Lieberman's Folly

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

Something moved behind Hanrahan. His gun was out and leveled at the door when the one person he least wanted to see at that moment walked in.

  Captain Dale Hughes looked at the scene, looked at Hanrahan, and muttered, “What the fuck’s going on here?”

  3

  LIEBERMAN PULLED INTO THE Michigan Tower’s driveway between the ambulance whose lights were flashing and a blue-and-white Chicago police car. He got out, locked his car, and moved to the outer lobby where a uniformed cop he recognized as Clevenger was talking to the young doorman, who was trying to look cool but looked anything but.

  “Six-ten,” said Clevenger when he saw Lieberman.

  “I know,” said Lieberman as he moved through the now open inner door. Lieberman had never been to Estralda Valdez’s apartment. She had not been there very long, but he did know the address, did have the phone number in his book, and did know the number of her apartment. He was also sure that he would never forget any of these numbers.

  Lieberman hurried across the carpeted lobby to the elevator, which opened before he could push the button. Two men in their twenties in short-sleeved blue uniforms pushed a wheeled stretcher out. They were in no great hurry. The elevator door closed behind them and Lieberman stepped in front of them, his hand out.

  “You her rabbi?” the first young man said, looking at Lieberman’s head.

  “Her …” Lieberman said reaching up and finding that his yarmulke from the evening Shabbat service was still atop his head. He took it off and put it into his pocket. “No.”

  He pulled out his wallet, flopped it open, and showed his badge. The paramedics eased off and Lieberman moved to the side of the stretcher and unzipped the plastic body bag to reveal Estralda Valdez’s white face.

  A middle-aged couple dressed for the evening came through the garage door next to the elevator. The woman said something about Genevieve and the man laughed. The laugh stopped suddenly when first he and then the woman saw the scene before them. Lieberman paused while the couple chose to go up the stairs instead of waiting for an elevator, and then he unzipped the bag the rest of the way. He looked at her wounds for a few seconds and the words of the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, began to come to him. He closed his eyes for an instant, opened them, and motioned with his head for the paramedics to take her away.

  Before they were out of the front door, the elevator was back. Lieberman stepped in, pressed six, and went up.

  “… forty new cops, all grades,” Lieberman heard as he walked down the corridor on the sixth floor to the open door of Estralda Valdez’s apartment.

  The speaker was a young uniformed cop who, according to the name plate on his shirt, was named Witten. Witten was standing just inside the doorway, his arms folded. He wore no hat. The man he was talking to was a lab tech who Lieberman recognized but whose name escaped him. The lab tech was in the kitchen alcove dusting the counter top.

  “And,” Witten went on, “not only in Tampa, but Orlando, Florida is booming, paying top dollar, good pension plan.”

  Witten looked up at Lieberman, recognized him, and backed out of his way. Beyond Witten and through the living room Lieberman could see the back of Hanrahan and the front of Captain Hughes on the balcony. Their heads were close together. Hanrahan’s shoulders were down.

  “Hughes’s reaming your partner,” the lab tech whispered without looking up. “Watch where you’re walking. All kinds of shit on the floor.”

  Lieberman moved into the mess of a living room and walked carefully over the debris toward the balcony. Behind him Officer Witten went on, “So, I was saying, what’s the point in going another winter. A man has to take a chance and what’ve I got to lose by taking a few vacation days in Florida, applying.”

  In front of him, Lieberman heard the voice of Captain Dale Hughes saying, “You sober enough now to get something done on this?”

  “I wasn’t drunk,” Hanrahan said quietly.

  “You weren’t …” Hughes said and stopped to laugh and look away into the night.

  Hughes was a big black man, bigger than Hanrahan, but without the growing gut. Lieberman had known Hughes for almost thirty years. They’d started even but Hughes was more ambitious and the better politician. He was also, Lieberman admitted, a good cop. Hughes was reported to work out for an hour with weights every morning before seven. Lieberman wasn’t sure where he had heard this, but he believed it was true. Hughes never looked as if he needed a shave and he always wore a neatly pressed jacket and clean tie. Dale Hughes was ready for any superior, politician, or channels 2 through 32.

  “Lieberman,” Hughes barked out. “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Hanrahan turned to Lieberman and held up his hands out of Hughes’s line of vision.

  “Woman’s dead,” said Lieberman stepping out on the balcony.

  “That I know,” said Hughes. “Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me why I didn’t know you two were staking out this building. Tell me who gave you an OK to give protection to a known prostitute. Tell me how she could get killed and the murderer walk away in front of your partner’s face. Tell me how I answer Golluber and the TV people’s questions on this one? I don’t know what’s going on and my men fucked up.”

  “It’s a great load to bear,” Lieberman said seriously.

  “What’s that? Hassidic humor?” Hughes said, straightening his tie. “Don’t play games with me, Abe. You know who lives in this goddamn building?”

  “One less person than an hour ago,” said Lieberman looking back into the room where Estralda Valdez had died.

  “I live in this building,” said Hughes. “My wife and I live here. Two of my men are carrying on a surveillance in the building where I live and I don’t even know about it.”

  He took two paces, shook his head, and glared at Lieberman.

  “We were doing it off duty,” Lieberman said. “On our own time. Estralda Valdez was an informant. She was leaving town tomorrow, wanted us to keep an eye on her in case a violent customer gave her a hard time.”

  “Ah,” said Hughes looking at both of his men, “now I get it. We’re providing off-duty free protection for prostitutes. You know what the papers are going to say? You know what that little landsman of yours, Rosenberg on channel two, is going to say? He’s going to say he wonders if Estralda Valdez was paying you off for protection.”

  “No, he won’t,” said Lieberman. He moved next to Hanrahan on the balcony and looked down. He saw Sol Worth’s parked lawn truck among the cars below and thought the green tarp was moving.

  “He won’t,” Hughes repeated.

  “I’ve known Walter Rosenberg’s family since he was six,” said Lieberman. “We went to his bar mitzvah. My daughter Lisa dated him for a while. He won’t think I took money. He’s a good kid. Now Allen at channel seven. Him I’m not sure of.”

  Larry Allen, who was black, was editorial director at channel 7. Larry Allen did not like the mayor, the fire chief, the chief of police, any alderman or women, and, most especially, Captain Dale Hughes, who had once mistakenly arrested Allen’s brother as a rape suspect.

  “We can count on what Allen will do,” Hughes said. “Now, what do we do?”

  “I told the captain a woman in Valdez’s clothes got in a Green and White cab just before I went up,” Hanrahan said. “Cabby went in and got her bags.”

  Lieberman’s partner did not look good. Hughes was wrong. Bill Hanrahan wasn’t drunk any longer and he wasn’t hung over. He was feeling sorry for himself and guilty. Lieberman had seen it before.

  “I had Witten call the cab company,” said Hughes. “Dispatcher’s checking. It’s a busy night. You and Hanrahan can check the neighbors on this floor. Clevenger’s talking to the doorman. What else do we know?”

  “She lived here about three months,” Lieberman said, turning his head to look around the room. It was a disaster.

  “She didn’t live here,” Hughes said, pointing his right hand at the torn bed. “She worked here. Everything’s new. Looks
like she spent nights here working, but probably called someplace else home. Look around and tell me you don’t read it the same?”

  “I read it the same,” Lieberman had to admit.

  “And someone was looking for something in here,” Hughes went on, now moving from the balcony and wandering about the room. “They didn’t find it. Lieberman?”

  “They didn’t find it,” Lieberman agreed.

  If the killer had found what he or she was looking for, the place would probably not have been in this shape. It looked as if some of the damage had been done in a frenzy, and Estralda’s body looked as if someone had tried to get her to say something. In addition, the killer had taken some big chances staying so long, making so much noise. No, whoever did this probably hadn’t found what he was looking for. Hughes was right.

  “What were they looking for, Abe?” Hughes said. “Drugs? She tell you?”

  “A book,” said Hanrahan.

  “List of clients,” said Lieberman.

  Hughes turned on them both.

  “Bullshit,” he said. “Nobody does this because a hooker has his name in a book.”

  Hughes glared at the two detectives and watched Lieberman’s impassive face.

  “Well,” Hughes finally grudgingly admitted, “maybe they do. Hanrahan, you in shape to go knocking on doors?”

  “He’s in shape,” said Lieberman.

  “Abe, I asked your partner,” Hughes said. “The only thing saving his ass is that he was off duty.”

  “I can knock on doors,” said Hanrahan. He pushed himself away from the railing on the balcony and stepped into the room.

  “Then do it,” said Hughes. “Maybe we got a chance of keeping this small. Papers, TV might not pick up on it, at least not big. Whore gets murdered. Nothing special.”

  “Nothing special,” Lieberman said softly.

  Hughes prodded a pair of pink silk underpants on the floor.

  “Saw her around the building a couple of times,” he said. “Good-looking woman. Not enough good-looking women around, whores or not, to have someone going around wasting them. The case is yours, Lieberman. Comes down to it and you want to lie to the press, you do it. You just let me know what’s going on. Do it fast. Do it quiet and get it over with. I’m sending all the media shit, if there is any, to you and your partner. You earned it.”

  “We appreciate your confidence,” said Lieberman.

  “I’m going home,” Hughes said. “I’m on the third floor, three-oh-eight. Don’t come to my door. Don’t tell me your problems. Be in my office tomorrow at ten with a progress report.”

  “I’ve got my annual department physical tomorrow morning at nine,” said Lieberman. “I don’t know if I’ll be done in time to get—”

  “Then come when you’re done, as soon as you’re done. Shit, wife and I were thinking of selling the apartment. This gets out and no one’s going to want to buy toilet rights in here.”

  Hughes went past Witten and the lab tech and out the door.

  “The man has charm,” said Lieberman. “Got to give him that.”

  “I fucked it up, Rabbi,” Hanrahan said. “She gave me the signal and I was four sheets to the wind and making a play for a Chinese waitress.”

  Lieberman found a clear spot to sit on the mattress and reached for the nearby telephone.

  “You’re right, Father Murphy,” Lieberman said. “You screwed it up. We’ll add it to your list of screw-ups, throw mine in including the Mideano case last year, remember? Then we’ll divide by my granddaughter’s age and add in the miles to Kankakee and what do we have?”

  “A dead woman,” said Hanrahan.

  “And what do we do?”

  “We find the perp,” said Hanrahan as Lieberman dialed.

  “Bess, it’s me,” he said when his wife answered. “I’ll be home late if I’m home. You want to call Kitty and see if she’ll come over for the night?”

  “I got plenty of company,” Bess said. “Lisa was here with the kids when I got home. She left Todd. She wants to talk to you.”

  “It’s not a good time, Bess,” Lieberman said.

  “Are there good times for things like this?” she said sadly. “It’s your daughter.”

  “Put her on.”

  “Dad?” said Lisa when she came on a few seconds later.

  “Remember when your friend Mary moved out of town?” he asked.

  “My friend Ma … you mean Miriam,” Lisa said. “I was nine or ten. What’s this got to …?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lieberman. “It just came to me. You want advice you won’t listen to or you want to talk and I’ll listen?”

  “I guess I want to talk,” she said.

  “Can it wait till I get home? I’m sitting in the torn-up apartment of a woman who was murdered about an hour ago. I’d like to go out and try to catch the killer before I come home and try to save my daughter’s marriage.”

  “You can’t save this marriage, Dad,” Lisa said emphatically.

  “Sorry, before I come home and listen to my daughter’s very good reasons why she is leaving her husband after more than thirteen years of marriage,” he said.

  “Fourteen years on our next anniversary,” Lisa said.

  “September sixth,” said Lieberman.

  “May sixteenth, Dad,” Lisa said with a sigh. “We were married in the spring. You paid for it. You should remember. September sixth is Melisa’s birthday.”

  “Right, I remember,” said Lieberman. “The proximity of violent death sometimes affects my memory.”

  “Don’t be funny, Dad,” Lisa said.

  “I won’t be funny,” Lieberman agreed. “I’ll talk to you when I get home. Don’t wait up. The kids OK?”

  “No,” said Lisa. “How can they be OK?”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Lieberman said and hung up the phone. He looked at Hanrahan but his partner showed not the slightest interest in the call.

  “Lisa left Todd,” Lieberman said.

  “My sons could be divorced and remarried five times and I wouldn’t know it,” Hanrahan said. “You’re lucky you got a daughter, grandchildren in the same town.”

  “I’m lucky,” said Lieberman. “What kind of cab did the woman in Estralda’s clothes take off in?”

  “Green and White,” said Hanrahan. He was looking at the spot on the floor where the body had been.

  Lieberman got a small red notebook out of his jacket pocket and dialed a number.

  “Hello, give me Leo Gedvilas,” Lieberman said into the phone. “Leo? Abe Lieberman … What five bucks? I’m not calling about five bucks. I don’t remember any five bucks you owe me. One of your cabs picked up a woman fare in front of four four four five Lake Shore tonight at …” Lieberman looked at Hanrahan whose eyes were fixed on the spot where he had found Estralda Valdez’s body.

  “Eleven fifteen,” said Hanrahan.

  “Eleven fifteen,” Lieberman repeated into the phone. “Now … He’s checking.”

  Hanrahan grunted and turned to Lieberman with the first sign of interest. Over in the alcove, the lab tech said “Don’t touch that” and Officer Witten responded, “OK, OK.”

  Leo Gedvilas came back on the line in two minutes.

  “Abe? Driver was a Cajun named Francis Dupree. Just talked to him on the radio. Remembers the fare. Woman with red hair. Didn’t say anything except to tell him to take her to Lawrence and Broadway. She paid him, got out, walked away.”

  “Ask him if he’d recognize her again,” Lieberman said.

  “I asked,” Gedvilas said. “What’ya think I am here? He doesn’t think so. Big floppy hat, sunglasses. Eleven at night. He figured she was floating on something. You ask me, off the record, Francis Dupree is floating on something tonight.”

  “How’d he get the call, Leo?” Lieberman asked, looking up at Hanrahan.

  “Been looking for that while we been talking,” said Gedvilas. “Pulled it up on the computer. Here it is. Call came from four nine two, oh nine ni
ne nine. Customer’s name was Valdez. Dupree had just dropped off a fare a few blocks away on Foster.”

  Lieberman looked down at the phone in his hand. The number was 492-0999.

  “Any way of telling if the caller was a man or woman?” he asked.

  “If the dispatcher remembers,” said Gedvilas. “But with fifty calls an hour, who remembers.”

  “Thanks, Leo. We’ll want to talk to Francis Dupree so don’t fire him for a few days.”

  “We don’t fire anybody,” said Gedvilas. “We need the drivers. New subject. I helped you. You help me. You want to contribute to the St. Anthony Needy Children Fund this year, Abe?”

  “Yeah, Leo. Put me down for five bucks. Then take the five bucks out of one pocket, put it in the right envelope, and give me credit.”

  “You got a sense of humor, Abe,” Gedvilas said chuckling. “Dupree lives at four eight five one North Kedzie.”

  “Say hello to your charming wife,” Lieberman said. He wrote Dupree’s address in his notebook.

  “You got it,” said Gedvilas and Lieberman hung up.

  “Call came from this room,” Lieberman said as he got up. “Driver took her to Lawrence and Broadway. Ten blocks away, middle of Uptown.”

  Hanrahan looked at a cracked painting against the wall, its wooden frame trailing along the rug like a snake with rigor mortis.

  “This don’t look like a woman’s touch to me,” Hanrahan said.

  “You want me to tell my daughter you said that?” Lieberman said with a deep sigh. “Sexist comments again. A woman isn’t as capable as a man of wanton destruction and violent murder.”

  “Abe,” said Hanrahan. “A man did this. You know it. I know it. Hughes knows it.”

  “Well,” said Lieberman moving toward the front door. “Let’s knock on some doors.”

  Witten was still talking about his dreams of Florida gold when Hanrahan and Lieberman stepped into the hall.

  Lieberman took the even numbers and Hanrahan the odd numbers on the sixth floor. It was almost midnight when they knocked at the first door.

  “Who’s there?” came a frightened woman’s voice.

  “Police,” said Lieberman.