Lieberman's Day (12 page)

T
HE MAN AND THE
woman sitting in the small comfortable waiting room both checked their watches.

The man's name was Lester Allen Wiggs. He called himself Anthony Simington. He was of medium height, slim, with impeccably groomed, stylishly long brown hair combed straight back. His nose had been broken several times, which helped give him the look of a man who had learned the lessons of hard work and had graduated to the three-piece London suit he now wore. The woman was Jean Tortereli, who called herself Jennifer Simington and presented herself as Anthony Simington's wife or sister, depending on to whom the couple were speaking. She was efficiently elegant: black shoes, black knit dress, simple pearl necklace, an off-white sweater that matched the pearls. She pulled up the sleeves of her sweater at times in the conversation when it looked like hard work was called for. She had the beauty of an older model with, perhaps, just a bit too much angular definition to her cheeks, nose, and jaw, which could make her look a bit cold or quite efficient depending on which attitude best suited the situation.

“Bad feel here,” said Anthony.

“The weather,” Jennifer said, taking out her cigarette case, opening it, and then deciding against smoking. She closed the case, put it back in her purse, and put her hands together.

Anthony looked at her, admiring the confidence and efficiency that she emitted. They had been working together for more than two years. The partnership had been nearly perfect. Neither was physically attracted to the other. Anthony liked young, dark women with gutter diction, and they seemed to like him. Jennifer seemed to have no sexual interest in men or women.

“I say we give them …” Anthony began, but the door opened, interrupting him.

“Is this the right room?” asked the old man in the robe, looking a bit confused.

“Mr. Sachs?” asked Anthony, standing up. “You're in the right place. I'm Anthony Simington. This is my wife, Jennifer.”

The old man stepped forward to shake the hands offered to him by the couple. Anthony closed the door. Jennifer guided the unsteady old man to a mauve leather-covered armchair. The old man and the couple sat facing one another. Though he seemed a bit frail, it was difficult to see this man as being in the final stages of terminal renal failure.

“Perry is supposed to be here,” the old man said, looking at the door nervously.

“Your lawyer must have been a bit delayed. The weather is terrible,” Jennifer said, leaning over to pat his hand.

“Is it cold in here?” the old man said, pulling his robe tightly around him. “To me it feels cold.”

“Perhaps a bit,” Jennifer said with a reassuring smile. “I'll ask them to turn up the heat the moment we leave.”

“Thank you,” said the old man. “Maybe you'll forgive me, but I don't always remember … Why are we meeting?”

“It was your lawyer's idea, Perry's idea,” Anthony lied. “To see to it that when the good Lord took you to him, whatever remained of your worldly possessions would go to a worthwhile cause. We understand that you have no relatives who might survive you and to whom you might wish to give aid after you've gone. The Lord …”

“The good Lord has not been particularly good to me,” said the old man. “I'm dying and I don't think I welcome spending eternity telling him how wonderful he is. It's much more restful to think that there might be no God.”

Anthony Simington chuckled respectfully and Jennifer smiled in understanding. Jennifer found her briefcase on the floor, opened it in her lap, and began fishing out brochures and lists of numbers, which she handed to the old man. He took them in slightly trembling fingers.

“Don't have my glasses,” he said. “Besides, I've got no more patience for reading, even the funny papers. I read the
Tribune
sometimes if I can lay it flat on a table. Last book I read was … something about a man whose wife falls through the window or something.”

“All right,” said Anthony Simington. “Let me explain. We represent a small group of organizations, organizations that help people, organizations that will benefit from your contribution and honor your name.”

“What good will that do me when I'm dead?” asked the old man.

“None,” said Jennifer somberly, holding out a brochure. “But that is not as important as knowing your assets will go to one of these organizations striving for success through hard work and a sense of human decency. Do you want the money you've worked so hard for all your life to simply go to the government?”

“I've worked hard,” the old man agreed, looking at his hands. “And I've paid my taxes. Always paid my taxes. No shortcuts, you know what I mean?”

“We have the Taylor-Ives Children's Support Fund,” Jennifer said, “the Cook County Friends of AIDS Victims, the Volunteers for the Disabled, the Commitment Society Against Drug and Alcohol Abuse.”

“Each one of them,” Anthony said, leaning forward toward the confused old man, “needs dollars to continue to do their work.”

“I don't know,” the old man said, looking at the brochures on his lap. In photos the sad, emaciated faces of black children looked up at him.

“Without Perry, I can't …” the old man began, but he stopped when he saw the office door fly open and a large, pink-faced man enter the room carrying a battered briefcase.

“Sorry I'm late,” said Perry. “Court appearance. Emergency.”

“That's quite all right,” said Anthony Simington. “We've been having a fine talk with Mr. Sachs.”

“They've been telling me I should leave my money to drug addicts, sick children, homosexuals with AIDS, and who knows who else,” said the old man, shaking his head and looking at a spectacularly uninteresting painting on the wall, of a white bird in flight in a gray overcast sky.

Lawyer Perry fixed the Simingtons with a challenge in his eyes that came out in his voice.

“I see,” he said.

Perry was dressed in a rumpled suit and had the look of a man who held his drink badly. In short, to the bogus Simingtons, Perry looked like a man who was not prospering.

“We would need legal advice on transferring money to the proper fund,” said Anthony.

“Of course,” echoed Jennifer.

“Paid legal advice?” Perry asked.

“A fee directly from dollars transferred,” said Jennifer.

“A flat percentage,” said Anthony.

“What are you talking about?” the old man demanded.

“Helping people,” said Perry.

“People who need help,” Jennifer said, catching Perry's eye.

“Well, should I do it?” asked the old man.

“These funds are all charities?” asked Perry.

“Yes,” Jennifer said emphatically.

“Nonprofit?” Perry went on.

“Nonprofit,” answered Anthony.

“We live off a small fee and other corporate work we do,” explained Jennifer.

“I see,” said Perry.

“See what?” asked the bewildered Mr. Sachs.

“You'd need a signed copy of the revised will,” said Perry.

“And a small contribution in advance to show good faith before we alert our aided charities of the benefaction,” said Jennifer.

“Made out to …?” Perry asked.

“The organization of your choice,” said Anthony, reaching over to take his wife's offered hand.

“Sounds fine to me,” said Perry with a grin. “Mr. Sachs?”

“Me too,” said old man Sachs, looking down at a photograph of a very young, bravely smiling black girl in rags.

“We have enough?” Perry said, standing.

“We have papers with us,” said Jennifer, also standing with her husband. “Ready for signature.”

“May I?” asked Perry.

Anthony went back into his wife's briefcase and came up with a folder that he handed to Perry. Perry opened it, glanced at the papers, and looked down at his client.

“Looks like we have enough,” said the old man.

“Fine,” said Anthony Simington, beaming.

“Not so fine,” said old man Sachs.

“Well,” said Jennifer, “if there are any details you'd like …”

“One,” said the old man.

“And that is …?” Jennifer said.

“You are both under arrest,” said the old man.

Anthony smiled at Perry, but Perry wasn't smiling. Anthony turned to Jennifer, but she wasn't smiling.

“Fraud,” said Perry.

“Sergeant Hanrahan will read you your rights,” said the old man, moving toward them.

“Wait …” said Anthony, backing away, a lock of hair starting to come loose over his ear.

Jennifer sighed, sat down again, took out her cigarette case, and lit up.

“I think you've misunderstood what my wife and I have been saying here,” Anthony tried, his hair definitely moving toward the unruly.

Lieberman removed the robe and revealed a compact recorder hooked to his jacket pocket.

“This is ridiculous,” said Anthony. “We want to see our lawyer. You have no …”

“Each fund which you describe is in your names, your real names,” Lieberman said, looking down at the woman, who crossed her legs and continued smoking without looking at any of the men. “There are no charities. I'm going to say something, but more for me than you. Did you ever think even for a second or two that you're taking food out of the mouths of kids who may be starving?”

“That's not true,” shouted Simington.

“It's true,” said Lieberman as Hanrahan droned out the Miranda in the background. “Now, there are a couple of uniformed officers outside the door who will escort you to the station. You can call your lawyer before they even book you.”

“… will be used against you,” Hanrahan concluded.

Jennifer rose from the chair, closed her briefcase, and strode to the door without a word while Anthony continued to crumble.

“This is …” he said, but was cut off by Jennifer turning to him and slapping him hard.

“No more,” she said calmly. “Not another word. You understand?”

Anthony Simington had no more words. He nodded and followed her into the hall where the two uniforms stood waiting.

“Cuffs?” asked one of the uniforms through the open door.

“By all means,” said Lieberman.

The uniformed policeman nodded and led the couple away.

“We could have gotten more out of them, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan, loosening his collar.

“My mind is elsewhere, Father Murphy. You were late. I had three minutes of playing the doddering da.”

Lieberman folded the robe and looked at his partner.

“Iris,” Hanrahan said.

Lieberman nodded and said, “I was late too. It's one of those days. I think we've got enough on Tony and Jenny.”

“Maybe,” said Hanrahan.

“Maybe,” agreed Lieberman. “We've got an eleven-thirty meeting with El Perro. Check in with Nestor on the desk and brief Kearney on the phone. Should give us enough time.”

“El Perro,” Hanrahan said, shaking his head.

“You got better?” asked Lieberman.

This time Hanrahan shrugged. “Eleven-thirty,” he said. “God, Rabbi, you know the paperwork we're gonna have with those two?” Hanrahan nodded toward the door.

Lieberman knew. The paper trail on a con game was worse than on a homicide and an arrest report had to be filed within twelve hours. But Lieberman had volunteered for this one. First, because he was asked and looked old enough. Second, because Lieberman's mother had spent the last three years of her life in this very residence. His mother had nothing when she died, but if she'd had anything, the pair they had just arrested could easily have talked her out of it.

Lieberman moved to the door. Behind him Hanrahan said, “Abe, I've got to ask you. I know it's not the time, but it's getting to me. Tell me straight out what you think. Is Maureen ever coming back to me?”

Oh, God, thought Lieberman. It never gets easier. There had been a night five years ago. Just one night when William O. Hanrahan had been on a binge for almost a week, one night when Lieberman had almost found himself in bed with his partner's wife. It hadn't happened, but it could have.

“I don't think so, William,” Lieberman said.

“I don't think so either, Abraham. Maybe I'd best be getting on with my life.”

“Spoken like an Irish cop.”

“Spoken like my old man,” said Hanrahan. “Let's go.”

It had taken the Lord little more than an hour to give Frankie Kraylaw his reward.

Frankie had driven to a park he knew off Rogers Avenue, a big park, half a block in from Clark Street. The park was empty. The wind was blowing sheets of grainy snow flecked with dirt over the hard, footprinted surface of the thick layer underneath.

Frankie had looked both ways after parking the car and then stepped into the snow to scoop up a cold ball just beneath the surface of thin chill. He washed in the snow, rubbed JJ.'s blood off and rinsed his mouth with snow, and then ran a thick handful of freezing ice on the bloody front of his coat. It was better. He was sure. Not perfect, but better. Maybe better enough not to draw attention to him.

He got back in the truck, checked the fuel gauge and his image in the mirror. The fuel gauge was fine. There were a few spots on his face and neck, however, that Frankie had missed. He spit on his fingers and worked at them, watching to be sure that no police car appeared in either direction.

He drove slowly, planning, wondering, and coming up with an idea. He made his way to Christ Evangelical Church and Mission just half a mile away, north of Howard Street and into Evanston. The parking lot was almost empty, which meant nothing much was going on, but many of those who found solace here and a semisquare meal were people without a car, usually without even carfare.

An elevated train rattled by at the top of the embankment across the street. Frankie got out of the pickup and looked at the solid brick and dirty spire of the church. This was a church that had seen its day, a church that was now paying for its prideful early raptures. Churches should be simple. God was simple and wondrous. He didn't need shrines of gold or silver that mocked his everlasting truth.