Last Dark Place

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Yeah,” said Hanrahan. “Played him the tape. He looked like he was going to cry. He still insists he did it. How do you explain it, Rabbi? Kid rapes girls, young mothers, kills old ladies, beats people for fun, and stands up for his grandmother, willing to go down for her.”

  “Don’t try to understand them,” said Lieberman. “Just rope those cows and brand them.”

  “Wisdom according to Rawhide reruns,” said Bill with a smile.

  “Don’t knock it,” said Lieberman. “One can learn much from the Scriptures and reruns in the middle of the night. The gift of insomniacs. God keeps up awake when we want to sleep so we can glean knowledge from the secret messages sung by Frankie Laine.”

  “I heard he lives in San Diego, Frankie Laine,” said Bill.

  “You heard?”

  “From Iris,” Bill explained.

  “Where’s the tape?”

  “Accidentally destroyed,” said Hanrahan.

  “Accidents happen, Father Murph.”

  “They do, Rabbi. You think this is going to work?”

  “The meeting? Don’t know, but it will be interesting.”

  Twenty minutes later they were in the small back room of the Saddle & Brew on the far Northwest side. They served Irish and English food and imported British beer. The owner was a cousin of Bill’s. His name was Barney Dwyer. He was broom-handle thin, wore long-sleeve shirts year around, wore suspenders, smoked even though he had only one lung left, and supported the Irish Republican Army with rhetoric but not dollars. He also knew how to keep secrets.

  Lieberman had suggested the Saddle & Brew for the meeting because it wasn’t in the neighborhood of anyone coming to the table. He was sure none of the parties would be comfortable there and he was sure that since they knew the others would be uncomfortable, they would agree that Barney’s place would be neutral.

  It was just after one in the afternoon. Barney’s wasn’t crowded. Some people, mostly men, at the tables being served beer and sandwiches by Dwyer’s wife Meg.

  “They’re here,” said Dwyer, when the two detectives moved past the bar. “From the look of ’em you might have to kill the whole pack and be done with it. Meg and I will bury the bodies.”

  Dwyer grinned. He had good white teeth. They weren’t his.

  When they went through the door, they saw exactly what Abe had expected to see with one exception. A stone-faced Parker Liao sat on one side of the table with the two men who had accompanied him to Jon Li’s apartment. At the far end of the table, in a conservative, brown suit, sat Mr. Woo, and a very large Chinese man in his fifties whom Bill and Abe recognized as Sidney Chao, arrested eleven times for crimes including murder, conspiracy to commit murder, assault, and a range of other colorful and violent deeds. Sidney Chao had never been convicted. He had never even been indicted.

  Across from Parker Liao sat a grinning El Perro, Piedras, and a young black man in jeans and a simple blue T-shirt with a pocket over his heart. A briefcase lay on the table in front of this man.

  The room smelled of years of alcohol and cigars. All eyes turned to Bill and Abe, who pulled up chairs.

  “You are late, Viejo,” said El Perro.

  “Fashionably,” said Abe. “How are we getting along?”

  “Fashionably,” said El Perro with an even bigger grin. “You are a funny man, Viejo.”

  “Glad I amuse you,” said Lieberman, looking at the black man in the blue T-shirt. The man wore glasses, had a shaved head and a serious look about him. He couldn’t have been more than thirty.

  “Want you all to meet my new abogado, Jesus Taibo,” said El Perro, pointing a thumb at the black man with the briefcase. “Tell them what that means, Viejo.”

  “He’s a lawyer,” said Lieberman.

  In response Jesus Taibo looked at Parker Liao, Mr. Woo, and the two policemen and said, “Is it all right if I take something out of my briefcase?”

  “Depends on what it is,” said Lieberman.

  “A document,” said Taibo.

  “Carefully,” said Abe.

  Taibo opened the briefcase and slowly withdrew a small stack of letter-sized white sheets. He handed one to Mr. Woo first and then to Parker Liao, Bill, Abe, and El Perro.

  “It’s a letter of agreement,” said Taibo.

  “I sign no letters of agreement,” said Parker Liao, placing the sheet on the table without looking at it.

  “It can’t incriminate you,” said Taibo. “It simply says that the undersigned are witnesses to a verbal agreement between two clubs, the Tentaculos and the Twin Dragons, to respect each other’s spatial integrity; that space, in each case, is indicated on this map.”

  Taibo reached into his briefcase again and came out with a map, which he carefully unfolded. The map had two areas of Chicago outlined in black marker.

  They all looked at the map.

  “You may destroy the map after you have examined it,” said Taibo. “In fact, I suggest that you do, but the choice is yours. Paragraph two of the letter states that no member of either club is to enter into any confrontation, verbal or physical, with members of the other club so long as the integrity of the designated areas is respected.”

  “This means nothing,” said Liao, looking at El Perro. “He respects nothing. He is a lunatic.”

  “Insults degrade the process of negotiation,” said Taibo calmly, folding his hands on the table. “Mr. Woo is here to witness this understanding, as are Detectives Lieberman and Hanrahan. We ask Mr. Woo to verify that Mr. Liao has of his own free will agreed to this proposal. We ask further that he accept responsibility for insuring that the Twin Dragons abide by the agreement. We ask that Detective Lieberman do the same for the Tentaculos. Neither of you need sign anything though it would solemnize the ritual commitment of this agreement. However, my client is willing to accept your assurances.”

  “I sign nothing,” said Liao, slowly standing.

  “Please sit,” said Mr. Woo.

  Liao looked at the old man. There was a brief battle of wills but it was clear to Lieberman that the younger man was not prepared to challenge Mr. Woo, not yet, not here.

  “I accept this responsibility,” said Mr. Woo.

  Parker Liao sat. Silence.

  “Detective Lieberman?” asked Jesus Taibo.

  “Let’s put it this way,” said Lieberman. “The Tentaculos break the agreement, I break the Tentaculos.”

  El Perro laughed and clapped his hands.

  “What’d I tell you, Taibo? The man has cojónes. He means it.”

  “I sign nothing,” said Parker Liao. “I’ll give my word, but my signature goes on nothing.”

  Taibo nodded and collected maps and the copies of the document.

  “My client will accept your assurance under the guarantee of Mr. Woo,” said Taibo, snapping the clasp on the briefcase after returning the papers to it.

  El Perro looked at Abe and raised his eyebrows in pride for the performance of his young lawyer.

  “Fuckin’ Princeton,” said El Perro as Taibo rose.

  “I don’t think my services are needed here any longer,” the lawyer said, adjusting his glasses.

  Abe wondered if Taibo would try to shake hands with the men around the table. He hoped the lawyer was too smart for that. Why chance a rebuff?

  This time Woo and Abe looked at each other, both understanding that the young lawyer had never expected Parker Liao to sign the document any more than he expected his client to sign. The document really did mean nothing. The agreement was only as good as the respect or fear the two gang leaders had for Woo and Lieberman and their own desire to get out of the possible gang war that would benefit neither of them.

  “Suggestion,” said Lieberman. “Emiliano, you and Piedras leave now. Parker and his friends will follow in five minutes.”

  El Perro nodded in agreement, got up, and, with Piedras watching his back, left the room.

  Lieberman looked at his watch. Woo sat with hands folded in front on his chest.

&
nbsp; “Gentlemen,” Lieberman said, looking at the Twin Dragons.

  Liao rose slowly, glanced at Woo, who looked at Parker and said, “Did you have that discussion with Mr. Li?”

  It was Parker Liao’s turn to look at Lieberman.

  “He will respond to neither option,” said Parker.

  Hanrahan suspected that those options were reason and the threat of violence. The conversation between the two men could have been carried on privately. Mr. Woo wanted it to take place in front of Bill Hanrahan.

  “We will see,” said Woo.

  Liao and his two men left the room, closing the door behind them.

  “Iris Chen,” said Woo. “She is well?”

  “My wife is well,” said Hanrahan.

  “Good,” said Woo. “Take care of her. I look forward to the birth of her child.”

  Hanrahan stared at the old man and decided that he was being sincere.

  “I can deal with Jon Li,” Hanrahan said.

  “Yes,” said Woo rising, the chair being pulled back gently, smoothly by Sidney Chao. “Detective Lieberman.”

  Woo nodded. So did Abe and then Woo was gone. Hanrahan and Lieberman sat alone. There was a knock on the door and Meg Dwyer, plump, bleached-blond, came in and looked around.

  “Barney wanted to be sure you were both still alive,” she said. “Wanted to know if they’d cut your throats.”

  “And if they had, Meg?” asked Bill.

  “I’d be calling our cleanup man to come in early,” she said. “Drink?”

  Meg knew that Bill was clean and sober.

  “Celebration,” said Bill. “I’ll have a Coke. Not the careful kind. Caffeine, sugar, the works. Abe?”

  “On the house,” said Meg.

  “Make mine the same,” he said. “You only live once or twice or forever.”

  When Bill got back to the station, he had a visitor, but not in the squad room, in Kearney’s office. He went in and found not Kearney but Hugh Morton standing at the window facing him.

  “I’m here to thank you,” Morton said.

  “For …?”

  “Wrapping up Berg. I heard what you did.”

  “With a little help from my partner,” Bill said.

  “Your quick work may have saved my career,” said Morton still standing across the room, arms at his side. “Unless you plan to arrest me for leaving the scene of a crime.”

  “Let’s say you were distraught,” said Hanrahan. “Let’s say you weren’t there.”

  A pause. Morton looked over his shoulder out the window and then turned back to Hanrahan.

  “I wanted to be the one who killed them,” said Morton.

  “I know,” said Bill. “So would I if I were you. How’s you wife?”

  “She’ll be all right,” said Morton. “Physically. Mentally … You’ve handled rape cases.”

  “Yeah. Your boy?”

  “I think he’ll be all right, too,” said Morton, moving around the desk and extending his hand.

  Bill took it and they shook.

  “I’m heading a new commission,” Morton said. “You want a transfer? Good opportunity. Exposure. Recognition, probably promotion if things go well.”

  “Hitch a ride on your star?” asked Hanrahan.

  “Might be a good ride,” said Morton.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said as Morton moved past him to the door, but Bill knew he wouldn’t think about it.

  He didn’t need change now. He needed stability. He needed his wife, reasonable hours, Abe and whatever routine his job offered. Maybe he should be ambitious. A new child coming. Maybe he should, but he knew that he wasn’t and he was content with that.

  Bill checked his watch. He had two hours to get to the airport and pick up Abe’s son-in-law.

  Abe parked the car alongside the hydrant in front of his house and hurried to the door. The overnight was packed and ready just as Bess had said it would be, just as he knew it would be.

  He had a little less than an hour to get to the airport, park, and get on the plane. He wasn’t taking his gun. He wouldn’t need it and it was too much trouble to get it through security. If he needed one, he could get it from the Yuma police, but he was reasonably certain that it wasn’t that kind of trip.

  Abe started to go back through the door to his car when he heard the voice of his grandson.

  “Grandpa,” Barry said.

  “Barry, what are you doing home from school?”

  “Waiting for you. Grandma said it was all right.”

  “Your mother?”

  Barry shrugged.

  “It was all right with her. I want to talk.”

  The boy looked like his father with just a bit of his mother and a touch of Lieberman’s seriousness. At least that’s what Abe thought. No one else seemed to see Barry that way.

  Abe resisted looking at his watch. He could turn on his flasher, risk his life and weave through traffic. He’d take Touhy and stay off the Expressways and he would hope to make it. Worst that could happen would be a later plane.

  “Okay,” said Abe, putting down the overnight bag and closing the door behind him. “Let’s talk. What are we talking about?”

  “I don’t think I can have the bar mitzvah,” said the boy, sitting heavily on the sofa in the small living room.

  “May I ask why?” Lieberman said calmly, sitting next to his grandson.

  “I don’t believe in God,” Barry said.

  The chances of making that plane to Yuma had just gotten much slimmer.

  When Jon Li made his call to Iris Chen Hanrahan, Bill was on the way to the airport to pick up Abe’s son-in-law. Abe was talking to his grandson. El Perro was making his lawyer Jesus Taibo very uncomfortable by offering him the supreme honor of calling the numbers for a few games of bingo on Saturday night. Blue Berg was talking to his lawyer who told him that the good news was that there was no chance of a death sentence in Illinois. Mr. Woo and Parker Liao sat in Mr. Woo’s office working out a new, informal relationship between them.

  And …

  In the little snip of an instant that hardly covered any real time and seemed like a dream, Wayne saw the young cowboy drop to the floor and pull something out of his pocket.

  Wayne was going to fire again. Maybe he did. He didn’t remember. The thump on his chest like someone jabbing him to make a point pushed him back a step. Then something stuck in his throat the way a big vitamin pill did sometimes. He dropped to his knees and felt like coughing and sneezing at the same time. And then Wayne fell forward on his face into shattered glass from the window.

  The gun was no longer in his hand. Nothing was in his hand. His head was to his left side. He could see shards and bits of glass forming some kind of figure. He imagined chance or God or his own imagination was starting to make a stained glass window. A flying white horse?

  Someone turned him over. He looked up at Lee Cole Carter, who held a little gun in his hand. Lee Cole was shouting, “Call the police.”

  Wayne wanted to talk but words wouldn’t come.

  “You crazy son of a bitch,” Lee Cole said.

  Somewhere far away, maybe as far as Houston, Richie was talking to someone on the phone.

  “Hero,” Wayne gasped and choked.

  Lee Cole brushed some shards of glass from Wayne’s face.

  “You’re no hero,” said Lee Cole. “Just be quiet. Police are coming.”

  “No,” said Wayne. “You. You’re the hero. Shot it out with a crazy sign painter. Beat him to the draw. All over the news. That gun registered?”

  Lee Cole nodded and tilted his cowboy hat back like Kenny Rogers or James Garner.

  Wayne wanted to say something else. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it didn’t matter because he could no longer speak. He closed his eyes. Lee Cole lifted Wayne’s head and Wayne suddenly, vividly saw the flying white unicorn and Lee Cole Carter astride it, cowboy hat in one hand, horse bucking in the clouds.

  Someone was breathing into his mouth. Lee Cole was
trying to keep him alive. Hero.

  It was then that Wayne Czerbiak decided not to die. And he didn’t.

  16

  BEFORE MAKING HIS CALL to Iris, Jon Li engaged in a long, deep meditation. He had completed his work for the day, having sold four vacation packages to Orlando over the phone. Jon Li was good on the phone. He was upbeat, laughed sincerely when a potential client said something humorous even if it was sarcastic, was pleasantly relentless, listened to anything they had to say, which ranged from listing illnesses to complaining about relatives.

  Jon Li was good on the phone.

  The meditation took place in the center of his room, legs folded under him on the floor, eyes fixed on a new photograph of Li Hongzhi. Time ceased to exist. Space ceased to exist. Jon Li ceased to exist. There was only void. No thoughts. No images. Nothing, not even darkness. It was cleansing. It was refreshing. It was also dangerous, since there were times when Jon did not come out of his meditative state for hours instead of the minutes he had planned on. He had considered some kind of alarm to bring him back to what most of humanity called reality, had even experimented with a gentle buzz on an alarm radio. He had been too deeply into his meditation to react to it. He had tried being brought back by the sound of gentle waves, the singing of whales, the falling of rain. None had worked. And he would not destroy the benefits of his meditation with a loud or harsh sound.

  A thought vibrated on the edge of the unknown and began to grow glowing. Consciousness returned and Jon Li breathed deeply, uncrossed his legs, and moved to the telephone. He dialed and Iris answered.

  “Have you decided?” he said.

  “Jon,” she answered calmly. “I am having the phone number changed in the next few hours.”

  “Then I will find the new number. I know telephones. And if I cannot reach you by phone, I will send you letters and if you do not open them I will appear before you to warn you.”

  “Jon …”

  “It is what I must do for you,” he said. “It is my responsibility.”

  “I’m going to tell my father about this,” she said. “He will inform your father.”

  “That does not matter,” he said. “Your father and mine are not enlightened.”

  “If I tell my husband, he will …”