Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [25]
‘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 waited, watching him.
Annabelle broke the silence ‘Why are you after Edward’s books?’
Kasprowicz frowned like a High Court judge. ‘And why would that be any of your concern?’
‘Not so much my concern,’ said Annabelle. ‘Rather Celia Mitten’s.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Annabelle turned to look at her father. Kasprowicz pushed his chin out.
‘Are you burning Edward’s books?’ she said, a little stronger than matter-of-factly. ‘Is that why you’ve got Jack searching for them? So that you can burn them, put the ashes in a box and send them to a sick old man?’
Kasprowicz shook his head, disappointed and annoyed, as though Annabelle had just told him she was pregnant by the gardener. ‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said. The man was a Fourth-Dan Black Belt in the delivery of contempt. ‘Who told you this nonsense?’
Annabelle stood up, determined. She knew she had already gone too far. Even the pot plants knew it. ‘Are you burning Edward’s books?’ she repeated.
‘You might want to lose the tone.’
‘Then why else would you want them?’
Hammond Kasprowicz looked at Jack and then back at his daughter. His face was as hard as the bust of a Roman emperor. He did not care that the risotto was getting cold. ‘It’s not your business,’ he said. That was it. Question time was over. He picked up his jacket, turned and walked