Lieberman's Folly

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “His name’s Van Beeber,” said Lieberman. “He used to have a Hallmark shop in Holland, Michigan. He killed his wife ten years ago.”

  “That a fact?” said Dupree. “Where was I … Oh, that’s when she try to kill me. Estralda come out with a knife behind me. She stabbed me. I show you.”

  Dupree lifted his shirt. Lieberman’s gun pressed into his neck.

  There was a bandage on Frank Dupree’s back, a big bandage.

  “Self-defense,” he said, letting the shirt down again. “I took the knife and there was like a little accident.”

  “You stabbed her eight times,” said Lieberman.

  “Self-defense. I threw the knife out the window into the lake and looked around. I was lookin’ when the other one came in.”

  “Guadalupe,” said Lieberman.

  “Yeah. Different from Texas but her. She saw her sister and I could see she was in on it. She was gonna run but I stopped her and told her she had to get me out of the building or I’d turn her in. She got in one of Estralda’s dresses and we went out.”

  “She did something before you went out,” said Lieberman.

  “Yeah, she pull up the window shade and stood looking out for a few seconds there, maybe crying. We went down the elevator, out on the street. She wave at somebody across the street. I look over and see this guy in the restaurant window.”

  “Hanrahan,” said Lieberman. “My partner. The one you shot.”

  “Not me,” said Dupree. “I took her where I said I took her, let her out, and tole her to come up with money or I’d turn her in.”

  “Why did you follow my partner?” asked Lieberman.

  The two boys had returned. This time with two older boys and a girl. Both of the boys were swaggering ahead of the crowd heading for the cab.

  “I didn’t follow your—” Dupree began and Lieberman shot a hole into the back of the front passenger seat. The bullet went through the seat and bounced off the dashboard, leaving a dent and a ringing of metal. The swaggering boys stopped, turned, and walked back to the girl and the kids. Together, they strode anywhere but here.

  “You wouldn’t shoot me, Detective,” said Dupree.

  Lieberman could see the sweat on the man’s forehead.

  “You shot my partner in the back of the head, Frank. You shot a cop. I’m retiring in a few years. I shoot you and I get a medal when I go. Listen, Frank. I have arthritis, both knees.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dupree. “My mother had—”

  “—and I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Lieberman went on. “The easiest thing for me to do is shoot you, walk back to my car, and drive north. Tell me a story, Frank.”

  “I don’t—” Dupree began but remembered the two shots that had been fired and changed his mind. “The money. I figured he was after the money they took from, whatever was left, Juan Hernandez. You know? I followed him around a little. What happened at that house was an accident. I am no killer. I’m a musician. Things just”—Dupree was crying now—“I just followed him in,” he wept. “I was gonna try to make a deal. I … I don’ know what happened. I just … Next thing I know he was layin’ there dead like my Uncle Dave when the gator got his leg. I got nothin’ out of all this and I’m sorry what I done.”

  With this Dupree slumped over sobbing.

  “Let’s head back north to the station,” said Lieberman. “You can tell your story to a public defender and complain about my brutality. Sit up and drive.”

  “OK, OK,” said Dupree, sitting up and turning in his seat to face Lieberman. “Mind I ask you somethin’?”

  “Ask,” said Lieberman.

  But Dupree didn’t ask. He had something in his left hand. Lieberman had a glimpse of the open glove compartment and a sense of metal in Dupree’s hand, the hand with the missing fingers. Dupree’s hand was coming down over the top of the seat when Lieberman fired. The bullet tore through the back of the driver’s seat as the knife struck, pierced Lieberman’s pants, and slashed his right thigh. Dupree lifted his hand to strike again. A trickle of blood came through the hole Lieberman’s gun had just made in the seat. Lieberman aimed the gun at Dupree’s face.

  “Frank,” Lieberman warned.

  “You gonna have to shoot me or let me go,” answered Dupree. Lieberman shot him.

  Of the five squad cars that showed up within five minutes of Lieberman leaning over Dupree’s body to call the dispatcher, only one contained anyone Lieberman knew. His name was Laurel. He was black and lean with a white mustache. Laurel was the first uniform out of the cars. Six uniformed cops pointed guns at Lieberman, who was standing next to the cab with his gun holstered and his hands showing.

  “Detective Lieberman,” he announced.

  “He is,” Laurel shouted to the other officers. “What’ve we got, Abe?”

  “The guy who shot my partner,” he said. “I think the knife in his hand was the one he used to kill Estralda Valdez. You know the case? Last Friday?”

  “No,” said Laurel. “Wait, yeah. Hooker.”

  The other cops were looking at the body and keeping the curious away.

  “Yeah,” said Lieberman. “I think the gun that shot my partner’s in the glove compartment.”

  Laurel took Lieberman’s statement and his gun and drove him back to the hospital emergency room where Lieberman was treated for minor lacerations of the leg.

  “Self-defense, no doubt,” said Laurel as Lieberman rolled down his pantleg and got off the ER table. “But you’ll have to go with the bullshit, Abe. You know the drill.”

  “I’m going to go see my captain, give him my report, and spend the evening getting sympathy from my grandchildren,” said Lieberman.

  And that was that. Lieberman walked to his car. His leg didn’t bother him. It had been cleaned, bandaged, and taped.

  He had one more stop to make and one more murder to deal with before he headed home.

  15

  LIEBERMAN PARKED IN FRONT of a fire hydrant next to the Black Moon Restaurant and pulled down his visor to show his Chicago Police Department ID placard. The oriental blinds were up at the Black Moon but the sign in the window said “closed.” Lieberman walked to the door, peered in, and knocked.

  The day was bright. Sun danced on the darkened glass. Cars on Sheridan Road behind him hummed and rattled by. Inside the Black Moon, someone stirred.

  “Not open,” a voice croaked inside. “Dinner at six.”

  Lieberman knocked again.

  “Not—” came the male voice again, a bit higher.

  “Police,” said Lieberman.

  “Police. No police. Police. Not open,” said the man. “Come back six.”

  “Mr. Huang, will you please open the door. I’ve just shot a man. I’ve been stabbed in the leg, which along with the other one, is aching with arthritis. I have to catch a killer and my daughter is giving me grief. Give me a few minutes.”

  The door to the Black Moon opened and Lieberman found himself facing a small, thin Chinese man with gray hair.

  “Daughters give grief,” said the man. “Sons too. Come in.”

  Lieberman entered and Huang closed the door behind him, making sure the “closed” sign was facing the street.

  “Thanks,” said Lieberman.

  “Sit,” said Iris’s father, pointing to a table in the shade. The table was set for dinner for two: white tablecloth, white plate with red dragons around the rim, a red glass, and a red napkin with silverware wrapped inside.

  Lieberman sat.

  “You know about Iris’s friend, the policeman?” asked Lieberman.

  “I know,” said Huang. “She called. He got shot. I got the arthritis too. Knees, arm. You know?”

  “I know,” said Lieberman.

  “I figured. Tea?” asked Huang.

  “No thanks,” said Lieberman.

  Huang sat.

  “Sister’s daughter will come tonight to help,” said Huang, looking at the kitchen as if his niece were already there.

  “Bill Ha
nrahan’s my partner,” said Lieberman, touching the outer rim of the plate in front of him.

  “Yes,” said Huang.

  “He’s a good man, Mr. Huang,” said Lieberman.

  “I don’t know. Maybe yes. Maybe no. He … Policemen get shot, shoot, drink. He is married. I’m sorry he is hurt.”

  “Iris seems to be a fine woman,” said Lieberman.

  “Yes,” said Huang. “How your daughter give you grief?”

  “She’s fighting with her husband,” said Lieberman looking through the window at the Michigan Towers.

  “Life is difficult,” said Huang with a sigh.

  “Life is difficult,” agreed Lieberman. “You know why I’m here?”

  “You keep looking across street. I think you have something to do there you don’t want to do so quick. You stop here so you don’t do what you don’t want to do right away.”

  “Were you a policeman in China?” asked Lieberman, again looking out the window toward the high-rise across the street.

  “No, a soldier. You have sad eyes,” said Huang.

  “So do you, Mr. Huang,” said Lieberman.

  “Chou Chin,” said Huang. “Customers call me Charlie.”

  “You like to be called Charlie?”

  “No,” said Huang.

  “I’ll try Chou Chin,” said Lieberman. “Call me Abe.”

  Huang got up, walked quickly into the kitchen at the rear of the restaurant, and came back with a small bottle. He handed the bottle to Lieberman.

  “Knees,” said Huang, moving toward a table at the rear of the small room where he poured a glass of water from a red pitcher that matched the glasses. “Take two.”

  The label on the bottle was in Chinese. Inside the bottle were white pills. Lieberman opened the bottle and dumped two pills in his palm as Huang handed him the water. Lieberman put the pills in his mouth and swallowed as Huang said, “Le Chaim.”

  Lieberman almost choked.

  “To life,” said Huang. “That’s Jewish talk. You Jewish. You know.”

  “I know,” said Lieberman. “Le Chaim. What’s in these?”

  “Herbs, ginseng, horn of a deer, things,” said Huang. “Keep the bottle.”

  “Thanks,” said Lieberman, pocketing the bottle and pulling a slightly crumpled folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. “I’m going across the street into that building, Chou Chin. If I’m not out in half an hour, call nine-one-one and tell them to come to the apartment on this sheet of paper.”

  Chou Chin looked at the paper Lieberman had handed him and nodded to show that he understood.

  “Tell them an officer is in trouble. And if anything happens to me, have them read the rest of what’s written there. OK?”

  Huang nodded solemnly again.

  “OK,” said Huang.

  “You know the movie High Noon?”

  “Gary Cooper, yes. Very dri, the Japanese say,” said Huang with a smile. “Do not forsake me oh my darling.”

  Lieberman rose and held out his hand. Huang rose and took it. His grip was remarkably firm for his frame, size, and age.

  “Oh to be torn ’twixt love and duty,” said Lieberman.

  “Nearing high noon,” said Huang.

  “Chou Chin, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship,” said Lieberman.

  “Casablanca,” said Huang, shaking his head.

  Lieberman moved toward the door.

  “Let’s try a hard one,” he said, looking across the street at the high-rise entrance. “Evil is. Evil does exist.”

  “List of Adrian Messenger,” said Huang solemnly.

  Lieberman opened the door.

  “Bill Hanrahan’s a good man, Chou Chin,” he said.

  Huang smiled, shrugged, and held up both hands to show that he’d be willing to consider the possibility.

  And Lieberman left. Lieberman waited for a break in the traffic and crossed the street, his torn pants leg rubbing against the bandaged thigh. He went through the front door where the doorman, not Billy Tarton but a burly older white man with hair dyed too black greeted him with a false-teeth smile.

  “Can I …?” the doorman asked looking at Lieberman’s torn pants with more than a touch of suspicion.

  Lieberman showed his badge and asked the doorman to announce him to Mr. Hughes. The doorman nodded and opened the door. Lieberman entered the inner lobby as the doorman pushed a button to release the door. He moved slowly to the waiting elevator and went up. When he reached the third floor and got out, he turned to the right and found Captain Hughes’s door opened and Hughes waiting for him. Hughes was wearing a suit and tie. Hughes looked concerned as he backed up to let Lieberman in and close the door behind him.

  “Got a call from Briggs,” said Hughes. “I put a call in to the chief of police and told him you got the guy who killed Estralda Valdez and shot Hanrahan. He wants to see us tomorrow. I think it’s something good. What happened to your leg?”

  “Scrape. Captain, can we sit down?” Lieberman asked.

  Hughes looked at his watch, blew out some air, and said, “I’m afraid—”

  “I know,” said Lieberman, moving to the right into the kitchen where he sat at a small white table. “Will you ask your wife to come out for a minute?”

  “What?” asked Hughes, tilting his head. “My—”

  “Your wife,” said Lieberman. “The woman in the picture in your hallway. Estralda’s sister, Guadalupe. I can hear her in the bedroom.”

  Hughes was sweating, considering a lie, considering his options. He tried a quizzical, tolerant smile to indicate that Lieberman must be crazy with the heat and the rough day he had had, but when their eyes met, Dale Hughes knew it was over.

  “Lupe,” Hughes called. “Will you come in here for a minute?”

  Lieberman was tired. He rubbed his eyes.

  “I left a note with a friend telling what I know. If I don’t show up at my friend’s within the hour, the note goes to the chief and …”

  Guadalupe Hughes entered the room.

  She was Estralda’s size and build and color, a little older, wearing a blue dress. She moved to Hughes’s side. Her husband put his arm around her.

  “You want to talk?” Lieberman said.

  “You talk,” Hughes suggested.

  It was Lieberman’s turn to shrug. He shifted his weight and heard the pills Huang had given him rattle in his pocket.

  “Friday night was a setup that went wrong,” said Lieberman. “You got Frank Dupree to come here. He was supposed to meet with you in Estralda’s apartment and collect his blackmail money. Only he wasn’t going to collect. You had turned Estralda’s room over and pulled Van Beeber in. My guess is you gave him a bottle and let him drink till he passed out. My guess is you already checked Van Beeber out and knew about the outstanding murder against him. My guess is you planned to make it look as if the cabby had walked in on an attempted rape. My guess is you were going to stab Dupree and put the knife in Van Beeber’s hand. Estralda would signal Hanrahan, who’d come running. He was supposed to be the witness. But it backfired. Dupree and Estralda had a fight. Estralda was stabbed. So far, so good?”

  “Go on guessing,” said Hughes softly.

  “Maybe Lupe came in. Maybe Dupree saw the mess and Van Beeber and figured something was going on. Whatever it was, Estralda was the one who ended up dead.”

  “No,” said Guadalupe emphatically. “My husband knew nothing of this. Estralda and I planned it. Dupree said he’d turn us in for what we did in Texas unless I got him out of the building fast. Estralda’s dress was on the floor. I put it on, went out with Dupree, waved at the policeman in the Chinese restaurant, got in Dupree’s cab, and he drove off.”

  Lieberman shook his head and looked at Hughes.

  “I can’t buy it. You didn’t just coincidentally answer the call on your sister-in-law’s murder Friday night,” said Lieberman.

  “No,” said Lupe at her husband’s side. “Dale didn’t know. Estralda and I did it. He—
”

  “It’s all right, Lupe,” Hughes said, squeezing her to his side. “Where does this put us, Lieberman? Dupree’s dead. You can’t even prove my wife and Estralda were sisters.”

  “Nikki Morales,” said Lieberman. “Estralda introduced your wife as her sister to Nikki, who’s willing to ID her.”

  “Lieberman,” said Hughes. “You’ve got no witnesses, no crime here but suspicion of conspiracy to conceal murder.”

  “And a positive Texas warrant on your wife.”

  “I … We have to think,” said Guadalupe.

  “Nothing to think about,” said Lieberman. “You used me and my partner. You got my partner shot, your sister killed, and me blowing a hole in Frank Dupree.”

  Hughes and Guadalupe looked at each other. Lieberman watched them.

  “My wife is pregnant, Lieberman,” said Hughes.”

  “Oh, for …” Lieberman said with a massive sigh. “It never comes up easy, does it?”

  “It never comes up easy,” Hughes agreed.

  Lieberman got up from the chair. He felt slightly queasy. It could have been a lot of things. He didn’t explore the feeling.

  “I’m going home,” said Lieberman, moving past Hughes and his wife and going back into the alcove near the front door. “You might want to seriously consider turning in your badge and finding another line of work. If you walk through the station house door the day after tomorrow, I submit a request for early retirement and a letter to the mayor and the Chicago Tribune.”

  Behind him, Hughes’s voice said, “Lieberman.”

  Lieberman had no gun. He turned slowly ready to remind the woman and his boss about the note he had left with Chou Chin Huang but it wasn’t necessary.

  “Thanks,” said Hughes.

  Lieberman shrugged and went out the door. He crossed Sheridan Road behind a bus and headed toward the door of the Black Moon. Before he could knock Chou Chen Huang came out.

  “Done?” asked Huang.

  “It’s never really done,” said Lieberman.

  Huang handed him the sheet with the note Lieberman had written. Lieberman pocketed it and held out his right hand. Huang took it.

  “You like baseball?” Lieberman asked.