Free To Kill a Matzo Ball (A Deadly Deli Mystery) by Delia Rosen Page B

guys, who have a tradition of running moonshine, lynching people, and making city boys squeal like pigs, have a sixth sense for John Law.
    What about calling the whole thing off and doing what law enforcement suggested, just vegging out at the deli?
    I snorted at that. Since leaving New York, my life had been about taking chances. Some of them were major but reasonable, like leaving the city in the first place; some were insane, like this. But they all lit fires in me, and there was no denying they were all part of the Gwen Katz drumbeat now, for better or worse, richer or poorer, alive or dead.
    I had just turned the corner onto 5th Avenue N and was admitting to myself that I was a little bit excited about the nuttiness of trying to find a killer with bug-hair sensors, when I was distracted by movement to my right and what seemed like a bird flying into my face. It was followed by a strange smell, amber-colored swirls, and my knees turning to mush before I went unconscious.

Chapter 7
    I came to in a vehicle. I knew it was a vehicle because I was moving, not because I could see. My baseball cap was pulled way low over my eyes so that the brim rested on my nose. My hands were cuffed behind me. They hurt, a lot, because whoever had abducted me had thoughtfully secured me with the seat belt. That left the small of my back pressed against the metal cuffs. I could feel my cell phone in my back pocket. I shifted a little. The one time I wanted to butt-dial, I couldn’t.
    Which I realized, as I came around, was probably the least of my worries. I was dizzy with a wicked headache. I didn’t feel nauseous, and that was too bad. I really wanted to puke on whoever had jumped out at me with a handkerchief—which was probably the “bird” I saw—and drugged me.
    I recalled the dead girlfriend of the African-American cop. Yet, oddly, I wasn’t afraid. There was no one to ransom me to, and if someone wanted to kill me I probably wouldn’t be alive now.
    “I’m really not comfortable,” I announced.
    Someone, a woman, said something that sounded Asian. Someone answered. I was against the driver’s side door. The woman was sitting to my right. The second man was in front, driving. The woman spoke again, this time in English.
    “I am sorry that this was necessary,” she told me.
    “Fine. Can you just remove the seat belt? I won’t try to get out the door. My hands are cuffed.”
    “We will let you leave when you tell us what Chan said to you.”
    “He said he wanted one of our standard platters.”
    “Were there any special requests?”
    “Such as?”
    “ Any? ”
    “No.”
    “No special food?”
    “None.”
    “Did he indicate he was going to buy anything else to serve?”
    “Like what? Dessert?”
    “ Anything, ” the interrogator said, more harshly.
    “Nothing.”
    “Did he carry anything from any other restaurant or market?”
    “No!” I said, wondering how many ways they could come at this. “He was carrying nothing whatsoever.”
    “Tell us everything he said. He called you first.”
    I didn’t know if that was a question or a statement. If it were a statement, then someone knew he called; these people could have been from his school. Perhaps they overheard him. Or someone at the school called someone else. If it were a question, then it could still be someone at the school—just someone who wasn’t there at eight-thirty in the morning.
    “Sifu Chan called and told me he was having belt promotions,” I said. “I thought he was talking about belts that hold your pants up, and he corrected me. I asked if I could talk to him after the breakfast rush. He said he would stop by at ten-thirty. That was the entirety of our conversation on the phone.”
    “You called him sifu. Had you known him before?”
    “No.”
    “Are you certain?”
    “It’s the truth, ” I said, exasperated.
    “All right. After the call?”
    “He stopped by at ten-thirty. I had the cook prepare some food samples. He made his