Lieberman's Choice (7 page)

“Cop named Shepard killed his wife and another cop,” said Lieberman.

Maish nodded and refilled Sylvie Chen's cup. Sylvie was the only other customer at the counter. Both Gert and Melody were alone in booths.

“That one. Heard it on the radio on the way in,” said Maish. “Shepard? He ever come in here? Sounds familiar?”

“Could be,” said Lieberman, wondering whether he should go for another bagel.

Maish's face showed nothing. Maish's face never showed anything. Years ago Syd Levan had dubbed him Nothing-Bothers-Maish and it had stuck. Lieberman knew his brother enjoyed the nickname, had always wanted a nickname, and in high school had desperately tried to get friends and acquaintances to call him Studs, in honor of his favorite character.

“They gonna make .500?” asked Maish.

It was Lieberman's favorite subject, the Cubs.

“I look that bad you gotta cheer me up by talking baseball?”

“You look that bad,” admitted Maish.

Each year Lieberman's goals for his Cubs changed by midseason. In a good year they were shooting for the pennant. In an average year they were shooting for .500. In a bad year they were shooting for individual goals. Maybe one hundred RBIs each for Dawson and Daniels. Maybe thirty-plus homers for Sandberg, Dawson, or Daniels, and a .300 year for Sandberg and Grace. Maybe a return of Sutcliffe, the hero of Lieberman's grandson Barry, to the Cubs. Four years ago Lieberman had taken Barry to a Cubs game. They had sat in a box right behind third base, courtesy of Andy Frain himself, the founder of the uniformed usher army, for whom Lieberman had done a favor or two. Sutcliffe had thrown Barry his warm-up ball and gone on to pitch a five-hit shutout.

Just remembering that day made Lieberman feel better.

“Yetta's all right?” asked Abe.

“Yetta's Yetta,” answered Maish, nodding to Gert, who had nodded for her check. “She's got a leg now. It doesn't do what she tells it sometimes.”

Maish made out Gert's check.

“Dr. Lerner?”

“Dr. Lerner,” sighed Maish, ripping the check off the pad. “He says she's getting old. You expect willful limbs when you get old. That, he said, should be the worst of her problems.”

“Reassuring,” said Abe, pushing his plate away.

Maish brought the check to Gert, who fussed through her oversized purse and came up with a five-dollar bill. Maish brought it back behind the counter.

“She orders the same thing every day,” he whispered to his brother. “Same price. She always asks for a check and always looks at it and always gives me a five-dollar bill so she can have change for the bus. Life's little ironies.”

Abe gave his brother a five-dollar bill and got up. Abe always paid and Maish almost always gave him a bag of something “to take with for Bess, Lisa, the kids.”

Today's bag, Lieberman could tell from the smell, was ruggalah.

“Sam working today?” he asked, moving to the door.

“Why not?” answered Maish.

Sam was Maish's only child. Sam was a producer at Channel 4.

“I think I'll maybe make a call and stop at the house.”

Maish reached under the counter and came up with the house phone. Abe pulled his address book out of his pocket, found the number he was looking for, and hit the buttons for the Kraylaw apartment. The phone rang six times before Lieberman hung up.

“Bring the kids in for lunch if you get a chance Sunday.”

“I will,” said Abe, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

Most of the stores on this side of California Avenue were still closed. Leon's Fruits and Vegetables was open. Hempel's Bakery was open, but Hinkey's Bike Shop, the savings and loan, and everything else was sound asleep. Further east, toward Lake Michigan, past Western Avenue, Devon was alive. The immigrants rose early, even the Kung Fu Academy was open for skinny kids and dreaming adults who wanted a shot of self-esteem before work or school or walking the street.

Lieberman hit Birchwood a little after eight. Lisa's car was gone. In its place in front of the house stood a white Buick, a not-very-new white Buick. Lieberman considered continuing on, but if Todd's car was parked and he wasn't in it, Bess was inside with him. He parked and, armed with his sweet-smelling ruggalah, got out of his car and entered his house.

“Abe,” shouted Bess when she heard the door open. “You've got company.”

“You've got company,” Lieberman repeated to himself. Not, We've got company. Bess was paving the way for total abandonment.

“I saw the car,” said Lieberman, moving to the kitchen and looking at his wife and son-in-law seated at the table.

Bess was wearing her red-and-black suit, which meant serious business for someone. The silver necklace around her neck, the one he had bought for her when they went to Mérida, Mexico, on vacation four years ago, convinced Lieberman that she was not only serious but she expected to triumph.

Todd smiled up at him, a long-suffering smile. Todd Cresswell was a bit on the thin side, sandy of hair. He was wearing a dark sweater, navy slacks, a red tie, and a very pained expression which, Lieberman thought, made his smile look like the first pangs of constipation.

“I brought ruggalah,” said Lieberman, placing the bag on the table.

“I'm glad you're here,” said Bess, rising. “I've got to go. Breakfast meeting at the synagogue. Irving Hamel is trying to convince us to get a bigger bank loan and drag the building renovation fund drive out for two years.”

“And,” said Lieberman, knowing for sure now that he was being abandoned, “you've got the votes? I can tell from the canary feathers coming out of your mouth.”

“Ida Katzman and Rabbi Wass both,” she said triumphantly.

“Rommel hasn't got a chance,” said Lieberman, dipping into the bag for a ruggalah. It felt honey sweet and sticky.

Bess gave him a kiss on the cheek and patted Todd's shoulder. Todd gave his mother-in-law a suffering smile.

“Good-bye,” she said.

“Good-bye,” said Lieberman and his wife was gone.

He turned to his son-in-law.

“I dubbed Irving Hamel ‘Rommel,'” Lieberman explained to avoid the inevitable. “He's a lawyer, young. He blitzkriegs.”

Todd nodded.

“So,” said Lieberman, settling in for the siege. “I've got about twenty minutes. I've been up all night and I need a shower and some rest. Have a ruggalah.”

“That's all right,” said Todd. “I've got a class at nine.”

With that, Todd reached into the bag and pulled out one of the small honey pastries. He looked at it and said, “‘Darkness lies upon my eyes.'”

Lieberman's sigh was deep.

“Euripides,” he said.

“That's right,” Todd said, looking up with interest.
“Heracles.
How did you …?”

“He's your favorite,” said Lieberman. “Remember the ground rules, Todd. Don't quote Greek tragedies. I don't want to hear dead Greeks I don't understand. I'm a tired cop.”

“I've tried, Abe,” Todd said, looking at the refrigerator.

Lieberman resisted the urge to join him.

“Maybe you should try harder,” said Lieberman.

“I want Lisa back. I want the kids back. I'm tired of ‘Rockford Files' reruns on television. I've got to tell you this. I even tried to go out on a date, with a new instructor, from Yale.”

“A woman?”

“Of course a woman,” said Todd.

“I'm sorry,” said Lieberman, resisting a new urge to fill his cheeks with ruggalah and make an insane face at his son-in-law.

“I don't even know what I did wrong. I don't even know what to do. I'm a domestic creature, Abe.”

The phone rang.

“I'll talk to her again,” Lieberman promised, moving to the phone.

“‘A man shall be commended according to his wisdom,'” said Todd. “‘But he that is of a perverse heart shall be despised.'”

“Todd …,” Lieberman began warningly.

“That's not Greek. It's the Old Testament. Proverbs twelve, verse eight. You don't want me to quote the Bible?”

“I don't want you to quote anything,” said Lieberman. “God and Rabbi Wass forgive me. I'll talk to her.”

Lieberman picked up the phone and said, “Lieberman.”

“Nestor, Abe,” Briggs said. “You are a popular man today. First, Bernie Shepard wants you on the case, now Hal Querez at the North says he needs you fast.”

“He say why?” asked Lieberman, looking at Todd whose eyes searched his father-in-law's face for reassurance.

“I think it's El Perro,” said Briggs. “But don't quote me on that. Hal wants you at the North fast.”

“Call Bill Hanrahan. Tell him I had an emergency. I'll get there as fast as I can.”

Lieberman hung up the phone and looked at Todd.

“You won't give up?” asked Todd.

Lieberman rose and motioned to Todd to get up too. Todd did so wearily.

“I don't sleep much,” said Todd.

“I don't either,” said Lieberman.

“I watch television most of the night,” Todd confessed. “Old movies, reruns of ‘Andy of Mayberry,' anything to keep from being alone. And I eat, anything, everything. This will kill me, Abe.”

Lieberman led his son-in-law out the kitchen and to the front door.

“It won't kill you, Todd. It may make you tired and fat, but it won't kill you.”

“I trust you, Abe.”

“I'm honored,” said Abe, opening the front door.

“You're joking,” said Todd. “I'm sincere.”

“I'm sorry,” said Abe. “People are murdering people and I've got to get an hour or two of sleep. I'll be my usual cheerful self tomorrow.”

Todd started down the steps.

“Fill yourself with V-Eight,” Lieberman said. “Few calories, some vitamins. Fills your stomach.”

Todd stopped and looked back at him.

“That's your advice?”

“That and don't wear brown shoes with the navy slacks and sweater.”

Lieberman closed the door and headed straight for the bedroom.

Cops owned houses. Even if they couldn't afford it, they owned houses. Even if the houses were two rooms and a crawl space, they owned. Success was owning a house. Owning a house was stability, a small piece of the American dream.

The house he parked in front of on Nordica just south of Foster, in the far northwest corner of the city a few miles from O'Hare airport, was brick, modest, and tiny. The lawn was neat and white concrete steps clean.

Hanrahan had done this before, at least forty times, once for another cop whose name he couldn't remember. That had been early in his drinking days. A double J&B and a pack of spearmint would carry him, but he knocked on this door with just the memory of the Molson beer from Shepard's refrigerator and the hint of a Velamint on his tongue.

She answered on the fourth knock and he knew that she knew.

“Mrs. Beeton?” he asked.

She was a big woman, blond, round pretty face, far too much makeup, looked around thirty. Her hair was short, brushed back. She was wearing a dark dress and a scared, defensive look that opened her eyes with the expectation of more horror.

“Yes,” she said.

“My name's Hanrahan, Sergeant Hanrahan. Can I come in for a minute?”

She stepped back to let him enter and he entered, brushing against her, smelling a sweet perfume and fear. He moved to the right of the door and faced her.

“You want to close the door, Mrs. Beeton?”

The woman looked at the door, nodded, and pushed it closed.

“You know?” he asked.

“Andy,” she said. “He's dead.”

“Yes.”

“It was on … My mother heard it on the radio. She called. I got dressed. My mother is coming. She lives in Palos Heights. She should get here, if she doesn't hit too much traffic on the expressway, she should get here soon.”

“Yes,” said Hanrahan. “Can I do anything for you?”

“A policeman shot him?” she asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Beeton.”

“Connie, my name is Connie. Before I married Andy my name was Connie Conroy.”

“Irish,” he said.

“No. Welsh. And Navaho,” she said. “A policeman killed Andy?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“Connie.”

“Connie.”

She moved past him into the living room and Hanrahan turned to face her.

“You want to sit? Want some … I've only got instant, but it's Taster's Choice.”

“No, thank you.”

The furniture in the room reminded Hanrahan of his own house. The chairs, sofa were old, comfortable. There was a large, colorful American Indian rag on the floor and the one huge painting on the wall was a scene of five or six Navaho Indians in the desert, shading their eyes with their hands, looking off the frame at something distant.

“I had my nails done yesterday,” she said. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that.”

“It's all right,” said Hanrahan.

“I've got decaf,” she said hopefully. “Would you mind staying till my mother gets here?”

“I'll stay,” he said. “And a glass of ice water would be fine.”

Though he had not been invited to sit, Hanrahan moved to a chair opposite Connie Beeton. He could see the Navahos on the wall from there.

“Why did the policeman…?” she said, putting her hands flat on her knees, trying to remain calm.

“He—Sergeant Shepard—shot his wife too.”

Connie Beeton made no move to get his water, which was fine with Hanrahan.

“I understand,” she said. “You have any children, Officer …?”

“Hanrahan, Sergeant. Two boys, both grown, a couple of grandchildren.”

“We don't have any children,” she said, smiling. “I work at the Eagle grocery, on Harlem.”

She pointed over his shoulder in the direction of Harlem Avenue.

“I'm an assistant manager. We were planning to have a baby later this year,” she said, patting her palms on her legs. “I forgot your water.”