Lieberman's Day (22 page)

“Briggs,” said Nestor wearily.

“What are you still doing on the desk?”

“Corsenelli's got her period, something. I don't know,” Briggs said wearily. “Lieutenant Kearney says I can make it up on Saturday. Bill called in. Said to tell you he's getting somewhere. If you need him, call him at home or leave a message with me. He'll call in. That skinny public defender kid with the red hair …”

“Connery.”

“Right,” said Nestor. “Looking for you and Bill and Kearney. She left a message. She'll be in in the morning to talk about her client turning evidence. You ask me, the state attorney and the public defender will let her walk and put him on probation. You ask me. Steal old people's pensions, Social Security, savings, and what do you get?”

“What else you got, Nestor?”

“Someone named Emiliano, no last name, called. Crazy spic. Could hardly understand him. Said he had something. He'd find you later. Let's see. What else? Oh, yeah, an Officer Fu in La Grange called, said he read the APB, thinks he's got the guy with the hat. I don't know what the hell he meant but I said …”

“Where is he?” Lieberman asked.

“Fu?”

“Fu.”

“La Grange Hospital. Waiting for you.”

“You read the APBs today, Nestor?” asked Lieberman.

“Who's got time?” asked Nestor.

“Goodbye, Nestor. I'll call in later.”

Lieberman hung up and looked at his hand. It was shaking. The door to the rabbi's office opened and Bess stepped in. She looked at her husband's face and hand, closed the door behind her, and moved to the desk. She took the trembling hand in both of hers.

“Abe?”

“I'm fine,” he said. “I've got to go.”

“Maish wants you to meet him at Weinstock's Funeral Home at eight to make arrangements,” she said.

“Skokie?”

“The one on Broadway near Lawrence.”

Lieberman nodded and stood up.

“If I can get there, I'll be there.”

He patted his wife's hand and stood her in front of him.

“I'm fine,” he repeated.

She looked in his eyes.

“You won't do anything foolish?”

Lieberman smiled and kissed his wife.

“Providing I can tell the difference between smart and foolish, I won't do anything foolish. The problem is recognizing that it's foolish without having you to check it with.”

“Pick up the phone,” she said.

“Maybe I will.”

Frankie pulled the trigger on both barrels of the shotgun and there was nothing but the neat metallic click of a clean weapon.

“Take the boy upstairs now,” Hanrahan said to Jeanine without taking his eyes from Frankie, who broke open the shotgun and saw both chambers empty.

Hanrahan could hear the young woman and her son hurrying away behind him.

“Told you I followed you,” said Hanrahan. “Saw your truck. Saw you go to the house. While you weren't looking, I was unloading.”

“You're working for him,” Frankie cried, pointing toward the floor, his face turning red.

“You're not gonna give up, are you, Frankie?”

“Never,” said Frankie.

“We put you away and someday you'll get out and I'll be older and your wife and boy will be that much more scared with waiting.”

Hanrahan's clenched left hand came up. He held it open to reveal the two red shotgun shells he had removed from Frankie's weapon.

“God's will,” said Frankie.

Hanrahan threw a shell across the room. It bounced off Frankie's chest to the floor. Hanrahan threw the second one. Frankie bobbled it a bit and then pulled it in. Hanrahan said nothing, but he shifted his gun and crossed himself.

Frankie, breathing hard, knelt for the shell on the floor, stood, loaded both barrels, and, as he raised the weapon, Detective William Hanrahan obeyed the voice inside him, the voice of his father.

“Remember,” James Hanrahan had said. “When you get to the point when you know you're going to have to shoot someone, it'll come fast. Your breathing, your heartbeat will be racing with excitement and fear. That's natural. But it can make you flinch. Take my word, William, when you see a perp with a weapon in his mitt, your urge'll be to grab the trigger. Fight the urge. Level your weapon. You're right-handed, so cock the gun with your left thumb to keep from disturbing your firing grip. Use both hands. Fight the flinch, William. It'll be there some. Don't ignore it. Fight it. Look down the barrel. Then squeeze. Pull the trigger straight back. Don't grab. You do it right and you'll hear the bang loud and the thump of lead hitting home. Stay with the sighting through the recoil. Level and fire again. Always fire at least twice and remember to squeeze every time you fire. I'm telling you all this slow, but you go over it, imagine it, do it on the firing range until you don't even think the words, and if the time comes, and God willing it won't, you'll do it right.”

The first shot staggered Frankie and his mouth dropped open. Hanrahan fired again. Frankie's fingers tightened on the twin triggers and Hanrahan stepped back into the dining room. Pellets went wild, spraying the living room, shattering photographs, windows, the television screen, lamps.

As he stepped back into the room, Hanrahan fired his third shot. It entered Frankie Kraylaw's face just above the mouth. Frankie fell back against the front door and slid to the floor, the shotgun clattering against and badly scratching an end table Maureen's parents had given them on their wedding day.

Hanrahan knew the young man before him was dead, but he had too much from his father and had seen too much in his life as a police officer to take any chances. He fired once more. The bullet entered just above the stomach.

Frankie's body jerked once and then was perfectly still.

“He's coming,” Carol cried.

This time Velma was in the room almost instantly, just as Carol was sitting up on her elbows, eyes wide, looking toward the dark corner of the room and the partly open door of the bathroom.

“Nobody's coming,” Velma said softly, comforting, easing Carol back down, touching her perspiring head.

“David,” Carol whispered, resisting the strong, thin hands that urged her back.

L
IEBERMAN JUST MISSED RUSH
hour, which allowed him, in spite of the winter treachery of the Tri-State Tollway, to get to La Grange in about an hour. He hadn't made the trip in at least a year. No reason to go before now. This time he had barely noticed as he drove past the old Polish church, downtown with the odd illuminated windows of the Sears Tower, miles of factories south of the Loop, the old and new Comiskey Park.

He listened to the news until they reported nothing he didn't already know about the death of his nephew and the condition of his nephew's wife. When a fast-talking reporter came on with basketball news, Abe switched stations. He had no quarrel with the Bulls or the Bears, but the Cubs were his love, had always been. Somewhere deep in a drawer lay a baseball signed by both Hank Sauer and Frankie Baumholtz. He had autographs of Roy Smalley, Ernie Banks, Andre Dawson, Ron Cey, and Bill Nicholson on programs tucked into one of the cardboard boxes in the basement. But Lieberman was not wedded to the past. He loved the present Cubs as much as he had loved those of the past. He didn't even mind that, regardless of a constant parade of talent, they inevitably faded and failed in the closing stretches of each season. Whoever donned the uniform fell under the Cubs curse, to be talented and loved and fail to win. It reminded Abe of one of Todd's Greek tragedies, but he couldn't remember which one. Maybe all of them.

David had gone to some of the Cubs' games with Lieberman when David was a kid. Maish could take or leave baseball, Lisa fought against joining Abe after the first time he had coaxed her into going. He had even bought his daughter a blue satin jacket with
CUBS
emblazoned on the back. But his nephew David, a short, pudgy kid with a serious round face, had loved to go. He watched each game with a scorecard in hand, keeping careful track of each pitch and accepting hot dogs, cotton candy, peanuts, and Pepsi handed to him by his uncle.

Abe had taken his nephew only half a dozen times, had bought him both a jacket and a cap. Now he wished he had taken him more often. He also wished he could remember the face of his nephew as a grown man, but he couldn't. All he could imagine was the round face of the little boy turning to him in slow motion with a smile when Wayne Terwilliger or Ron Santo drove in a run.

For the last ten miles or so before he hit the Ogden Avenue exit and went east toward the hospital, Lieberman listened to WJJD and sang along with the oldies, the real oldies. Bess had told him repeatedly that he had a good voice, but Abe had no illusions and so he sang along respectfully with Peggy Lee, Rosemary Clooney, Bing Crosby, Teresa Brewer, Tex Beneke. He sang, remembering most of the words, “Again,” “Moonlight and Roses,” “Till the End of Time,” “This Old House,” and “Rose, Rose I Love You.”

When he pulled into the hospital parking lot, Lieberman was reasonably calm. He hadn't eaten at the temple reception, but he wasn't hungry. He hadn't allowed himself to dwell on what had happened, at least not until this ride to confront the man who may have killed his nephew. He had done his best to think of this as a standard investigation, not one involving the murder of the pudgy child of his only brother. He had done his best, but it hadn't been enough.

The hospital was small, and Lieberman had no trouble finding the right floor. And he had no trouble finding Fu—the hospital was not teeming with Oriental men. Fu was seated in front of the door to George DuPelee's room, which the duty nurse had pointed out after Lieberman had properly identified himself.

Fu, who looked tired, turned off his Tetris game, put it in his pocket, got out of the chair, and stood with his hands at his sides as Lieberman approached.

Lieberman introduced himself, holding out his hand.

Fu took it and said, “I think it's your guy. Fur hat mentioned in the bulletin has the initials D.E.L. sewn in.”

“David Eugene Lieberman.”

“Weapon we … He a relative?” asked Fu, pausing.

“Nephew.”

“Sorry.”

“The weapon,” Lieberman prompted.

“A thirty-eight Smith and Wesson Terrier. It was in his pocket. State troopers have it,” Fu went on. “Should match the gun that killed the victim and shot the wife.”

“Different weapons,” said Lieberman. “Wife was shot with a thirty-eight. David was shot with a forty-five.”

The smell of the hospital corridor taunted his empty stomach.

“That a fact?” said Fu. “I'll have our people check the bullets we took out of DuPelee. Maybe we'll get a forty-five match there.”

“Wouldn't surprise me,” said Lieberman.

“Guy in there should be dead,” said Fu, shaking his head. “Shot twice in the back, missed the spine, vital organs, unless you think the gall bladder is a vital organ. I don't even know what the hell it does.”

Lieberman knew, knew what every organ was responsible for and capable of. In the last decade, each one of Lieberman's organs had demanded attention.

“Well,” Fu went on when Lieberman didn't speak. “Short on blood. Son-of-a-bitch walked maybe two miles bleeding inside and out. He's lucky it was so cold. Blood froze.”

“He can talk?” asked Lieberman.

“Doctor says if he's up to it, he can talk.”

“Let's try.”

Fu pushed open the door. The room was dark except for a night-light over the bed where George DuPelee lay on his side with his eyes closed. The two detectives moved closer to the bed.

Fu whispered, “George, open up. You've got a visitor.”

The patient tried to turn away from the voice. Pain surged through him and he groaned, opening his eyes.

“Hurts like a goddamn. You know what I mean?” George said thickly. “Like a goddamn. Who you?”

“Sergeant Fu and Detective Lieberman,” said Fu.

“Water,” George said, licking his lips.

“I'll ask the nurse when we go,” said Fu. “Detective Lieberman has a few questions for you.”

And so, standing at the bedside of George DuPelee, Lieberman spoke as Fu took out a Sony pocket recorder and turned it on.

LIEBERMAN
: Your name.

GEORGE
: George Anthony DuPelee.

LIEBERMAN
: Where were you born?

GEORGE
: La Brea, Trinidad.

LIEBERMAN:
How old are you?

GEORGE:
Twenty-seven.

LIEBERMAN:
Do you know why we're talking to you?

GEORGE
: Man, he shot me. You want to find him.

LIEBERMAN
: Yes.

GEORGE
: I never seen him. He give me a lift, shot me.

All I know, man. Could use some water now.

LIEBERMAN
: What did he look like?

GEORGE
: Young, white, skinny, jumpy.

LIEBERMAN
: He didn't take your money.

GEORGE
: I think it was one of those, you know, race things, hate crime, you know? This guy he call me names, everything.

LIEBERMAN
: Where did you get the money?

GEORGE
: Worked, all cash. Jobs here, there. Shining shoes, busboy, like that, you know?

LIEBERMAN
: The hat.

George: Hat?

LIEBERMAN
: The one you were wearing. Where did you get it?

GEORGE
: Hat? Let me think. I'm hurtin' now, you know, my memory? Hat. I remember. Someone give it to me this mornin'. Yes, big fella like me. Said he jus' got it but it didn't fit. Nice guy.

LIEBERMAN
: A woman named Carol Lieberman was shot this morning. So was her husband. The husband died. She didn't. I'm going to take your picture and show it to her. What do you think she'll say?