Interesting, yes, but more interesting was the doll house on the table in the corner near the window.
“Under the house in my mother’s house,” Hanrahan said, allowing himself a very small smile.
He moved to the house, which looked familiar to him, a white mansion about two feet high. When he got close enough to touch it, Hanrahan put on his glasses.
“Tara,” he said softly, reading the plate above the small door.
Hanrahan leaned over and looked into one of the windows, but there wasn’t enough light coming in from the drawn shades to see the miniature furniture very clearly. He found the corner of the house with the fingers of his left hand and started to lift. The little house was deceptively heavy. In addition, it stuck stubbornly to the table top, like a determined abalone he had pried loose from an underwater rock near Mendicino a thousand years ago when he and Maureen were on their honeymoon. That abalone had been delicious. He hoped that what he found under the house would have its own satisfying taste. Hanrahan pulled harder and the table top suddenly gave up. Tiny furniture clattered from the human earthquake.
Hanrahan held the house up and reached under with his right hand. Nothing. He groped around the edges and found it. The edges of a leather-bound book. He pulled the book out and let the house down gently. Book in hand, Hanrahan moved to the bed and sat down with his back to the open door. He opened the cover, found a withered, cracking newspaper article, looked at the photograph in the second column, read the headline, and was starting to read the article itself when he heard something behind him. Hanrahan started to turn, not at all sure of what he was going to say, when the bullet entered the back of his neck just below the skull between the two tendons which went into spasm as Hanrahan lurched forward onto the floor.
The man who had killed Estralda Valdez put the pistol in his pocket, moved around the bed, knelt, and pulled the book from William Hanrahan’s fingers. Blood trickled out of the small entry hole in the policeman’s neck. Blood also trickled out of the exit wound in the policeman’s throat. Hanrahan’s eyes were closed. The man searched the floor with his eyes and fingers. More light would have helped but he could not take a chance. It took him almost three minutes to find the spent bullet that had gone through Hanrahan.
With sweating hands the man put the bullet and small book in his pocket and left the room moving slowly, one hand on the pistol in one pocket, one hand on the book in the other. He went out the back door, through the yard, into the alley, and around to the side street where he had parked his car after following Hanrahan.
As he drove slowly down the street in front of the Madera house, he watched a car pull up behind the other cop’s. Lieberman got out. He knew Lieberman. For an instant he considered turning around, going into the alley, getting back into the house, and shooting Lieberman when he came in. What difference did it make? One cop or two. But he decided against it as he drove further watching the dwindling image of Lieberman walking up the stairs.
He had what he needed and there was a risk to going back. A small risk, that’s true, but a risk. He had waited too long and there was too much at stake to take even a small risk.
Four hours later, Abe Lieberman sat in Dr. Deep’s small office in the surgery wing of the University of Chicago Hospitals. Dr. Kuldip Singh Dalawal, known to his friends, who included Abe Lieberman, as Deep, had operated on Hanrahan.
“Mostly a matter of cleaning up,” Deep had said outside the operating room. Deep was a short, dark Pakistani whose son had been arrested twice, both times for possession of cocaine. Lieberman had gotten the boy into a drug rehab program in California run by another former friend. That was five years ago. The boy was now a young man in his second year of medical school.
“Entry was clean,” Dr. Deep went on. “Bullet was on an angle like so, to the right. Missed his esophagus, cracked the bone right here. Danger was in his choking on his blood. Your clearing of the passage was essential. Trauma is over. The danger now is from infection and we will watch that most carefully.”
“He’ll live?” Lieberman had asked.
“I would think so, yes,” said Dr. Deep.
Deep had given Lieberman the use of his office. Lieberman had called Bess, who wanted to come to the hospital, but he had told her not to, that Bill was asleep and likely to be so for quite a while. Bess had argued, but Lieberman had changed the subject, asked her about Lisa and Todd and the kids.
“Melisa says her stomach doesn’t hurt,” said Bess.
“So?” asked Lieberman
“No one had asked her,” said Bess. “Which led me to the conclusion that …”
“… her stomach hurt and she wanted to hide it,” he concluded.
“But she also felt guilty and wanted me and her mother to know that she was hiding something. What did you give her at that ball game?”
“The illusion of restraint,” said Lieberman, looking across the desk at Dr. Deep’s medical degree and surgical certificates on the wall.
“Lisa and Todd are out,” said Bess.
“Good,” said Lieberman.
“Not with each other,” said Bess.
“Ah,” said Lieberman, laying the torn newspaper clipping on Dr. Deep’s desk and carefully flattening it with the palm of his hand. He had taken the crumpled paper from Hanrahan’s fist when the medics came to put him on the cart.
“Abe, no,” said Bess. “They aren’t out with other … I mean Lisa went to a movie with Yetta and Maish. Todd is … I don’t know where. I tried to call him as soon as they left. I’m making late dinner for the kids. What did you give them to eat at the game?”
“Hot dogs, peanuts, victory,” said Lieberman, reading the article for the fifth time. The article said that a man named Juan Hernandez De Barcelona had been murdered by two known prostitutes the night before, that the prostitutes had attempted to make it look as if another man had been shot by Barcelona, who had, in turn, shot the man. The article quoted a Detective LaSalle as saying that the intended fall guy had lived long enough to tell the police what had happened. The article pointedly neglected to name the now-deceased fall guy. The article had no date, nor the name of the paper. The article didn’t even mention the city. Lieberman turned the article over as Bess said, “… what to do?”
“When I get home,” he said.
“Get something to eat, Abe,” Bess said gently. “And if you’re going to sleep there, call me and let me know.”
“I love you, Bess,” Lieberman said.
“I love you, Abe,” said Bess.
Lieberman hung up the phone and turned the article over. It was part of a supermarket ad. The address of the supermarket, but not the name, was in the ad. And across the middle of the ad were the words, “The lowest prices in Corpus …” The rest was missing.
Lieberman turned the article over again and looked at the picture of the Madera sisters. Hanrahan had seen a copy of that same picture less than three hours earlier, and so had Lieberman, on the dresser in Estralda’s bedroom.
He made his calls slowly, calmly. First Hanrahan’s wife, Maureen. He knew she wasn’t listed but he was a cop. She was just getting home from work.
“Maureen, it’s Abe Lieberman,” said Lieberman, putting the article aside and reaching for a pencil next to the photograph of Dr. Deep’s wife and four children.
“Yes, Abe,” she said soberly.
“It’s about Bill,” he said.
“He’s dead,” she said flatly.
“No. He’s been shot. We’re in the surgical wing of the University of Chicago Hospitals on Fifty-ninth. You know where it is?”
“I know,” she said and then silence.
“Maureen?” Lieberman asked.
“Sorry, it’s not as … I thought it would come like this, but it’s different in a way. You know what I mean?”
“You want me to call Michael?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll call him. I should tell him his father … I’ll call him. It’s odd, Abe, I thought I’d … but
I’m just sleepy. I want to go to sleep.”
“Maybe it’s a good idea, Maureen,” he said.
“It’s running away, Abe,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll call Michael and be right there.”
Lieberman made two more calls. One to St. Bart’s Church. Father Whiz Parker was out. He left a message with the old priest who answered. The third call was to Iris Huang at the Black Moon Restaurant. She was there. He told her what had happened.
“I’ll come,” she said.
“He’ll need you more when he knows what’s going on in a day or two,” said Lieberman, not wanting to deal with both Maureen and Iris.
“Yes,” she said. “But I will also come to the hospital. Thank you for calling me, Detective …”
“Lieberman,” he said.
He hung up the phone and asked the long-distance operator for the number of police headquarters in Corpus Christi, Texas.
“Police,” came a voice with a distinctly Texas accent.
“Me too,” said Lieberman. “You have a detective named LaSalle.”
“LaSalle?” said the man. “LaSalle? Carrol LaSalle?”
“I guess,” said Lieberman.
“He’s the mayor,” said the man. “You joking me.”
“No,” said Lieberman. “Thanks.”
He called information again and got the number of the mayor’s office in Corpus Christi. An answering machine told him that the mayor’s office was closed but gave an emergency number. Lieberman dialed the emergency number and got a man who identified himself as Scott Tynan. Lieberman stated his business and Tynan got the number in Dr. Deep’s office.
Five minutes later the mayor of Corpus Christi, Texas, called Abe Lieberman.
11
CARROL LASALLE WAS A GOOD old boy with a vengeance, but Lieberman caught the protective edge behind the carefully chosen words. And LaSalle, Lieberman found, could choose both carefully and quickly.
“Lieberman,” he said. “Chicago P.D. You got a superior officer?”
Lieberman gave him Hughes’s name and number.
“You got a badge number, card number, such like?” asked Mayor LaSalle of Corpus Christi.
Lieberman gave it.
“Call you right back if I can find him,” said LaSalle, who hung up.
Ten minutes later, while Lieberman sat looking out the window at another building just like the one he was in, the phone rang again.
“Ask your question, Detective,” said LaSalle. “I understand it’s about the whorehouse murders.”
“Juan Hernandez De Barcelona and …” Lieberman paused, waiting for the fill-in.
“Harte,” said the Mayor of Corpus Christi. “James. Also known around the state of Texas and parts of Louisiana as ‘Skettle.’ Prominent citizen. Uncle was once governor and old Skettle owned land bigger than most Arab states. Kept Skettle out of the papers a while but someone let it slip. Tell you the truth here, Detective Lieberman, I rode that case pretty damn hard and far. Corruption, cleanup, honest citizen murdered, framed by two whores.”
Lieberman had a pretty good idea of who had let Harte’s name slip to the newspapers.
“What can you tell me that wasn’t in the early clips?” asked Lieberman.
“First off, I can tell you that if you find those ladies, I’d appreciate your giving some credit to Carrol LaSalle whose knowledge of the case and cooperation … You got the idea, Detective. I got some competition coming up in the next election. A local Negro lawyer is out to out-liberal Carrol LaSalle.”
“I got it, Mayor.”
“Be nice with elections coming in six short months to remind the people—”
“I get it, Mayor,” Lieberman said. “The case.”
“Gettin’ testy here, Detective?”
“My partner’s been shot. Might not make it. I’m in the hospital waiting to see. Estralda Valdez, alias Estralda Maderas, was killed here on Friday. My partner was investigating when he got shot.”
“How was she killed?” asked LaSalle.
“Knife, multiple,” said Lieberman.
“Partner?”
“Gunshot, pistol, close range, back of the neck. Assailant took the bullet,” said Lieberman. He looked up and saw Iris and Maureen walking down the corridor, not quite together but both heading toward him.
Mayor LaSalle sighed deeply.
“Hernandez was shot back of the head,” said LaSalle. “Set up to make it look like a double homicide. Those girls botched it bad. If Hernandez shot first, ole Skettle didn’t have the reflexes to pull a trigger with a bullet cutting his spine. And Hernandez had a bullet in the back. Went straight down on his face away from Skettle. But hey, there’s more. Gun was in Skettle’s right hand. He was left-handed. We traced the ladies a bit. One, the younger one, Estralda, and I’d appreciate your sending a picture of her to—”
“She’s your Estralda,” Lieberman said. Maureen and Iris had both paused in front of the door looking at Lieberman, who nodded for them to enter. “Doesn’t look much different from the clipping and I found the same photo in her mother’s house.”
“Lost her trail in San Diego anyway,” said LaSalle. “Other one, older sister, left a better trail, St. Louis then Georgia. Lost her there.”
Maureen entered first. Iris followed and closed the door gently.
“Some figure those girls swished out of here with a lot of Hernandez’s money,” said LaSalle, and then to someone on the other end, “Just finishing up, Jess. Tell the ladies and gentlemen I’m talking to George Bush.”
Maureen was looking like Maureen only better. A little thinner than Lieberman had last seen her. More make-up, a yellow dress that followed her lines instead of hiding them. Her hair was redder than he remembered it and Lieberman figured that nature had some help from the pharmacy. She looked worried, but she looked good. She put her purse on the desk next to the photograph of Dr. Deep’s kids and looked at Iris, who wore a longish dark blue skirt and matching blouse. Her hair was short and her eyes were red from crying, though she wasn’t crying now.
“Lieberman,” LaSalle went on. “Hernandez owned the Babe O’Brien bar for a lot of years. No bank accounts. Not a spender. Not a sign of the dollars. We’re talking whores here, Detective, not small talk. They killed Hernandez and Skettle Harte. I got a feelin’ they did it for more than fun. You know what I’m sayin’?”
“Prints?” asked Lieberman.
“Between you, me, and Southern Bell or M.C.I. or whoever is handlin’ this call,” said LaSalle. “First boys on the scene that night laid hands on everything. They figured it for a whorehouse double with no complications. Got to go. Got your office number and address from the cop at your station, Briggs. I’ll send you copies of anything else I turn up. If you catch up with our dancin’ lady, I tell you off the record what happens. We ask for extradition. We cry for priority. You do what you can to see your people up there don’t give it. Carrol LaSalle claimed and will continue to claim that we got those girls nailed shut on murder one, but with all this time, evidence who knows where and a good defense lawyer, that girl could walk on the double and we want justice served.”
And, Lieberman thought, we don’t want the mayor embarrassed.
“I understand, Mr. Mayor,” said Lieberman.
“Good talkin’ to you, Detective. Ever get down our way, you look me up. Promise you the best seafood on the Gulf.”
Mayor Carrol LaSalle hung up and Lieberman faced the two silent women.
“Maureen Hanrahan, this, I believe, is Iris Huang.” The women did not look at each other. “Iris is a recent friend of Bill’s and—”
“How is he?” asked Maureen.
“Doctor says he should probably be fine,” said Lieberman.
“Probably?” asked Maureen.
“No guarantees,” said Lieberman. “They don’t deal in guarantees.”
“Can we see him?” asked Iris.
“I’ll ask the doctor,” said Lieberman. “Maybe you can look in on him, but he’s out.�
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“The doctor’s name?” asked Iris.
“Dalawal,” said Lieberman.
Iris got up.
“I think I’ll look for him,” Iris said. “The doctor.”
“Sure,” said Lieberman.
Iris smiled at Maureen, who smiled back, and Iris left carefully, closing the door behind her.
“Seems nice,” said Maureen.
“Seems,” said Lieberman.
“She should keep walking down the hall, get in the elevator, and save herself a lot of grief,” said Maureen.
Lieberman got up.
“You call Michael?” he asked.
Maureen nodded.
“They’re coming in the morning,” she said. “They didn’t want to keep Billy up all night. Only direct flight they could get here from Toronto was at nine. They can get an Air Canada … What’s the difference?”
“He’ll make it, Mo,” said Lieberman, moving to her side.
“Not the point, Abe,” she said, biting her lower lip. “Tell me the truth. Do you really like him?”
“He’s a good partner,” said Lieberman.
“When he’s sober,” said Maureen, the old bitterness coming back.
“He’s a good partner, a good cop,” said Lieberman.
“And you like him?” asked Maureen again, looking up at Lieberman.
“I like him, Mo,” said Lieberman.
“You need a shave, Abe,” she said. “You’ll have white beard by morning.”
“I’m not a kid, Mo,” he said.
“I’ve been building up the courage to go for a divorce,” said Maureen, looking away. “Got a lawyer, talked to Father Boyer at the archdiocese. They’ve got people looking into it.”
“Might try Father Stowell at St. Nathan’s,” Lieberman suggested. “Used to be a lawyer and spent four years at the Vatican handling appeals like this.”
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