Last Dark Place

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “So you got a gun,” Lieberman said.

  “Had a gun,” Johnstone said. “Since Korea. You’ve got it now. Asked some questions at the airport. Found out when a Chicago police officer was scheduled to take off with a prisoner.”

  He sat back and let out a big sigh of relief.

  “That’s the story.”

  “Tell your lawyer that story,” said Lieberman, getting up.

  “It’s true,” said Johnstone.

  “Yes. Just tell it to your lawyer. It’s better than the one about the man with the thumb and the money. He’ll want to take it to a jury. Local law won’t want it going to a jury. It’ll cost them big and you’ll get a slap on the cheek. My guess is local law will make a deal and you won’t do much jail time, if any. Especially if you tell the truth before someone else does.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Probably,” said Lieberman, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “That’s the way it would go down in Cook County. Still want to see the Cub game?”

  “Why not?” said Johnstone.

  “I’ve got to go down, get my bag and tell the cop who shot you to go home.”

  “He seems like a nice boy,” said Johnstone.

  “Yeah, he does.”

  “If my lawyer says ‘yes,’ I’ll do it.”

  “He’ll say ‘yes.’”

  “Yeah.”

  “Be right back,” said Lieberman.

  The old man clicked the television back on and Lieberman left the room nodding at the Hispanic cop, who was seated in a chair reading a newspaper.

  “I’m coming back in a few minutes.”

  The cop nodded.

  “We’re going to watch the Cub-Cardinal game. Why don’t you join us?”

  “Sure,” said the cop with a grin.

  Parsons was waiting where Abe had left him.

  “That didn’t take long,” the younger cop said. “Getting in?”

  “I’m staying for a while,” said Lieberman. “I’ll catch a cab to the motel.”

  “Get anywhere with Johnstone?”

  Lieberman shrugged.

  “He wasn’t very talkative. I think he may be more willing to talk to you in the next day or two.”

  “You think so?” said Parsons warily.

  “It’s a good possibility. Take care of yourself, Martin,” Lieberman said, opening the back door of the car and taking his carry-on.

  “You too, Abe.”

  Lieberman backed away and watched as the marked Yuma police car made a U-turn and headed for the exit.

  Now if Sammy Sosa would only have a good day, life would be worth living.

  17

  ON FRIDAY, IT RAINED in Yuma. It rained hard and heavy. Lieberman checked with the airport. Flights were being delayed coming in and out, but the weather was expected to break.

  His flight was definitely going to be delayed or even canceled.

  Abe checked with the airline and found that if he hurried and the weather held at least at the current level, there was a delayed flight to Los Angeles that stood a good chance of getting out an hour late. Los Angeles was clear and there was a flight from LAX to Chicago that should get him home on time for the Friday services.

  The cost was three times the price of his present ticket. Lieberman would have to pay for the ticket on his and Bess’s American Express card. He gave the ticket clerk his credit card information, hung up, prayed some Indian nearby wasn’t doing a rain dance, and called for a cab. They were all busy. He called Martin Parsons.

  “Give a fellow officer a ride to the airport?” Lieberman asked.

  “It can be done. When?”

  “Now would be fine.”

  “Johnstone and his lawyer want to see me,” said Parsons.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be right there providing I don’t get washed away into the desert.”

  Twenty minutes later, Parsons pulled in front of the motel and pushed open the passenger-side door, and Lieberman made his dash.

  “Normally I would have made it in about eight minutes. How’d the Cubs do yesterday?” Parsons asked.

  “Lost. Sammy went zero for three. Kerry Woods came out early,” said Lieberman.

  “Sorry,” said Parsons over the slamming of rain and the rubber squishing of the windshield wipers.

  “I’m a Cub fan,” said Lieberman. “We live lives of quiet desperation.”

  They sped through the streets. Lieberman checked his watch. It would be close.

  Jon Li had thought it over and come to a decision. Phone calls would not work. Letters would not work. Threats, he was sure, would not work and he had decided it was almost certainly useless to appear at his cousin Iris’s door and hope to come up with an irrefutable argument that would persuade her.

  He dressed casually, but neatly. Dark slacks. White shirt. Black silk zippered jacket. He brushed his short hair straight back, checked his teeth, and took in a deep breath.

  It was a matter of faith. The truth was self-evident but faith was required to accept it. Iris had no faith except, perhaps, in the Buddhism she and most of Li’s family clung to.

  The doorbell rang.

  He checked the fishing knife with the long, folding blade that lay on the sink in front of him. He closed the blade and put the knife in his pocket.

  The doorbell rang.

  Jon Li turned out the bathroom light and moved across the bedroom to the living room where he looked at the photograph of Li Hongzhi.

  The doorbell rang.

  He went to the door and opened it. It wouldn’t have surprised him if it had been any of several people, but this was someone he had not expected, certainly someone he had not expected to see at his door with a gun in hand.

  He smiled and the bullet smashed into his right eye, went through his brain, crashed through his skull, and fell to the floor and for an instant Jon Li truly felt that for the first time he had levitated.

  Sean O’Neil had a headache.

  He sat in the hospital waiting to talk to Wayne Czerbiak, who, the Indian doctor named Pordpie or something like that said, would almost certainly live.

  O’Neil had decided more than an hour ago that there were many things wrong with being a cop. The long hours. The pay. The things he had to do and see. The people he had to work with. The people he had to work against, but the worst, the all-time definite worst, was the waiting, the sitting around and waiting, waiting in cars on stakeouts, waiting at the phone for a call, and waiting in hospitals.

  The attempt on the life of Carter was big news. The hero of the hour was the country singer, not O’Neil, who had arrived a few seconds too late.

  Lee Cole Carter had a permit to carry a concealed weapon. Lee Cole Carter, Maverick hat tilted back on his head, had beaten stupid Wayne Czerbiak to the draw.

  It would sell an extra few million albums.

  Sean O’Neil would get reamed because he had been a few seconds late and because he was Sean O’Neil and there were few in the world who liked Sean O’Neil and none in the world who loved him.

  He didn’t feel sorry for himself. He just felt pissed. He should check with Hanrahan and see how the Morton case was going. If Morton was brought down, Sean would feel better about the day.

  The hospital waiting room smelled like iodine and disinfectant.

  The television set in the waiting room wasn’t working. Sean should have brought a book, but he didn’t.

  Barry was just moving to the bimah as the cantor finished chanting the first prayer. Rabbi Wass sat, tallis over his shoulders, right behind the table on which the Torah scroll would be opened the next morning for Barry and the others who would be reading a section on Noah’s preparation of the Ark.

  The chapel was almost full and Rabbi Wass had started the evening with a special word about Ida Katzman.

  In the front row sat Bess, Barry’s younger sister Melissa, Lisa and her husband Marvin, Maish and his wife Yetta. Next to them were Barry’s father, Todd Creswell, and his wife Gail.
The alter cockers were scattered through the chapel, and seated in the rear were Hanrahan and Iris. Howie Chen had joined them.

  Morrie Greenblatt, as he had for several hundred bar and bat mitzvahs over the decades, gathered those who were to read, speak, open and close the ark, and carry the Torah. He showed them where to sit and indicated to them when it was their turn to move forward and perform their task. He did it smoothly, calmly, without effort and with the certainty that in spite of the anxiety of the family, the evening and the next day would pass without major problems.

  Abe entered from the rear and moved forward knowing all eyes were on him. He had parked in the driveway of the temple. He had run in hearing the cantor’s voice and knowing that he had just barely made it on time.

  As he passed Herschel Rosen, seated on the aisle, Rosen said, “You lost me four dollars to Hurwitz. I said you wouldn’t make it.”

  Abe spotted Hanrahan as he moved. He nodded. Bill nodded back. Abe felt something wrong in his partner’s forced smile, but he didn’t have time to think about it. Bess moved over to make room for him and handed him a Siddur, a prayer book. Lisa gave him a disapproving look but her husband Marvin gave him a nod that said everything was all right. Melissa took his hand and Barry, on the bimah, gave him a smile before beginning to lead the prayer service.

  “You were not perfect,” Abe said to his grandson a little over an hour later, a slice of carrot cake before each of them. “You were better than perfect.”

  “Tomorrow’s the hard part,” Barry said, taking a forkful of cake.

  “No, the hard part is the beginning. It’s over.”

  People approached their table and gave their congratulations. No presents were given in the temple. Presents would come tomorrow, Saturday, at the dinner, when the rite of passage was complete.

  The room off of the chapel was not huge but it was big enough for the table of cakes and pastries and the containers of decaf coffee. There was also a punch bowl and two flavors of ice cream being served by members of the women’s club of the synagogue.

  “Okay if I go sit with my friends?” Barry asked.

  “Go,” said Bess, with a smile.

  “I’m most definitely Jewish,” Barry said.

  “Most definitely,” Abe agreed.

  “Only one slice, Abe,” Bess whispered.

  “One,” Abe said, looking down at his carrot cake. He would save the icing part with the orange-icing carrot for the end.

  “He was good,” said Marvin Alexander across the table, touching Lisa’s hand.

  Lisa looked around knowing that almost everyone knew she was married to the good-looking black man holding her hand. Normally, she would have met the eyes of anyone whom she caught staring at them, met them with defiance, but not tonight. Lisa Lieberman Alexander was in a very good mood.

  She smiled and said, “He was good. I was afraid you weren’t going to make it, Abe.”

  “God parted the clouds, stopped the rain, and sent a dove with a sprig of green,” said Abe.

  “You were lucky,” said Maish. “He could have shot you out of the sky with a bolt of lightning. He does things like that.”

  “Maish,” said his wife Yetta. “Give it a rest already.”

  “Sorry,” said Maish.

  Rabbi Wass had carefully avoided the older Lieberman brother and was now standing near the punch bowl, ready to make a move toward another group if Maish decided the time was ripe for a rant against God.

  Lieberman looked around for Hanrahan and Iris and saw them at the door about to leave.

  “Be right back,” he told Bess, got up and wove his way through small clusters of congratulating people.

  “It’s early, Father Murph,” said Lieberman, catching up with Bill.

  “Long day, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan. “Iris is getting tired.”

  “Lovely service,” Iris said.

  Lieberman took her hand.

  “Back tomorrow?”

  “Crack of nine,” said Hanrahan.

  “You can come at ten,” said Abe. “Won’t miss anything. You okay, Father Murph?”

  “Been better. Been worse. Need some sleep.”

  Iris took her husband’s hand and leaned against him.

  “See you tomorrow,” said Abe.

  He stood in the hallway and watched them walk down to the door and out past an off-duty cop named Tyner who was providing security. Lieberman went back to the table and discovered that the icing he had been holding till the end was gone, carrot and all.

  “Not me,” Bess said.

  Lieberman turned to his granddaughter. Melissa smiled. He touched her cheek.

  “This calls for negotiation,” he said to his wife. “One ruggalah.”

  “One,” she conceded.

  “I’ll get it,” said Melissa and hurried away.

  On Saturday, Abe learned of the murder of Jon Li. On Saturday, following a service as good or better than the one the night before, there was a party at the Jewish War Veterans’ meeting hall.

  The presents were piled on a table at the entrance and envelopes with money were handed to Abe, who stuffed them into his pockets till his pockets were full. Then Bess took them.

  Rabbi Wass’s cousin Leo had a klezmer band. They danced, sang, and made a mess till a few minutes before midnight. Melissa had long since fallen asleep on a couch in the JWV office.

  An hour later Marvin and Lisa said good night and went up the stairs of the house on Jarvis. Marvin carried the sleeping Melissa in his arms.

  “Can we open the presents now?” Barry asked.

  “First thing in the morning,” said Bess. “Promise. We want your sister to see. And we got her a present, too.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Barry, resigned. “Good night.”

  “You were terrific,” said Abe. “But I already told you that fifteen or twenty times.”

  Barry waved and moved up the stairs.

  “Tired?” Abe asked Bess.

  “Am I tired? Am I human? Of course I’m tired. A cup of decaf?”

  “Why not?” he said, moving to the kitchen.

  “Who is Mr. Woo?” asked Bess. “He sent a present.”

  “You got an hour?”

  “I’ve got till we finish coffee,” she said.

  There were also presents from Captain Kearney, who had been invited but had not come; from El Perro; and from a variety of cops all over the city.

  “Abe?”

  “Yes.”

  “In two years Melissa will be ready for her bat mitzvah.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer child. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that we’ve got to start planning for it next year.”

  They sat at the kitchen table waiting for the coffee to heat.

  “Next year?” said Bess. “Make that next month.”

  18

  AS BESS LIEBERMAN POURED two cups of coffee in her kitchen …

  Mr. Woo sat in his bedroom still fully dressed and looked at the small, rough stone bust of a human head that sat on a three-hundred-year-old dark enameled table. The bust was at least five thousand years older than the table. He reached out and touched the rough surface of the bust and said something, but what he said was so quiet that even had someone been in the room they would not have heard what the old man said.

  Hugh Morton sat in a chair next to the bed looking at his wife. There was one light on, a small night-light. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully but every once in a while she let out a tiny sound like just a little bit of air escaping a balloon. When he heard the sound, he leaned forward and touched her brow. Her hair was moist with perspiration. He whispered and had someone been in the room they would have heard him say, “I’m here.”

  Billy Johnstone sat up in a hospital chair in Yuma in darkness except for the light from the television set on which a rerun of Wagon Train was playing. The rain drummed against the window. The second day of rain. He found it restful. He shifted slightly and with more than a little discomfort to
reach into the pocket of his robe and remove his wallet. He flipped it open to the photograph of his son Ronnie. Ronnie was smiling in the photograph. Billy touched the photograph with a single finger, closed the wallet slowly, and returned it to his pocket.

  Bill Hanrahan sat in his kitchen. He had left Iris asleep upstairs and now he sat thinking about how he had sat on so many nights at this very table, a bottle of whiskey in front of him, memories clouding the room, memories that needed to be exorcised. He knew he wasn’t going to drink. No more. No matter what. But he couldn’t help thinking. It was the price he had to pay and he was prepared to pay it. He was examining the backs of his hands, seeing the few brown spots that had begun to appear, when he was aware of Iris at the doorway. He hadn’t heard her but he sensed her there. She looked lovely.

  “Bill, we should talk.”

  He nodded. They talked. And Iris told her husband that she had been the one who killed Jon Li.

  Morrie Greenblatt leaned over to pick up a napkin the cleaning crew had missed on Friday night. He was alone in the temple. He liked being alone in the temple, particularly in the chapel.

  He dropped the napkin into the trash container and moved into the chapel. The small perpetual lights next to the names of dead congregants etched on a bronze tablet glowed softly. Morrie shambled over to the tablet and reached out to touch the slightly warm bulb next to the name of his beloved wife. He uttered her name, and for a reason he didn’t understand and didn’t examine, a memory returned of a morning minyan thirty years ago at the old shul. They had been one man short of the ten needed and Morrie had found an old man in the hall and brought him to the service, a service marked by an intruding gunman. The tenth man had turned out not to be a Jew, but God had apparently forgiven Morrie for his mistake and had allowed the former tile salesman a long and reasonably contented and useful life. It was late. Morrie sighed and moved to the chapel door. He turned, looked around to be sure that everything was all right, and said, “Amen.”

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