mr Susko?’
    ‘Any better I’d burst. Yourself?’
    No reply. Kasprowicz hunched his broad, round back over the bottle and cracked the cap.
    ‘Sit down, Jack.’ Annabelle motioned to his chair.
    ‘Yes.’ Kasprowicz poured himself three fat fingers of Scotch. ‘Please, don’t let me disturb your dinner.’ He held onto the edge of the granite bench-top, tilted his head back and threw half the Scotch down his throat.
    ‘You’re a smooth operator, Susko,’ he said, his back still to them. ‘One minute you’re knee-deep in smelly old books, the next you’re in my kitchen, enjoying a meal with my daughter.’ He brought the glass up to his mouth again. ‘I can only hope you’ve applied yourself as tenaciously to my little job.’
    Jack grinned. Kasprowicz was quick: he might be old, but his brain ticked over like it had been engineered in Stuttgart. ‘I’m giving it my full attention, Hammond. I didn’t know you were such a fan of your brother’s work.’
    Hammond Kasprowicz turned around. ‘So you know.’ He sipped his drink and glanced at his daughter. She had her back to him but shifted in her seat under his gaze. ‘That’s almost impressive. Maybe I’ll have to find more jobs for you.’ He rubbed his chin and pulled at his tie some more.‘Though I worry about your confidentiality.’
    Jack smiled. He could have cut the nonchalance with a chainsaw. ‘I worry about your disclosure,’ he replied.
    Glass in hand, Kasprowicz picked his briefcase up from the floor. ‘Some things just aren’t your business, Mr Susko. You have your job and you’ve been paid.’ Kasprowicz rolled his shoulders. ‘When can I expect a delivery? Have you had much success?’
    ‘Moderate. But competition doesn’t help.’
    Kasprowicz’s brows angled down and shadowed his eyes like furry awnings. He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Competition?’
    Jack nodded. ‘That’s right.’
    Kasprowicz stared thoughtfully at his glass of Scotch. Jack