Lieberman's Folly (18 page)

He made it past the kitchen. No one had been in there. He was sure of it. And he heard no voices. He was five feet from the closed door to his and Bess's bedroom when Lisa's door opened.

“Dad,” she whispered. “Is that you?”

“It's me,” said Lieberman.

“Dad, he called. Todd called. Can we talk a few minutes? I know you're tired.”

She stepped out of her old room, her robe wrapped around her with a mismatched belt from one of Lieberman's old robes. Even in the flickering light from the television in the living room he could see that his daughter's face was scrubbed clean.

“The morning would be better,” Lieberman said.

“The morning may be too late,” said Lisa.

“Where's your mother?” asked Lieberman.

“In your room waiting for us.”

“You want coffee or tea?” he asked.

“Tea,” she said.

“I'll have tea also,” said Bess through the bedroom door.

Lieberman headed for the kitchen.

Hanrahan waited to call till seven on the dot. Lieberman reached for the bedside phone and got it before the second ring. Bess moaned, pulled the sheet over herself, and turned away from him.

“Yes?” said Lieberman.

“Rabbi, I've got a lead. Estralda's mother and her brother are living over in Mextown near Ogden. I think they're using the name Vegas. You got an idea?”

“You should be in church, William,”-whispered Lieberman. “Giving communion, eating crackers, drinking wine. It's Sunday morning. I pray on Friday night and Saturday morning. You pray on Sunday. Easy to remember.”

“You take communion,” Hanrahan explained. “You don't give it. Priests give it.”

“I neither take it nor give it,” said Lieberman.

“Do we have a point here, Abe?” Hanrahan asked.

“No,” said Lieberman. “I'm just trying to wake up. I'll call Guttierez in Gangs at noon. Guttierez definitely goes to church on Sunday morning. What else did you find out?”

Hanrahan went over what he found behind the doors of Estralda Valdez's apartment building. He told about Hughes, Gwen Dysan, and Nikki Morales.

“Our Estralda was recruiting, Rabbi,” Hanrahan said. “Not heavy and serious maybe but keeping her hand in.”

“Father Murphy,” Lieberman said, scratching the top of his head. “We're not trying to get her canonized. We're trying to find out who stuck a long blade in her eight times.”

“Yeah,” said Hanrahan without conviction.

“You slept?”

“Some,” said Hanrahan.

There was a very long and pregnant pause before Hanrahan went on, “I haven't had a drink since this happened, Abraham.”

“Get some sleep, William,” said Lieberman with a sigh. “I'm going to call Guttierez and take a shower.”

When he hung up, Bess mumbled something.

“What?” asked Lieberman.

“The kids are up,” she said. “I can hear them. See if they're all right.”

“They're big kids,” said Lieberman, “and their mother's sleeping in the next room.”

“They're in our house,” Bess said without turning around.

Lieberman got out of bed. He was wearing one of his favorite T-shirts, an extra large blue with a picture of the Evanston lighthouse on the front. It looked like a nightshirt on Lieberman's frail body. He found his robe in the closet and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The kids were sitting on the open bed watching television and eating bagels with globs of cream cheese and thin strips of nova lox.

“It's better with slices of onion,” Lieberman told them.

“Don't like onions,” said Melisa.

“The game?” Barry asked. He looked up, a dollop of cream cheese climbing to his already fuzzy upper lip.

“It's afoot,” said Lieberman. “I've got a call to make, a shower to take, and a headache to shake.”

Melisa laughed. Barry smiled.

“And I've got a beer to bake,” said Melisa.

“That's not funny,” sighed Barry. “You're so unfunny.”

“It's a sincere attempt in the proper context and vernacular,” said Lieberman.

“You sound like Dad with his dead Greeks,” said Barry. “Only you're joking. My dad's always serious.”

“Spread more cream cheese on the furniture and I'll be right back,” said Lieberman. He went into the kitchen and closed the door behind him to drown out the voice of Alf and at least suggest to his family that he might want to be left alone a few minutes. He found Simon Guttierez's name and number in the address book in the kitchen. He dialed.

“Hello?” came a woman's voice.

“My little rose of the prairie,” said Lieberman.

Estralita Guttierez chuckled.

“Lieberman,” she said. “You're the only one who calls me that.”

“I'm the only one who calls you who has a soul,” said Lieberman. “Everyone else sold theirs for weight loss programs that don't work and seats at Bulls games. Simon there?”

“I'll get him. We were getting set to go to Mass,” she said.

“I'll be fast,” Lieberman assured her.

A few seconds later Simon Guttierez came on the line with a clipped, “Abe.”

Lieberman had worked on and off for fifteen years with Simon till Simon got the transfer and promotion to Gangs. Simon was ambitious. If he'd had a college degree he might be giving Captain Hughes a run for chief of police in five years.

“Simon, I need something.”

Lieberman went with the phone to the bag on the counter. As he talked, he pulled out a garlic bagel, tucked the phone under his chin, cut the bagel, and put it in the toaster.

“What?” asked Guttierez.

“Valdez killing. You up on it? I need a line on Estralda Valdez's mother and brother. Live down on or near Ogden.” Lieberman was pulling the lox, onion, and cream cheese out of the refrigerator. The cream cheese—what remained of it—was a smarmy mess.

“Name?”

“No name but Valdez,” said Lieberman. “And that's probably not it.”

“Do I owe you one?” Guttierez asked.

Lieberman could hear Estralita Guttierez in the background urging her husband to get off the phone.

“No, I owe you one from the Bratcovkic case,” Lieberman admitted.

“Now you're gonna owe me two,” said Guttierez. “I'll make a couple calls and call you back after Mass. You home?”

“I'm home,” said Lieberman.

Guttierez hung up. Lieberman finished making his sandwich, poured himself a glass of iced tea made the night before, and settled down at the table to eat, drink, and wait. He waited five whole minutes before Lisa came bursting through the door.

“Dad,” she said. “The kids are in the living room getting cream cheese and crumbs over everything. You were out there. Why didn't you stop them?”

“I've got a confession,” he said biting into his sandwich. “There's more of Peter Pan in me than Mary Poppins.”

“You could give me a hand here a little,” Lisa said.

“Take a shower. Wash your hair. Brush your teeth. Shave your legs and then come out and talk,” he said. “You'll feel better.”

“You're just trying to get me off your back,” she said, brushing her hair back with her hands.

“Unfair,” said Lieberman. “I'm trying to do a variety of things. Getting rid of you is just one of them. Come back with a smile and a song, preferably not a rap song, and we'll decide if we want to put cuffs on the kids or the refrigerator.”

“You never change, do you?” Lisa asked, taking the last piece of bagel-lox-cream cheese-onion from his hand and gulping it down. “I try not to,” he said. “But I fail most of the time.”

The phone rang. Lieberman again picked it up after the first ring.

“What'd you learn, Abe?” Hanrahan asked.

“Patience,” said Lieberman, pouring himself another iced tea.

“I got a feeling,” said Hanrahan.

“Take a hot shower,” said Lieberman. “I'll call you when I've got a reason to call you.”

They hung up and Lieberman moved back to the bathroom for a hot shower. He sang his usual medley while the water steamed down on his back and legs. “The Love Bug Will Get You If You Don't Watch Out” was followed by “The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea” and “Just One More Chance.” Lieberman continued singing—“Silver Dollar” and “Tangerine”—as he toweled off and dressed, and “Moon Over Miami” as he stepped back into his and Bess's bedroom.

“You're in high spirits, Abraham,” Bess said, sitting up.

“Trying to delude myself,” he whispered. “It almost worked.”

“It never works,” said Bess.

The phone was ringing.

“You know what time it is?” Bess said, getting out of bed.

“I didn't know what time it was,” Lieberman sang.

Bess shook her head and headed for the bathroom while Lieberman answered the phone.

“Abe.”

“Simon.”

“I got something, maybe,” said Guttierez.

“I thought you were going to Mass?”

“I'll go late,” said Guttierez. “You want to hear this or you want to make me feel guilty?”

“Talk,” said Lieberman.

“We got a maybe,” said Guttierez. “Brother may be José Madera, also known as José Vegas. Seventeen. Word's out Madera said his sister's been killed.”

“Word's out, Simon?”

“One of our informants was in a bar with Madera last night. Madera said the dead prostitute was his sister.”

“Where does Madera live?”

“Got me, Abe,” said Guttierez. “Conlin's on in records. I checked with him. Madera has seven priors, no convictions. No known address. He used to run with Los Vampiros, El Perro's swarm. Deadheads. Now he's with Los Gatos. More ambitious. Crack farmers.”

“Thanks, Simon,” said Lieberman.

“You owe me two,” said Guttierez, hanging up.

Lieberman dialed Hanrahan, who took five rings to pick it up.

“I was in the can,” explained Hanrahan.

“I appreciate your candor,” said Lieberman. “Meet me at the Chapultapec on North in half an hour. El Perro may know how we can find Estralda's brother.”

Lieberman unlocked the night table drawer with the key on his chain, removed his weapon, and put it in his holster under his jacket.

“Gotta go,” said Lieberman, coming out of his room.

“Dad,” Lisa said under her breath. “Todd is coming at noon, remember? You said you'd be here.”

“I'll be back,” Lieberman assured her.

“Lieberman,” Bess said. She was still in her robe, pulling it around her. Lieberman had given her that robe for her birthday five years ago.

“She calls me Lieberman and I'll be in trouble,” Lieberman confided to Barry and Melisa, who were listening.

“Very big trouble,” Bess agreed. “You be back when Todd's here. Worry less about someone else's family and more about your own.”

He moved to her and gave her a kiss.

“Take care,” Bess said, as she had thousands of mornings. He headed out into the morning heat.

The morning proved to be a bust. Hanrahan and Lieberman went to the Chapultapec and found it empty except for a young couple and their baby. The old lady serving, who had been there when Lieberman and Hanrahan had confronted El Perro over Resnick's money, claimed that she knew no one named El Perro or Del Sol. She looked more than frightened. She was trembling as if it were January on the lake shore.

“Give him a note if he comes by,” Lieberman said, pulling out his pad. “Tell him it's from Lieberman. He can reach me tomorrow morning or night. I'm going to the ball game in the afternoon.”

The note was simple: “I want to talk to José Madera.”

He signed it “Lieberman” and the two cops went back outside.

“Come on home with me,” said Lieberman. “My son-in-law's coming over to fight with my daughter.”

“Sounds like fun,” said Hanrahan, “but I've got a date.”

Lieberman looked at him as they approached Hanrahan's car. Four
Latino
teenagers, big, tattooed, wearing little black caps, were sitting on the hood looking mean.

“A date?” Lieberman said.

One of the kids got down from the hood and moved toward the cops.

“This your car?” asked the kid, who looked a little like Roberto Duran but had no accent.

“Yeah,” said Hanrahan. “Be with you in a second.” Then to Lieberman, “Nice woman. Name's Iris. Chinese. Family owns the Black Moon Restaurant.”

“Hey,” said the kid who looked like Roberto Duran, “I'm talking to you.”

“Why not bring her over to the house later?” asked Lieberman.

“You fuckers want to get in this car, you gonna pay fifty bucks,” said the angry kid. His buddies were off the hood now. One was standing in front of the door. The other two stood behind Roberto Duran.

“Don't think so Abe, but thanks,” said Hanrahan. “Maybe next time. This is a kinda get acquainted … You know. I'm still …”

The kid with the Roberto Duran face was angry now.

“I'm talking to you,” he shouted between gritted teeth.

“You got a weapon?” Lieberman asked wearily.

“What? I got a weapon,” the kid said. He pulled out a folding knife with a five-inch blade.

“Your sisters have weapons?” asked Hanrahan, nodding at the three others.

Roberto Duran's face was red now.

“You two give me your wallets and watches,” he said.

“Why?” asked Lieberman.

“Or we cut you, old man,” said the boy.

“You got time to take them in, Father Murphy?” Lieberman asked.

Hanrahan looked at his watch.

“Plenty of time,” he said, turning to the kid with the knife in his hand. “Son, you are one stupid asshole.”

“He called you Father?” asked the kid, confused.

“I'm a cop,” Hanrahan said. “You can't recognize a cop on the street with the sun up in the morning on a summer day. I'd call that stupid.”