"How long?" Hanrahan asked.
"Who knows? Two, maybe three minutes. Man kills a woman in panic when he's caught in a burglary and then waits a minute or goes back to looking for candlesticks?"
"Not likely, unless he's a real hard-core addict," Hanrahan answered. "But it's still possible, Rabbi."
"Most self-respecting thieves who hadn't planned the crime would get the hell out of there as fast as they could. So I ask you, Father Murphy, what made that shape in the blood and where is it?"
"Cubs win! Cubs win!" Harry Carey shouted. "Holy cow."
"I'll be looking for our mysterious object," said Hanrahan, "but…"
"It's probably nothing. I know. Last puzzler. Fingerprints found match Rozier, Franklin, his wife, the dead woman. Footprints in the blood also check for Rozier, Franklin, and his wife plus two others, one with sneakers."
"Two burglars?" said Hanrahan.
"We'll ask when we find one of them, Father Murphy," said Lieberman.
Manuel came to the table bearing two side orders of potato pancakes with sour cream.
"Compliments of the boys," he said, nodding at the Cockers' table. "In honor of the Cubs' victory."
Lieberman looked at the Cockers, who raised their seltzer, chocolate phosphates, and coffee in a toast to the Cubs.
Were latkes on Doc Berry's hit list? Absolutely not, Lieberman decided. At least not till I ask Doc Berry. And with that he dug in.
When he left to drive Bill Hanrahan home fifteen minutes later, Maish had still not returned.*** The hardest thing for Harvey Rozier to do was keep from working. Playing the role of grieving husband was proving to be the most difficult part of murdering his wife. He sat in the living room trying to look overwhelmed while Betty Franklin, who had relieved her husband, fielded endless calls from business associates, Harvey's secretary, near and distant relatives, and the media.
The bloody toolbox the thief had left was locked inside Harvey's second safe in the garage. The safe was behind the tool cabinet and looked as old as the house, which had been built in the 1920s.
He had to find that thief, the witness to his crime. He had his name, George Patniks or Eupatniaks. He would check the city and suburban directories and, if necessary, ask a friend in the phone company to see if the man had an unlisted number. No, Harvey decided. He couldn't do that. No more than he could simply have someone in City Hall call the thief's parole officer or check the files to find the man's address. He couldn't have anyone who could trace him to the thief, particularly if Harvey had to kill him.
If the man were reasonable, Harvey told himself, he might consider threatening him with revelation as the murderer, complete with the man's bloody toolbox as evidence. He might. But Harvey doubted it.
Tonight, when he was alone in his room, he would check the directories and hope that the man was listed. If he wasn't, the job would be that much harder.
There were no parking spaces on the street in front of his house, not even the one by the fire hydrant. A van with a CLERGY sign on the pulled-down visor was illegally parked there.
Art Hellyer was joyfully announcing the next string of oldies on the radio as Lieberman turned the corner on Birchwood and drove around the back into the alley.
The rain had stopped, and there was a heavy, cold Chicago spring chill as Lieberman got out of the car, found the right key on his chain, and opened the garage. The garage door had ceased subservient cooperation more than a decade ago. It grew more reluctant with each opening. Weary from Chicago heat, cold, and rain, it simply wanted to be left alone. Normally Lieberman honored that wish, but there were a few nights, like tonight, when it was either park two or three blocks away or try to wake the dying door. Lieberman struggled, pulled, heard the impatient humming of his car engine behind him. Trying to lift with his knees and protect his back, Lieberman coaxed and pampered as the door reluctantly began to slide upward with a rusty squeal.
No more, Lieberman decided. He would not park in the garage again. He would fill the garage with junk from the closets. It was either that or fix the door, a challenge he did not even give serious consideration.
It was late, later than he liked, a little after eight. A little talk with the kids before they went to bed, some contentious banter with his daughter, something to eat-but what? — and then to the bedroom with Bess if he didn't get a call.
Abe opened the porch door, crossed the few feet to the back door. He heard the loud, confident baritone voice the instant he opened the door. The voice sounded familiar. Abe kicked off his shoes and placed them on the sheet of newspaper laid out next to the door. The aroma of cooking brisket filled the room. I'm undone, Lieberman thought.
"No doubt, none whatsoever," the man's voice pontificated from beyond the closed kitchen door.
"Well…" Bess answered.
Abe had crossed the kitchen, opened the door, and met his wife's eyes. She and the man were seated at the dining room table.
Bess was five years younger than Abe Lieberman. On a bad day she looked fifteen years younger. On a good day she looked like his daughter. She was Abe's height, dark, and slender. Not a classic beauty but a Lady, a lady with a capital L. She wore her curly dark hair short and she had the most beautiful and distinctive soft voice Lieberman had ever heard. Bess's father had been a butcher on the South Side, but Bess, now the president of Temple Mir Shavot, carried herself as if she had come from generations of successful bankers.
"Oh, Abe," she said looking up at him. "I was hoping you'd be home. You know Rabbi Nathanson?"
There was something in Bess's voice that made it clear she needed support or rescue.
Rabbi Ira Nathanson of Temple B'nai Shalom, south of Devon, rose and held out his right hand. In his left hand was an envelope. Rabbi Nathanson was a tall man, four or five years younger than Lieberman. His shoulders sagged and his dark face and heavily bagged eyes had given him the nickname among the children of Rabbi Camel. The rabbi was wearing a dark suit and tie and a grave look.
"We've met," Lieberman said, taking the rabbi's large hand in a firm shake. "Three years ago. Member of your congregation, Isadore Green. Missing person."
"Ah," said Rabbi Nathanson, standing back and shaking his head with his hands folded in front of him. "Never found. May the Lord have taken him to his bosom."
"Amen," said Abe, looking at Bess for guidance. It had been Lieberman's conclusion that Isadore Green had simply run away and was probably alive and well in Gallup, New Mexico, or some point even farther west.
Bess shrugged.
"Coffee, Abe?" she said. "More coffee, Rabbi?"
"Later," said Lieberman, joining them at the table. "Where are Lisa and the kids?"
"Todd took the kids to a movie, Die Hard 3 or 4 or something. Lisa's working late."
Alone at last, Lieberman thought, loosening his tie and looking at Rabbi Nathanson, who had nodded to indicate that more coffee would be welcome. Bess moved toward the kitchen.
Nathanson opened his mouth to speak but Abe stopped him with, "I'll be right back," and headed for his and Bess's bedroom.
In the bedroom, as he did whenever he came home, Lieberman opened the drawer of the night table on his side of the bed, using the key he always wore around his neck.
He put his.38 and holster into the drawer, closed it, and locked it with the key, checking to be sure the drawer was indeed locked. Then he returned to the dining room and the waiting visitor.
"Let me explain," said the rabbi, folding his hands on the table, "as I did with your wife, who, I would like to add, is doing a monumental job as president of Mir Shavot during the move to the new synagogue. Monumental."
"Thank you," said Lieberman, also folding his hands on the table.
Bess came back with the coffee pot and poured more in the rabbi's cup. The rabbi nodded in appreciation and returned his steady eyes to Abe's face.
"Rabbi Wass, your rabbi, indicated in conversation that you were planning to move, to be closer to the new synagogue site," t
he rabbi said in a near whisper, as if this were very confidential information.
" 'Planning' is a little strong, Rov," Lieberman said, looking at Bess across the table. She shrugged to indicate she had nothing to do with spreading such a rumor.
"Well," Nathanson said, "it may come as no surprise to you that congregation B'nai Shalom is seriously considering a move to this neighborhood to serve the older Jewish community, those who cannot easily move to the north with you, and to serve the young Russian immigrants who are coming to this area in ever-growing numbers."
It was not Lieberman's place or desire to contradict the rabbi, at least not till the man came to the point. Rabbi Camel had the reputation of delivering meandering sermons in which the point came late and was usually missed by the congregation. The older Jews in Lieberman's neighborhood were dying off, moving in with their children in the suburbs, or lounging in Florida high-rises if they could afford it. Some Russian immigrants were moving in, but the vast majority of those moving in were Asians and Indians and a few upwardly mobile Hispanics. The neighborhood change was the primary reason Temple Mir Shavot was moving thirty blocks north.
"We may build," Nathanson said, holding up one hand and then the other, "or we may buy a suitable edifice. It is unfortunate that the building you are abandoning has been sold to Chinese Christians."
"Korean," Bess corrected.
The Koreans, Lieberman knew, had made the best offer and Bess, Rabbi Wass, and the building committee had decided that the Korean Baptist Church and its leader Reverend Kim Park were conservative, honorable, and far better than the only other offer that they had received, from Kenehay Exporters, a group that Lieberman labeled after one phone call as being engaged in "dubious" enterprises.
"My wife…" Nathanson went on.
Lieberman pointedly looked at his watch. Bess frowned at her husband's manners and Rabbi Nathanson seemed not to have noticed. He was launched. There was no stopping him.
"My wife, Leah, and I have sold our house. The children, Larry and Rachel, are off at college. Rachel is at Brandeis. Larry is finishing dental school, University of California."
"That's wonderful," said Bess. "Isn't it, Abe?"
"A blessing," said Abe.
"Expensive," sighed the rabbi. "But for your children…"
"You make sacrifices," Bess concluded.
"So you sold your house," Lieberman prompted.
"Sold our house, where we had loved, nurtured, and raised a family," the rabbi went on. "Sold and moved into a condominium." 'That's nice," said Bess.
"We hate it," Rabbi Nathanson said forlornly. "No history, no character. We hung our paintings-you've heard of the priceless painting of the Torah we have, the one done by Hammasha of Jerusalem?"
He looked at Bess and Lieberman, who nodded slightly, neither knowing about this famous artwork.
"Well, it does not hang well in the apartment," he said sadly. "A cold museum no matter what effort my poor Leah puts into it. But this house…" He looked around the dining room and into the living room. "This house has a history, a family, the aura, if you win, of Jewish culture."
Lieberman nodded knowingly, sure that the aura was in part a failure to invest in new furniture for more than fifteen years plus the brisket simmering in the kitchen.
"Thank you," said Bess. "You sure you don't want coffee, Abe?"
"Later," Lieberman said, now fascinated by the apparently pointless but elegantly presented ramblings of the rabbi.
"In short, I wish to buy your house. I'm sure you will be reasonable," said the rabbi, pausing for a response.
"I don't think we're seriously considering selling quite yet," Lieberman said.
"Abe…" Bess said softly.
"Well, maybe," Lieberman conceded.
"Good," Rabbi Nathanson said leaning forward, ready for business. "A price?"
"One hundred and seventy-five thousand," said Bess.
Rabbi Nathanson sat back to consider this.
"No realtor, six and a half percent saved," said the rabbi. "One hundred and sixty-two thousand and five hundred dollars."
"We could consider mat," Bess said, looking at Lieberman, encouraging him with her eyes not to destroy this opportunity.
"We'll think about it," said Lieberman.
The rabbi put down the envelope in his hand, pulled out a fountain pen, and began writing.
"I will now give you a check for one thousand dollars," he said. "Earnest money. Good faith money to be applied to the purchase price. In return, you sign this document stating that you will sell to no one else for six months."
"I don't think…" Lieberman began, but Rabbi Nathanson was hunched over his envelope and the checkbook he had conjured from his pocket. He was lost in words and dollars.
"There," he said, handing check and envelope to Lieberman, who looked at them and turned the envelope over. It was a mailer from a Honda dealer on Western Avenue. Lieberman handed check and envelope to Bess.
"No offense, Rabbi," Lieberman said, "but I think we should think this over and talk to our lawyer before we sign anything."
Rabbi Nathanson nodded, all knowing, and said, "Fine, but I want you to keep the check, hold it, deposit it. I want this perfect house. I want to bring my wife to see it How is tomorrow night for you?"
The Liebermans exchanged looks and Bess, holding the check in her hand, said, "Fine."
"Seven?" asked the rabbi.
"Seven," agreed Bess as the tall rabbi took the envelope back and signed it.
"There. You have my check. You have my signature."
The rabbi rose. So did the Liebermans. They shook hands and walked their guest to the front door. On the way he scanned the walls, ceiling, and furniture with interest.
"The lighting fixtures," he said at the door. "They stay with the house?"
"Sure," said Lieberman.
"Good," the rabbi said. "Good. Tomorrow. Seven."
He hurried down the steps to the CLERGY car parked in front of the fire hydrant. Lieberman closed the door and looked at his wife.
"He's nuts," said Lieberman.
"Unorthodox," Bess said, handing her husband the rabbi's check.
"Reform," Lieberman amended, looking at the check. "And he has the handwriting of an ax murderer."
They were moving back toward the kitchen now, where Bess would feed him and grill him about his visit to Dr. Berry.
"Handwriting analysis is not your specialty," Bess said, taking his hand.
"It doesn't take an expert to see frenzy, the zeal of a true believer," Lieberman said.
"We have a nice house," Bess said, moving to the kitchen table.
"Then we should stay in it," Lieberman said, sitting.
The table was already set for one.
"We agreed to think about selling," Bess said. "And fate brought us Rabbi Nathanson. The house is too big for two."
"Lisa…" he tried, but she was ready.
"Will be moving out soon and we'll have the heat, air-conditioning, repairs, cleaning…"
"We'll think about it. Don't cash the check. Give Denenberg a call and ask him what he makes of it. What tune do you have to leave?"
"Leave?" she said.
'Table set for one. You're wearing a suit with pearls and perfume at eight o'clock. The great detective put the clues together. Building committee?" Lieberman asked.
"Fund-raising committee," Bess answered. "You'll have some time alone, to take it easy."
She came around the table and kissed him. She tasted sweet and Lieberman wondered if they had time to…
"Al and Sophie Bloombach are picking me up in-," she said with a smile, knowing what was on his mind, "-about ten minutes."
Lieberman sighed.
"You'll have to be satisfied with a thin slice of brisket, potatoes, and salad till I get back, if you're still feeling frisky and awake."
"No brisket," Lieberman said as his wife moved to the oven. The smell from the oven was irresistible. "After tonight."
&nbs
p; Bess turned to nun.
"What did the doctor tell your Abe tore a piece of challah from the half loaf on the table in front of him.
"His name is Berry, Jacob Berry, Jewish. Just came to the city from Indiana or Michigan. He's in his mid-thirties, divorced, loves baseball, has no sense of humor, and is easy to push around. Perfect for Lisa, I thought we might invite him-"
"Abe," Bess said patiently, hands on her hips.
"High cholesterol, liver enzymes still high but manageable, migraines under control, back holding up, arthritis as well as can be expected. End of report. Nothing new."
"We have to watch your food, Abe. You promised me you'd live to be a hundred and nine."
"My love, if I am going to make it to one hundred and nine, the Lord will have to be very generous and he will need massive sacrifice from me. No meats, no milk products, watch the fat and cholesterol, lots of vegetables and fruits… in short, a potentially long life of extreme deprivation."
"We'll find ways to make it taste good and good for you," she said. "Brisket is made. Indulge yourself, Abraham. One piece."
"I am persuaded," he said, and she brought the brisket to the table.
Bill Hanrahan did not want to go home, did not want to return to the house haunted now by the memory of his wife, Maureen, and children, in addition to Frankie Kraylaw, whom he had shot and killed just inside the front door. No one and nothing waited for him but a layer of distorted dreams covered by a layer of sour memories.
Hanrahan ate his sweet-and-sour pork. He had not quite mastered chopsticks, but he was reasonably comfortable with them. There were two other customers in the Black Moon Restaurant, an older couple probably from one of the high-rises across Sheridan Road. The old couple had paid and were waiting for Iris Chen to bring their change.
Through the restaurant window across the street, Hanrahan could see the entrance to one of the high-rises, the one in which a prostitute named Estralda Valdez had been murdered because William Michael Hanrahan was drunk while on duty. He had met Iris while using the Black Moon as a vantage point for watching the entrance to the high-rise. He was drunk when he met Iris, but she still agreed to go out with him. And their relationship had meandered now for over a year.
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