Lieberman's Choice (13 page)

Frankie stopped and looked at the policeman.

“I am all attention. But believe me, this has been an error here.”

“That's the problem,” said Lieberman. “I don't believe you. I want you to go over there by the wall and look at Jesus, gain inspiration while I go talk to your wife and son. I don't want you to come out there. If you come out there, I'm going to consider your actions resistance of arrest and I'll handcuff you to the radiator. You understand.”

“Yes, sir,” said the happy Frankie. “But you are not a large man.”

“I'm a small man with a large gun and some surprises. Get over there.”

Frankie clapped his hands twice and moved to the wall.

“You know,” he said, “people like me.”

“I don't like you, Frankie,” said Lieberman. “And I'm people.”

Back in the living room, Jeanine and Charlie were still sitting. When Lieberman had opened the bedroom door they had both shuddered.

“He hit you?” Lieberman asked, but it wasn't really a question.

Jeanine looked at her son and the closed bedroom door and nodded yes.

“Tell me,” said Lieberman.

“Can't,” she said, stroking her son's hair and looking at the bedroom door. “He's listening.”

Lieberman moved back to the bedroom door and opened it quickly. Kraylaw was standing no more than three feet away.

“Frankie, go in the toilet, now. Your last chance. Stay in there.”

“You are the police and all, sir,” he said. “But you really got no right.”

“Toilet,” Lieberman repeated.

“I'm of the law,” he said, and moved to the bathroom.

Lieberman closed the bedroom door again and faced the woman, who seemed to have come to some decision.

“He hits us both,” she said. “And he says he's gonna kill me and Charlie. Cut us up. Say we went back home.”

Lieberman looked at the boy, whose eyes were now fixed on the floor.

“I'll take him with me,” said Lieberman. “You pack your things and think seriously about going back home.”

“He wasn't like this from the start,” she said. “It's being here, the city. He thought he'd beat it, you know. But I think it's beatin' him. He's my husband. He's Charlie's dad. He works hard. I don't want to leave him. I just don't want him to hurt us.”

“Mrs. Kraylaw,” Lieberman said reasonably. “I think your husband may be mentally ill.”

Jeanine Kraylaw looked up at him and smiled.

“The good Lord will help him, will help us. I believe that. I truly do.”

“You mind,” said Lieberman, “if I give the Lord a little help?”

The little help turned out to be an injunction against Frankie Kraylaw issued by Judge Foster Berrick, who also ordered two days of psychological testing. Frankie was pronounced borderline psychotic and released.

“Lieberman,” Anita Sachs, the young psychologist who did the testing, had said, “the city is filled with psychotics. There may come a time when the sane ones will be outnumbered and will have to take over the asylums. When the time comes, I'll probably be on the outside looking in.”

“Not enough to put him away?”

“Plenty,” she had said, pushing her mess of dark hair back from her face. “But that's not the point. The only question the court wants answered from me is, How dangerous is he out there? And the court wants me to answer, He probably won't kill anybody, won't engage in a major felony. And that's what I answer if the person in questions hasn't already chopped up the entire fourth grade at the Roswell B. Mason Elementary School.”

And that was it. Kraylaw had gone back to the bosom of his family and Lieberman had walked away with the near certainty that Jeanine and Charlie Kraylaw would not live out the year.

Now, four months later, Abe Lieberman stood drinking his fifth cup of coffee of the day in Jason Belding's apartment and wondering what Anita Sachs's profile on Bernie Shepard would look like.

“Where is he?” asked the chief of police, stepping through the door of the apartment.

Lieberman could see that Hartz had prepared himself for this entrance. His fresh uniform was neatly pressed. His cap was foursquare on his head. His hands were at his sides and his voice had dropped several decibels. He was followed by two officers in uniform, both on their best military behavior.

“Mayor's office just called for you, Chief,” said Lieberman. “His Honor wants you back at City Hall.”

Hartz nodded, resisting the urge to touch his brow for telltale sweat.

“Thank you”. …

“Lieberman, Sergeant Abraham Lieberman. He's over there.”

Abe Lieberman pointed to a chair against the window. The chair was in shadows. The late afternoon sun hallowed it. Emiliano “El Perro” Del Sol leaned forward into the orange light, and Chief Hartz had to admit deep within himself that the little bastard had made a better entrance than he had.

There was no need for a battery of tests on Emiliano Del Sol. His violence was carved into his face. But Lieberman doubted that Del Sol was mad. When the sane folk took refuse in the asylums, El Perro would probably remain outside, pretending to be crazy.

El Perro's scar glowed red in the dying sun, pulling his eye open, giving his smile a touch of madness. He wore a black Greek fisherman's cap tilted forward over his brow.

“You know who I am?” asked the chief.

El Perro nodded, unimpressed, and removed his cap, smoothing down his hair.

“You know what I can do?” Hartz went on.

El Perro shrugged and said, “I know what you can't do with that gut. You can't do knee bends.”

“I can see to it that those two pieces of garbage we're holding …,” Hartz began softly between his teeth.

“Fernandez and Piedras,” said El Perro.

“Your two pieces of garbage,” Hartz went on, “will do so much hard time you'll be a grandfather when they get out. If you live that long. And you …”

Hartz reached back and one of the officers, as he had been instructed, placed a file in the chief's hand as deftly as if he were a nurse supplying his confident surgeon with just the right scalpel.

“We've found some outstandings,” said Hartz. “I think we've got enough to call them yours, depending how the judge looks at it. I'd say an easy five years.”

El Perro looked at Lieberman and said nothing as Hartz flipped through the file.

“I just spoke to the arresting officers,” Hartz went on. “Piedras and Fernandez could be looking at …”

El Perro laughed and stood up.

“Este hombre es un chiste,”
he said to Lieberman.

“What'd he say?” demanded Hartz.

“He said you're a joke, Chief,” Lieberman translated.

El Perro turned to Hartz, moved toward him slowly. One of the two uniforms who had come with the chief stepped between them. Hartz moved the man out of the way and held his ground.

“My men walk,” whispered El Perro. “I walk. I walk with two thousand dollars, cash money.”

“No money,” said Hartz aloud. “What the hell do you think I want you to do?”

“You want me to go up on that fuckin' roof and waste one of your own.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hartz. “I don't want any killing. You've got a reputation as the best burglar in the city. A building like the Shoreham, hell, you won't even work up a sweat.”

“Yeah,” said El Perro. “I just climb up there and talk Shepard into coming down.”

“Well …”

“You don't mind if I take a blade with me, maybe two?”

“If that's necessary to make you feel comfortable,” said Hartz, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “This is all informal. Off the record. You get no record. You get no credit. All we want is for you to get a good look at the roof, come back, and tell us if it's armed with explosives and where they are.”

“And if I have to use the blade? Two thousand before I go up there.”

Hartz went back to the file.

“Looks as if you resisted arrest in the winter of 1989 and Sergeant Shepard had to use a little force. Let's see … three broken ribs, a few lost teeth, and …”

“Two thousand or you get some other stupid asshole to go up there. Only you ain't got no other asshole besides the fat one you sit on or you wouldn't be talking to El Perro.”

“Two thousand, you bastard,” Hartz said. “I'll pay it myself, but I can't get cash until tomorrow.”

“Then I'll take a check,” said El Perro with a smile. “You're the fuckin' chief of police. I can't trust you, who can I trust? You know what I'm sayin'?”

“Okay,” said Hartz.

“I disappear along with charges against Piedras and Fernandez.”

“You get Shepard and you walk with the check. You miss him and …”

“I miss him and I don't need no fuckin' money. I need a body bag, but I ain't missing him. My car's parked on Sheridan, near Morse. Black eighty-eight Impala. License plate says ‘Perro.' Bag in the backseat. How 'bout one of your
azulitas
get it for me.”

El Perro pulled a set of keys from his pocket and handed it to the chief, who handed the keys to one of the two policemen. The policeman with the keys left the apartment.

“I'll write your check and you'll have your bag,” said Hartz. “You mind if we don't shake on this?”

“I got two rules, man,” said El Perro. “I don't rumba and I don't shake hands with no cops except Viejo.”

Hartz looked puzzled.

“He means me,” Lieberman explained.

The look from Hartz was less than complimentary.

“You go right away,” said Hartz.

“I go when it gets dark,” countered El Perro. “Suicide's against my religion, you know. Now I sleep.”

Emiliano moved back to the chair at the window, put his hat over his eyes and leaned back into the shadows. Hartz turned to Abe Lieberman, who did his best to convey absolutely nothing.

“I'll be back,” said Hartz, giving his best threatening look in the direction of Emiliano Del Sol, who gave every sign of being sound asleep or lost in meditation.

When Hartz and his two men were gone, Lieberman stepped toward the shadowed chair.

“How did I do?” said El Perro, taking off his hat and smiling broadly.

“You were charming. You gave an enormous boost to my career,” said Lieberman dryly.

“De nada,”
said El Perro. “When I get Shepard, my rep will grow even bigger. Won't be a club—Los Negros, even the Chinese—don't know I took a cop and walked, especially Shepard.”

“Emiliano,” said Lieberman, moving behind the sofa to the window and looking out into the street. Dave's and Carl's bodies had been removed. He looked toward the top of the Shoreham and saw nothing. “I've got a puzzle for you. The devil always lies. However, when asked if he is the devil, he must answer truthfully. You encounter two men, one of whom you know is the devil and you ask the men the question, ‘Are you the devil?' Both men answer ‘yes.' How do you know which man is the devil?”

“I like this, Viejo,” said El Perro, sitting up and fingering the long scar on his cheek. “The problem is, why does one of the men lie and say he is the devil if he is not?”

“That's the problem,” agreed Lieberman.

“You thought this one up?”

“A rabbi, long ago in Poland.”

“If the devil knows he has to tell the truth when someone asks if he is the devil,” El Perro thought, “then if the devil is smart, he will always have with him someone who lies and says he is the devil. That way, the devil thinks, he is safe.”

“So?”

“Easy, Viejo,” said El Perro. “Shoot them both.”

“You got it,” agreed Lieberman. “If a man walks with the devil and lies for the devil, then treat him as you would treat the devil himself.”

“You warning me about something here?” asked Emiliano, standing.

“Get some sleep,” said Lieberman. “There's an officer in the kitchen and another one will be outside the door. You'll go at nine, okay?”

“Fine with me,” said El Perro, sitting again and closing his eyes. “Maybe I'll dream a little about this man who walks with the devil.”

In the back seat of his limousine, D. Wayne Duvier was looking out the window at the boxlike Patton Gym, which marked the northern edge of Northwestern University in Evanston. In a moment they would be passing the old lighthouse. Normally, the sight of his alma mater and the reassuring landmarks gave him some sense of stability, allowed him some respite from the constant pinpoint focus that his responsibilities required of him. Today he was aware only of the presence of his daughter next to him.

He made some remark about his sister Sarah and her plans for rebuilding her house on Hilton Head, knowing that neither he nor Carla was the least bit interested.

“This isn't working, Dad,” Carla said.

“I suppose not,” he agreed.

“We've got to talk about it.”

It was moments like this that Carla reminded him most of her mother, his wife, now mercifully deceased. Rhea always wanted to face the truth boldly, openly, defiantly, directly, and if the truth didn't suit her, she would blame others, particularly Wayne, for altering reality and being insensitive.

“The policeman on the roof seems to have said all that really needs saying,” he said.

“His name is Shepard,” Carla said, making each word distinct, showing that she was working very hard at remaining calm and reasonable. “He is lying about Alan.”

When her father continued to look out the window without answering, Carla insisted, “He's lying, Dad.”

“Lying?” D. Wayne Duvier answered finally, turning to his daughter. “I don't think so. I recognize the conviction of the true believer when I see and hear it, and I saw and heard it on the news. Mistaken he may well be, but lying he most certainly is not. Besides, the media believe him and that, under the circumstances, cannot simply be ignored.”