Lieberman's thief al-4

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  When he had finished patching the arms of the Vietnamese man, who looked ancient and malnourished and communicated through an old woman whose English was incomprehensible, Jacob adjusted his glasses and called his brother.

  "Isaac? I'm sending you a police officer named Lieberman, Abraham Lieberman. History of heart disease in the family. High cholesterol and the rest. I'll mail you the file and lab results."

  "He calls. We book him. That's our motto," said Isaac abruptly, which was a clear signal to Jacob that his brother had something more important to do than take this call. "Anything else?"

  "I can make it for dinner Wednesday."

  "Good. Call Jennifer. No, I'll tell her. Seven-thirty if you want to see the kids before they go to bed."

  "Seven-thirty, fine."

  "Anything else, Jacob?"

  "You have a gun, Isaac?"

  A short pause and then, "What happened?" Isaac asked.

  Jacob looked at the window of his office/examining room. He had kept the blinds closed, a captive of daylight darkness instead of gray spring light.

  'This isn't the safest part of the city, Isaac. I took your word, let you…"

  "We've been through this, Jacob. No place is safe in the city. You go where you can practice and make a living. The worse the neighborhood the more diverse the patient problems."

  Jacob did not point out that his brother's practice was in two offices, one on Michigan Avenue and one in Winnetka, reasonably safe from immediate violence.

  "I asked you, Isaac. Do you have a gun?"

  A beat passed. A sigh and, "Yes. I keep it in my briefcase, put the case on the corner of my desk every morning and next to me in the car. It doesn't go in the house. You're thinking about getting a gun."

  Isaac's house was in Kenilworth, the most exclusive and restricted suburb on the Lake Michigan shore.

  "I think I should," said Jacob.

  "Jake, I don't have time now, but listen. You have police officers coming into your office all day. What better protection could you want?"

  "Not all day, Isaac. And they don't go out the door with me. They don't walk me to my car and to my apartment when I get home."

  "We'll talk about it Thursday, OK? I really have to go."

  "OK," Jacob agreed.

  Isaac hung up first.

  Jacob Berry took off his blue shirt with the embroidered name and hung it on a hanger in the closet. He left his lights on, moved to the waiting room, went out, and locked his office door behind him. He thought he heard a sound in the darkness of the corridor, near the solid wooden door of A. R. Oriental Imports about a dozen feet away. But no one was there.

  He hurried the two short flights down the stairs, took five echoing steps across the cracked white tile floor that was almost exactly like the tiles his mother had in her bathroom, and went into the chilly spring afternoon.

  An el train going north toward Evanston had just rattled out of the station. Jacob didn't look up. He passed Vietnamese, whites shopping at the Oriental stores, and a few black men he recognized as working in the neighborhood. His destination was the Solid Blue Diner on the corner of Broadway and Argyle. It was where he ate almost every day. Jacob's digestive tract couldn't take more than one Oriental meal a week and the Solid Blue specialized in solid, tasteless tuna sandwiches, burgers, daily specials, and vegetable soup.

  Before he was twenty feet from the door of his office, one of the things he dreaded took place. An ancient Oriental woman with a heavily wrinkled face approached him and said, "You want buy jewelry, watches? Real jade. Cheap jade for your lady?"

  Jacob Berry shook his head politely but firmly and moved on. Only half a block to go when an Oriental man of no discernible age, hair slicked back and a cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth, approached on his right.

  "Listen," the man whispered. "You doctor. I know. Got lots of things, watches, coffee grinders, hot stuff, you know?"

  The man winked when Jacob met his eyes while continuing to walk.

  "What you need? What you want?' the man whispered, glancing furtively at passersby. "Silk scarves, pearl-handled knives, finest shirts from Hong Kong, cheap."

  "You have a gun?" Jacob asked, surprising himself.

  The man stopped and so did Jacob. People moved around them. The man with the cigarette in the corner of his mouth cocked his head to the side and looked at Jacob's eyes.

  "No," the man said.

  "OK," said Jacob, starting to move away.

  "Wait I don't deal in guns but I know someone who does." The man's accent was gone.

  "When and how much?" Jacob asked.

  A wide Chrysler almost hit a man jaywalking across Bryn Mawr. The Chrysler's driver hit his horn. The jaywalker, a burly Oriental, smashed his fist down on the Chrysler's hood, screaming something in Chinese or Vietnamese.

  "Why don't you just go buy one at Sears?" the man asked suspiciously.

  "It takes time, days. I don't want to wait days."

  The Oriental man removed the cigarette from his mouth and said, "In this neighborhood, I don't blame you. Where you heading?"

  "Diner," Jacob said.

  "Eat slow. Digest your food. I'll see what I can do," the man said, turning his back and moving slowly with the flow of pedestrian traffic.

  Jacob got a booth in the rear of the dining room of the Solid Blue Diner, which had gotten its name from the pale blue walls. He ordered a bacon, lettuce, and tomato on white toast, a Greek salad, and a Diet Coke. He had bought a late-edition Sun-Times from the machine in front of the diner but he didn't feel like reading it.

  The old waitress with an odd walk who always waited on him brought the salad. He ate slowly, trying not to listen to the waitress calling orders and people at other tables bantering, joking, talking about nothing.

  He was finished with his sandwich and nursing his Coke after the waitress brought his check when the man he had talked to on the street came in and moved toward him. The man was carrying a small paper bag. He slid into the booth across from Jacob Berry. There was no expression on his face.

  "Sixty dollars," the man said softly.

  "I've only got fifty-six and I haven't paid for my lunch."

  "Fifty dollars," the man sighed in resignation, looking around the diner and out the window where pedestrians passed, paying no attention.

  "Take the bag," the man said.

  Jacob reached under the table and took the crumpled brown bag. Something felt cool and heavy inside it "Money," the man said.

  Jacob took out his wallet and counted out three tens and a twenty. The man took the money above the table, counted it, and stuffed it into his pocket. He looked around again and started to get up.

  "Wait," Jacob said. "I've never shot a gun."

  "Simple," whispered the man, leaning over the table toward Jacob. "It has bullets in it. No safety. Trigger is firm, won't go off by accident. You aim. You shoot. Just like Clint Eastwood. Your day is made."

  And the man was gone.

  It was over. Just like that. That fast. Wish for something and it appears. If Lieberman called him or mentioned the gun business the next time he saw him, Jacob would do exactly what Lieberman wanted, go through the process of getting a legal gun, and when he had it he would throw the weapon in the brown paper bag away. Meanwhile, he would have a small sense of security.

  He stuffed the bag and the gun into his pocket and left the diner. It would be easier to face the afternoon with the weapon hi his desk drawer.

  "What have we got, Father Murphy?" Lieberman asked when his partner slid into the passenger seat and closed the door.

  The seat was already adjusted back so that Bill Hanrahan could stretch his legs and accommodate his football lineman frame.

  Bill Hanrahan's hair was growing back with a vengeance. For about six months he had worn his dark hair short and brushed straight back and military. For about the same period he had been on the wagon, tempted but still riding and clinging for dear life to a fender. His face was less re
d and puffy than it had been when he drank, but there was a recent grayness to his skin and he wore a shave not quite close enough, a tie not fully knotted and not exactly matching his jacket.

  "Very little but a corpse, a grieving husband, a preliminary medical, a murder weapon. Least that's what I got from Briggs. Report from Homicide'll be waiting at Rozier's house."

  "Grieving husband has clout."

  "Meaning?"

  "He asks for a specific cop, me, and someone tells Briggs to give the man what he wants," said Lieberman.

  "Reads that way, Abe."

  "We shall see, Father Murphy. We shall see."

  They were driving away from Hanrahan's house on a side street in Ravenswood less than two blocks from the Ravenswood Hospital. Bill Hanrahan and his wife, Maureen, had raised two boys in the house. When they were grown and gone, Maureen packed her bags and went on her way. Hanrahan had been through much in the house since men, including his killing of a psycho less than a month ago, a psycho whose wife and young son he'd taken in. The psycho, Frankie Kraylaw, a rifle in his hand, had broken in, demanding his wife. Bill Hanrahan shot him.

  The memories had been tainted, but Hanrahan held on, keeping the place in perfect order for the day that Maureen came back, not to stay but to pick something up or just drop in. She would see how well he was doing, how he was straight and sober, how he could make it on his own.

  Bill Hanrahan had come to reasonable terms with his life. Three decades ago Hardrock Hanrahan had been the fastest lineman on the Chicago Vocational High School football team. Dick Butkus, who had graduated from CVS a few years after Hanrahan, told Bill at a reunion that Hardrock had been an inspiration to him. And then the knee went in a practice game and so did the speed and any chance at Notre Dame or Illinois or even Wisconsin. He lasted two years at Southern Dlinois University and then gave up to join his father as a Chicago cop, as his father had joined his grandfather before him.

  Then Maureen came, and the boys and the bottle.

  But things were better now. He even went to Saint Bart's once in awhile, though not recently, and he was engaged to a Chinese woman named Iris Chen. A new start. Who knows?

  Hanrahan had received a phone call the night before on his unlisted phone, a phone call from a man with just the hint of an Oriental accent. The man said he was calling for Mr. Woo. The man paused to see if Hanrahan recognized the name. He did.

  "Mr. Woo, as you know, is a very influential and civic-minded businessman," the man said.

  Laio Woo, Hanrahan knew, owned about a quarter of Chinatown and had a piece of most Chinese-owned businesses in the city. He was also suspected of cooperating with a major narcotics operation to the Midwest out of Hong Kong. The mayor took pictures with him and shook his hand. Civic organizations honored him for his generous contributions. Those who knew better kept their mourns shut.

  "I'm aware of that," Hanrahan said.

  "The Chen family is very dear to Mr. Woo. His father knew them well in China many years ago. He has been, as he has to many in our community, a benevolent patron to the Chens. You understand?"

  "I'm with you," said Hanrahan.

  "Mr. Woo thinks it would be best if Iris Chen married within her own culture."

  "He does?"

  "Yes."

  "You know I'm a cop?"

  "Of course," the man said calmly. "And Mr Woo is aware that you are divorced, are alcoholic, and have been disciplined twice by the department for misconduct. Mr. Woo would be very grateful if you would simply cease your relationship with Miss Chen."

  "Grateful, how grateful?" Hanrahan asked.

  The man on the phone sighed.

  "Please, Mr. Hanrahan, we are not fools. You will be offered no money. Mr. Woo is well aware that such an offer might be illegal and that you most certainly would not accept it."

  "You know what you can tell Mr. Woo?"

  "Yes, I know the limits of that which I can convey to him."

  "If Iris Chen wants to marry me, then I'm doing it. And I'd advise Mr. Woo not to do anything that sounds to me like he's putting pressure on Miss Chen. You understand?"

  "Clearly," said the man. "But can you not see the merit of Mr. Woo's concern?"

  Neither Iris nor her father had ever mentioned Woo.

  Hanrahan hung up. Partly out of simple anger. Partly because he did see the merit in Woo's concern.

  Lieberman was fully aware that his partner was lost in thought on the inside and slipping on the outside.

  "I'm fine, Rabbi," he said as they turned west on Wilson.

  "Did I ask?' "Didn't have to," said Hanrahan, shifting his weight. "I'm still straight and sober."

  "Which is more than can be said for most of the world."

  "Amen."

  Traffic cones let mem know they were approaching a school crossing. Lieberman slowed down. A thin man with a white beard stepped into the crosswalk and held up bis hand for Lieberman to stop. A gaggle of small children scurried across.

  "My boys used to cross here," Hanrahan said. "One of the reasons we moved here in the first place. Decent school, short walk. How's Lisa?"

  The crossing guard stepped to the curb and Lieberman touched the gas pedal gently.

  "She's fine. Getting used to the idea that Todd's going to marry the teacher."

  "She'll be moving out?"

  "No sign, but Bess is matchmaking with the fury of no mean proportions. And I've got my eye on a promising doctor."

  "Life is hard, Rabbi."

  "Life is hard, Father Murph, but it has its compensations, including…"

  "The Cubbies-"

  "Maish's corned beef and chopped liver with a new pickle-"

  "The kids-"

  "The job-"

  They turned at Western Avenue and went north. Traffic was light.

  "Coffee?" Lieberman asked.

  "I won't turn it down."

  Lieberman turned on the radio, found the oldies station, and headed for Dunkin' Donuts. They drove silently, listening to Benny Goodman, Nat King Cole, Teresa Brewer, and Kitty Kallen. They drove past car dealers, a spotting of McDonald'ses, a forest of video shops, upholsterers, supermarkets, and a plethora of liquor stores.

  "You know the new doc, Berry?" said Lieberman. "He's the possible for Lisa."

  "Heard about him, that's all."

  "What'd you hear?"

  Hanrahan looked at his partner as Ginny Simms sang "These Foolish Things."

  "He's Jewish, name's Berry."

  "That I know," said Lieberman. 'Tell me what I don't know."

  "Came from Ohio."

  "Michigan," Lieberman corrected.

  "Ah," said Hanrahan, shifting to face his partner.

  "My daughter needs a life," said Lieberman. "My grandchildren need a home, not a campsite in their grandparents' hovel. I need my house back. Lisa and Doc Berry are a perfect match. He's easy to push around and has even less of a sense of humor than Lisa."

  "Sounds made in heaven."

  "He likes the Cubs," Lieberman said.

  "Good."

  "Chance in a thousand, but who knows?"

  They pulled into the Dunkin' Donuts. Lieberman went in and came out with coffee and a donut, chocolate frosted, and a folded copy of the Chicago Tribune.

  "You're not having donuts?" Hanrahan asked, taking the newspaper and opening the bag.

  "Rozier, Rozier," Lieberman said, nodding the question away and changing the subject. "Can't place him. They sure it was me he asked for?"

  "Lieberman, Abe," said Hanrahan, scanning the front page of the paper and trying not to spill his coffee. "That's what Gibbs said. Here it is. Page one, but at the bottom. Photo of Rozier and his wife."

  "And…"

  "Let's see. Ah, the answer to your question. Harvey Rozier is, and I quote, 'the prominent financial adviser to many of the county's elite, including Judges O'Donald, Hershkowitz, Balziniak, and Lincoln. Other clients include'-let's see who's interesting. I think this is the short list. A handful of corporate typ
es and the president of the University of Chicago."

  "What else?"

  "Short article, but pretty much what Gibbs said on the phone. Wife was feeling sick. Usual night to go to a concert with friends. She insisted that Rozier go without her. He went. Came back with the friends and found what was left of Dana Rozier and a lot of blood. That's about it."

  "TV pick it up?" Lieberman asked, trying to ignore the smell of Hanrahan's donut.

  "Don't know. Happened late. Didn't watch this mom-ing."

  "They'll be there," Lieberman said. "Suggestion, Father Murph."

  "Fire," said Hanrahan.

  "Use your comb, fix your tie, and use the electric razor inside the glove compartment."

  Fifteen minutes later, empty cups and waxed paper stuffed into the bright donut bag, they pulled up to the entrance to the driveway of the Rozier house, where three private security guards in gray Kleinert Security uniforms were holding curious neighbors and impatient television crews at bay.

  Lieberman flashed his badge. One of the uniformed guards nodded and they parted to let him drive through to the house, where two more uniformed Kleinert guards protected the door.

  "Five to one Andy Kleinert is a Rozier client," said Hanrahan as they got out of the car.

  Lieberman nodded. He was thinking about donuts.

  Hanrahan reached for his badge, but one of the guards, a hefty man with cropped red hair, held up his hand.

  "I know who you are. How've you been, Abe?"

  He held out his hand, and Lieberman took it.

  "Breathing," said Lieberman. "This is my partner, Bill Hanrahan. Scotty Phierson."

  Phierson took Hanrahan's hand.

  "Scotty worked the Lawndale," Abe said. "Hard times in the mill."

  "Hard times indeed. Then my heart had enough. But I got no complaints, Abraham. Pay's good. Work's easy. Just got to dress up like a mailman once in a while. But the material's good. Feel it."

  Lieberman touched the uniform and wondered how he would look in one. He concluded quickly that his effect would be decidedly comic.

  "Good fabric," said Lieberman.

  "First class," said Phierson, opening the door and leading the two detectives inside.

  "Ask me a question, Abe," Phierson said quietly when the door was closed. "Company rule: don't volunteer. But you ask me a question, I've got to answer."