Father's Day Murder by Lee Harris Page B

them, including the songs, and you knew he was good. I could have thrown a skit together, but it wouldn’t have had the wit; it wouldn’t have been as clever. He was a talented kid and he worked at it.”
    “I gather his first book was a success.”
    “It was phenomenal. Here was a young guy, not yet thirty, and he wrote a best-seller. We were all struggling in our professions, earning in a year what people now earn in a week or even a day, hoping we could pay our rent, and there was Artie Wien a great success. And he deserved it. He earned it.”
    “Tell me about the old neighborhood.”
    “Ah.” David Koch looked out the window. “You may think that this is a wonderful view, that this apartment is a fantastic location. I can tell you that where I lived as a boywas more beautiful to me then than this is to me now. We had a big, beautiful apartment on Morris Avenue, two bedrooms, a kitchen with a dinette where we ate all our meals, a bathroom in white tile. My brother and I shared a bedroom that was big enough for two beds, the sun came through the window in the afternoon, the kids played in the street outside. Remember the old Robert Louis Stevenson poem about going to bed by day? How you could hear people’s feet going by in the street? That’s the way it was for us, a safe, happy home. There was nothing to fear. You could walk to school. We had parks nearby. My mother shopped at the stores on 174th Street. When we wanted to go into New York, we walked down to the Grand Concourse and took the D train.” He looked at me with a little frown. “Would you like to see where we lived?”
    “My husband tells me it’s not a safe place to go any more.”
    “That’s an exaggeration, and anyway, I can guarantee your safety. I have a driver who can take us. We could do it tomorrow.”
    “I’d love to.”
    “Good. I haven’t been back for a couple of years. Do me good to see it again. Give us a chance to talk some more. I’ll show you where everyone lived.” He turned as someone came into the living room. “Ellen,” he said, standing, “this is Chris Bennett.”
    Ellen Koch came in and shook hands with me. She was a strikingly beautiful woman with a head of beautiful close-cropped gray hair. She was as slim as a girl and had a wonderful smile. “I see Dave has been telling you about his boyhood.”
    “It’s very interesting to me. I didn’t grow up in a city.”
    “Well, he did and he can’t ever leave it.”
    “Did you know Arthur Wien?” I asked.
    “I only saw him at reunions. He seemed rather full of himself but he enjoyed being with the old gang. I’ve read some of his books and I enjoyed them. His wife seemed quite nice.”
    “Was last Sunday the first you’d met her?”
    “Let me think. No, I think she came to the last reunion. They may not have been married then. Do you remember, Dave?”
    “She was there last time. She wore kind of a—”
    “Yes, that’s the one. Then I’ve met her twice.”
    “Did you know his first wife?”
    “Oh yes. We even ran into her at something a few months ago, some dinner we attended. A very nice woman.”
    “Your husband has been candid. I’d appreciate it if you were. Who among the men in the group or their wives might have wanted Arthur Wien dead?”
    She sat on a chair before answering and I glanced over at her husband to see whether his face might tell me something, but it was quite bland.
    “Arthur had women,” she said. “I think he felt that it came with being the kind of success he was, a man who was interviewed on talk shows, that sort of thing. There was a rumor—”
    When she stopped, I looked at her husband again but he made no move, gave no signal, to stop her.
    “A rumor?” I asked.
    “That he’d had an affair with the wife of one of the men in the group.”
    “Do you know which woman it was supposed to be?”
    “I don’t. I can tell you it wasn’t me. Can I get you some coffee?”
    I looked at my watch. “No thank you. I have