Lieberman's thief al-4

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Behind the two policemen the T amp; L door swung open and someone said, "Hello, Uncle Maish."

  Lisa. Lieberman had forgotten about his daughter.

  "I'm on my way, Rabbi," said Hanrahan, counting off five dollars and dropping them on the counter as he stood.

  "Lisa, I'm going through the motions," said Maish.

  "How are you, Lisa?" Bill Hanrahan said, abandoning his partner to his family.

  "All right," she said, moving past him and sitting next to her father.

  "Good to hear it," Hanrahan said. "See you at the station, Abe."

  "At the station," Lieberman echoed.

  "What can I get you, Lisa?" Maish asked. "Manny's almost got the pickled whitefish ready."

  "Coffee, toast," she said, looking at her father.

  Lieberman turned and met his daughter's eyes. She looked serious.

  "Abe," she said. "Todd's going to marry her. He wants the divorce and he's going to marry her."

  "I know," said Lieberman, realizing even as he spoke mat he had made a massive error.

  "You knew and you didn't tell me?"

  "He mentioned it when he brought the kids home last night," said Abe, giving up his search for anything meaningful in the omelette. "I haven't had a chance to see you."

  "I can't stay in the same city with them," she said.

  "It's a big city with lots of suburbs," Abe said. "You give them north of Howard Street and you take the rest."

  "That's not funny," she said, watching her uncle place a hot coffee mug in front of her. "How's Aunt Yetta?"

  "She's Aunt Yetta," said Maish, moving away with a shrug.

  "You should help him, Abe," Lisa whispered, picking up her coffee cup.

  "I'm trying, Lisa," he said. "What's the issue?"

  "Issue?' "You, your mother. On the phone. I know an issue when I hear one coming."

  "I can't stay in Chicago," she said. "There's too much… I can't stay."

  Lieberman wished he could dangle the prospect of Dr. Jacob Berry before his daughter, but Berry's eligibility had been seriously compromised. In fact, the odds were good that Dr. Berry's medical license was in jeopardy and that, if Matthews died, involuntary manslaughter and possession of an illegal weapon were in his future. Lieberman's mind raced for a possible substitute. He even considered Alan Kearney, then immediately rejected the idea.

  "Where are you going?"

  "San Francisco," she said. "I've always wanted to live in San Francisco, you know that."

  Abe knew nothing of the kind, but he nodded in agreement.

  "When?" he asked.

  "Soon, next month. Right after Barry's bar mitzvah. I want you to tell Todd that I agree to the divorce. I want nothing from him, not even support for the children."

  "I'll tell him."

  "And you can send me whatever papers need to be signed."

  "I will," he promised. "Anything else?"

  "Yes, I talked to Mom about this. She said it was all right with her if it's all right with you."

  Lieberman could feel it coming. He faced his daughter in the hope of intimidating her into backing down, but the past thirty-five years told him it was hopeless.

  "You want to leave the kids with us," he said.

  "For awhile," she said. "I think I can get a job with a pharmaceutical company in Oakland, but the cost of living there, transportation, setting things up…" 'Todd would help," Abe said.

  Lisa looked deeply into her steaming coffee and shook her head.

  "I don't want anything from Todd."

  No, you want something from me and your mother, Abe thought, but was wise enough this time to say nothing. And besides, the prospect of having Barry and Melisa around without Lisa to tell him the proper way to treat them was tempting.

  "Let's set a time limit," Lieberman said.

  "Just six months," she said. "And I'll come back and visit on holiday weekends. I can get a special rate if I book in advance."

  "Six months," Abe repeated.

  "Maybe a little less, maybe a little more. I couldn't stand being away from Barry and Melisa for long."

  "I'm more than sixty years old, Melisa. Your mother's… a little younger."

  Her eyes met his, moist, pleading, hopeful, a look he hadn't seen from her in almost thirty years.

  "Fine," he said with a sigh.

  She hugged him, something she had done only once in the last twenty years, the night after Maish's son David was murdered.

  "What?" asked Maish, coming with coffee refills.

  "Lisa's moving to San Francisco," Abe said. "Bess and I are keeping the kids till she gets settled."

  The door behind Lieberman opened and someone said, "What smells so good, Maish?"

  "Boiled cabbage, pickled whitefish," said Maish.

  The rush hour lunch had begun.

  "Gregor, what are you doin'?"

  When he had returned from the lineup, George Patniks had told his mother as little as possible and then gone down to his room to pace and listen to Sally Jessie and his mother laugh above him.

  He tried to think about painting, a new painting, something light for a change-trees, a park, kids, oranges, anything-but nothing took shape. He paced.

  Rozier had been behind that mirror, looking at him, gauging him, knowing that the police suspected something. Was Rozier home now? Or was he in his car searching for George, a long, sharp knife tucked into his belt?

  Then, after a full hour of pacing and well into Oprah, George pulled out the painting of the murderer and the dying woman, packed it in cardboard, and taped it tight, then packed a bag and went upstairs.

  "I'm going to Seattle, Ma," he said. "I'll call Tommy, tell him to look out for you. Anyone comes looking for me, you tell 'em I went to Seattle for an art show."

  "With one painting you're going to an art show?"

  "I shipped the others."

  "When? Where you ship the others?"

  "Last week. You were sleeping."

  "Gregor, what's wrong?' "The damn television is too loud, that's what's wrong. I can't think. I can't paint. I'll be gone a week, maybe two. Promise. I gotta go. I'll call."

  "What's wrong, Gregor?" she repeated, summoning the energy to rise from her chair.

  "I'm going, Ma," he said. "I'll call you."

  He left her standing heavily in front of the serious face of Oprah, who was talking about children with some rare disease.

  "I'll call," he repeated at the door. "Don't worry."

  He opened the door, took a step down, and found himself facing one of the cops he had seen after the lineup, a big cop with a pink face.

  "Suitcase in one hand, what looks like a wrapped-up painting in the other," said Bill Hanrahan. "Being a good detective, I'm gonna conclude that you're taking a little trip."

  "I was going to call my parole officer before I left," George said. "I've got a chance to make a big sale in Seattle."

  "My partner thinks the Seattle stuff is a bunch of bullshit, George," Hanrahan said with a smile. "Why don't we go back in and talk about this morning, maybe look at some of your work? Abe says you've got talent."

  "I'll miss my bus," George pleaded.

  "That you will," agreed Hanrahan sadly, hearing his father's voice. "That you will."

  Eupatniaks, that was die name, Harvey Rozier remembered. He had tried every Patniks in the book-well, the three listed-but now he was searching for a Eupatniaks. He wasn't sure of how to spell it, but how many variations could there be?

  In five minutes, Harvey had narrowed the list down to three names. He called the first and asked if George was there.

  "George doesn't live here," the woman said. "His brother Tommy lives here. You want George, you call him at Wanda's."

  "I don't have the number."

  The woman on the other end gave a put-upon sigh and gave Harvey a phone number.

  "I'm sorry," he said, turning on the charm, "but do you have the address?"

  He waited for her to question his request,
but she simply gave him an address on Clyborne.

  "Thanks," he said and hung up.

  Simple, it had been so simple.

  Betty was sitting in the living room waiting for him when he came down. She had a magazine in her hand. She dropped it to the floor and got up.

  "I've got to go out, Betty," he said. "For a little while."

  "But Harvey…" she began.

  He smiled and stepped forward to embrace her but stopped when he realized someone else was in the room. He turned to face Lieberman, who sat drinking coffee.

  "If you're in a hurry," said the detective, "I'll go with you."

  "I'm… no. It can wait Just going into the office to take my mind off of things, take care of a problem the staff is having trouble with."

  Lieberman nodded and looked at Betty Franklin, who was definitely on the edge and about to fall after Rozier's indiscreet move.

  "Good, then let's talk about the lineup mis morning." said Lieberman.

  Mean Streets

  Lonny Wayne got off the Sheridan bus a stop before Irving Park and headed for Broadway. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he was heading south and the general direction of home.

  A cop car had passed die bus just before Irving. Lonny had slid down in his seat, certain that an old black man pretending to read a newspaper was watching him. When the cop car passed, Lonny turned to face the man with the newspaper. The man kept his face in the paper. The bus wasn't crowded: three old women and the man with the paper.

  Through the front window of the bus Lonny could see the cop car slowing up. Lonny pulled the cord and the bus eased up at the next corner. Lonny got up languidly, wanting to run, forcing himself to stay cool, standing in front of the fuckin' door the driver was taking forever to open.

  Then it opened with a clack and he leaped off. As the bus pulled away, the old man with the newspaper looked down at him through the window with something that looked like pity.

  Lonny hurried toward Broadway, the gun in his jacket pocket bumping against his side.

  He'd walk back to the neighborhood, sixty blocks. Not get trapped on a bus or an el. Walk back and then… what? lago was dead for sure. Damn. A cop. Walks right in. Gun in his hand, shooting. And that motherfuck doctor. He's shooting. And lago, he's shooting. And the cop goes down and Dalbert screams. Lonny had leaped over the fallen, groaning cop with lago behind him. They'd gone down the stairs, tripping over each other. And then in the street, lago waving the gun. The damn car gone. And then the shot and lago was down.

  Lonny wasn't sure who had shot lago. He had picked up the gun and ran down an alley. Shit, for all he knew Dalbert was dead too, or talking to the cops right now.

  Lonny was no fool. He kept himself from running. Long way to go and thinking to do. Even if Dalbert was dead too, they'd find out the three of them had been friends. The doctor with the gun could identify him. And what about Reno, the drug dealer whose car they had stolen? He'd see the newspapers or the TV, see lago's name, figure out who took his wheels, got him messed up with a cop shooting, and he'd be after Lonny too, maybe quicker than the cops.

  There was a Burger King across Broadway. Lonny crossed, went in, bought three cheeseburgers and a Coke and sat down where he could see the door.

  He had less than three dollars left and nowhere to go, but he had a gun and not much to lose.

  Lonny watched the door, telling himself mat the cops weren't going to come into every Taco Bell and Burger King, not for him, not for one black kid. He'd never seen cops doing that. There weren't enough cops. He had time, a little time.

  He had to get out of the city. That's it. Out of the city, maybe to Atlanta, where his cousin Jackie lived. Tell nobody. Lonny shivered and chewed a dry burger, wondering what had happened to his saliva. Lonny had never been more than ten miles from the city limits of Chicago. Atlanta was as far as China, but he had to go, had to have some money. He'd call his mother, sister, tell them he was sorry, not tell them where he was going. Cops couldn't be there yet Not yet. He had time. Not to go home, but to call.

  Then he remembered Skilly Parker, the bar on Forty-second. Skilly was trying to sell his car. That was a week-no, two weeks ago. Skilly hung out at the Ease Inn Bar. He wanted three hundred for the car, cash, a '72 Chevy with the miles rolled back, had papers and everything.

  Three hundred cash.

  Lonny couldn't finish his second burger. He left it and the unwrapped one on the table and got up.

  "Clean your trash," said a raggedy old white lady with a shopping bag on the table in front of her.

  Lonny ignored her and went for the door. Shit, what did he have to lose? He had a gun. He had to get out of town. He needed money.

  The rain was coming down again before he got a block from the Burger King. It wasn't much of a rain, but Lonny had a lot of walking to do in it. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and decided he would hold up the grocery store near the hospital, a little convenience stop for doctors, nurses, and clean-up people. Carryouts, some fruit, hot coffee. It was home turf. There were places to hide when he was done till he could move out of the city.

  Lonny stopped at an outdoor phone booth, found a quarter, and looked up the number of the Ease Inn. About half of the pages were missing from the phone book, torn out. The right page of Es was still intact. A good sign. He dropped the quarter hi the slot and hit the buttons.

  "Ease Inn," came a man's voice.

  "Skilly there?" asked Lonny.

  "He's here. I'll get him."

  Lonny looked up and down the street, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. There weren't many black people around here but there were some inside the stores and restaurants he had passed.

  "Skilly here," came a nervous voice.

  "Lonny, Lonny Wayne. Say, man, you still tryin' to sell the ol' Chevy?"

  "Still tryin'," Skilly said. "You buyin'?"

  "How long you gonna be there?"

  "Till you get here with three hundred bills, cash money."

  "What time's it now?"

  "Little after one by the Bud Light clock over Howard's head," said Skilly.

  Lonny thought quickly. Shit. He'd take a chance on the subway, pick it up on Chicago Avenue.

  "I'll be there with cash by four," Lonny said. "You have the car and the papers."

  "Will be," said Skilly and hung up.

  Lonny was wet and cold. He plunged his hands into his pockets and hurried down the street, covering the precious bouncing weapon to protect it from the rain.

  A long walk and a short subway ride without incident and Lonny Wayne was back on his turf.

  He arrived thirty minutes after the three black men with Spanish accents who were making the rounds of hangouts, bars, and fast-food joints looking for a brother named Lonny with a dark lightning scar through his right eyebrow.

  Lieberman's eyes moved from Rozier to Betty Franklin and stayed with her. He had the feeling that if she had not stopped Harvey Rozier when he came into the living room and Rozier had not seen Lieberman, something… Lieberman knew the look of nervous guilt, but it wasn't on the face of Harvey Rozier. It belonged to Betty Franklin, who stood a few feet from Rozier, trying not to meet Lieberman's steady brown eyes.

  Rozier and Betty Franklin? She was old enough to be his mother, and Rozier's murdered wife had been a beauty- not that Betty Franklin was a meesldte, but still… Kenneth Franklin was a dying man, a rich dying man. A motive definitely suggested itself.

  "A few questions," Lieberman said, standing. "You must have the funeral to arrange, all kinds of things. I remember when my mother died. Had to take care of everything. My brother and me. My father was already gone."

  "I appreciate your empathy," said Rozier. "If Dana's body is released by the medical examiner and can be… prepared by the funeral home, the funeral will be tomorrow."

  Betty Franklin's eyes had closed when Harvey Rozier spoke. She wrung her hands, actually wrung her hands.

  Lieberman couldn't remember seeing someone
do that since Mary Astor in the The Maltese Falcon.

  "I gotta tell you this," Lieberman said, scratching his head and smiling. "My mother, can you imagine this, a widow for ten years, a woman almost seventy years old, has a heart attack in the tub where she's taking a bath with the son of my father's partner, Bernie Witt. Bernie couldn't have been more than…" Lieberman looked at Rozier now and continued, "your age."

  The result was more and better than Lieberman had expected.

  Betty Franklin looked as if she were going to collapse. She caught her breath and moved to the nearby table for the comfort of a cigarette.

  "Can we come to the point, Detective?" Rozier said, being careful, Lieberman was sure, not to look at Betty Franklin, who was fumbling with a lighter.

  "Sorry," said Lieberman. "Long night. Hard day. Family problems."

  "I would like to get to my office," Rozier said.

  "One or two questions and…" Lieberman opened his hands, "I'm on my way."

  "Do you mind if Mrs. Franklin goes in the other room while we finish talking?" Rozier said. "I think she's been upset enough by the last two days-"

  "But it's Mrs. Franklin I want to talk to," said Lieberman.

  Betty Franklin almost dropped the lighter she was about to use.

  "Me?" she said, looking at Harvey, who still avoided her eyes.

  "I'm sorry to say this," Lieberman said, looking deeply pained as he sat back down, hands folded in his lap. The chair may have been an antique, but it wasn't comfortable. Still, Lieberman did his best to look as if he would be content to sit there for hours. "But my partner, Hanrahan-" Lieberman shook his head. "He thinks Mr. Rozier is somehow involved in what happened to his wife. Or at least that he knows something."

  "Your captain told me-" Rozier began with indignation as Betty Franklin managed to make it to a chair, where she sat with perfect posture, an unlit cigarette in her hand.

  "And your complaint was heeded. Bill's been reprimanded, but… he won't stop, and I'm afraid Captain Kearney's told him to make some more inquiries. To stay away from you, mind you, but to make more inquiries."

  "This is crazy," Rozier said, taking a quick glance at Betty Franklin to see how she was holding up. "I think I'll ask you to leave now, Lieberman."