Lieberman's Law (44 page)

“Don't you understand? You can't catch him by tracing the damn call. Get out of my way or so help me you lose any chance you got of my testifying. I don't testify. You don't become a judge. We understand each other?”

The phone continued to ring.

“We're putting it on a speaker phone and recording,” said Carbin. His face remained calm. He stepped out of the way. Carbin nodded to the towhead who pushed a button.

Mickey stopped.

“Hello,” he said, voice unsteady into the sudden silence of the room.

“We're having a nice talk with one of your relatives,” the voice said. “We hope you're not having nice talks with your friends.”

“I talk to Matthew or I talk to the state attorney,” said Mickey.

“Get off the speaker phone,” said the voice. “I hear the room echo. Now, or I hang up.”

Carbin nodded. The towhead turned off the speaker phone as Mickey picked up the regular receiver.

“Put my son on the phone,” said Gornitz. “That's it. Nothing else. No threats. Prove he's alive.”

There was a pause. Lieberman looked at Mickey, who slumped, rubbed his forehead, listened, and hung up.

“They cut him,” said Mickey.

Lieberman was out of his chair and at the side of the man who used to sit in the wooden bleachers a lifetime ago.

“He's hurt,” Mickey said as Lieberman led him back to the sofa. “And they're gonna hurt him more, a lot more.”

“Gornitz,” Carbin said. “This isn't easy, but it's history and common sense. They aren't going to let your boy live. And you don't stand a chance of getting to Stashall even if you get out of here, which you won't because my office plans to prosecute you even if you don't testify against Stashall. You've given us more than enough for that. You can't kill anyone from prison, and if you're not in witness protection, you can get yourself killed when you're a prisoner. It's not pretty, but we don't have a hell of a lot of time. We're going to do our best to find your son, but …”

“I'll work something out,” Mickey said to himself but aloud. “I've got to think this through.”

“You don't have any options,” said Carbin. “Think about it, but not too long. Did you recognize the caller?”

“No,” said Gornitz. “But I recognized my son.”

Mickey's head was down and he said with self-pity, “I don't even have a good picture of my own son. That bitch wouldn't send me one.”

“What did he say, Gornitz?”

“Matthew was scared. Real scared. He saw them kill his mother. They've told him things they're gonna do to him if I don't promise to shut up. They —”

“And how do they keep you quiet when they release your son?” Carbin said.

“They want me to kill myself,” he said.

“Then they'll kill your son, and you know it,” said Carbin.

“You're a son of a bitch, Carbin.” Mickey looked up, eyes moist.

“But I'm telling you the truth and you know it.”

“I've got to think.”

With that, Carbin motioned for Lieberman to follow him and nodded for the towhead to stay where he was. Out in the hallway with the door closed, Carbin strode away out of earshot of the plainclothesman pretending to read the paper, then he said softly to Lieberman, “Convince him.”

Carbin was definitely invading Lieberman's space. Their noses were inches apart.

“Of what?” asked Lieberman.

Carbin sighed and shook his head. “Lieberman, you going to be retiring soon?”

“Few years.”

“Pension, party, citation, the whole shmear?”

“You're threatening me?”

“Every cop has done something that can be looked at in his career,” said Carbin.
“Every
cop.”

God and Lieberman knew that Lieberman was no exception.

“Mickey's smart,” said Lieberman. “He's a crook, but he's smart. Let's give him some time to try to work something out.”

“Work something out,” Carbin said, turning his head. “For starts, talk him out of any thoughts he might have about jumping through a window or sticking his finger in an electrical outlet.”

Lieberman shrugged. He didn't really owe Mickey much but some nostalgia and a lot of ancient basketball games that seemed to matter a hell of a lot once but had been forgotten by almost everyone in what seemed like a short time. He would talk to Mickey. He would also do some thinking on his own about how to save Mickey's son.

“We'll pick up Stashall, talk to him,” said Carbin, “but it won't do us any good. I understand your partner was responsible for watching Gornitz's kid and ex-wife.”

“Yeah,” said Lieberman.

“Great job,” Carbin said dryly, turning his back on Lieberman and heading back to the hotel room.

Bill Hanrahan sat in his car in the parking lot of O'Hare Airport. No one had come to meet him when he arrived from Dayton. That suited him just fine. There would be questions, lots of questions, and he was supposed to head directly for the station where Kearney was waiting, probably with someone from the state attorney's office.

The run through broken glass and across the parking lot at the motel hadn't done his feet or knees any good. In fact, his right knee hurt, not enough to go to the doctor but enough to need ice, which he did not have. The cuts on the bottom of his feet made it painful to walk. He knew he was punishing himself with more than a touch of pain for blowing the job.

It was raining in Chicago. He could see it falling from his space on the sixth level of the parking garage. Simple. Turn the key, start the car, and get into the city where he would deservedly be torn apart.

Bill Hanrahan considered a number of stops. He could stop by the Black Moon restaurant and get some solace and a cup of coffee from Iris Chen who, as yet, didn't know what had happened. He could go see Whizzer, the priest at St. Bart's whose football career had been far longer and more illustrious than Hanrahan's and who would give it to you straight. He could stop at home and stall seeing if there were any messages, or he could fly off the wagon and get that drink he wanted, the one that would carry him through the morning and into the afternoon. He wasn't out of options there. He could call Gerald Resnewki and get Gerry or someone from AA to talk to him, see him.

They all seemed like good ideas. Hanrahan started the car, went down the winding ramp, drove into the rain, paid his toll being careful to pocket the receipt to be reimbursed sometime in the distant future.

Hanrahan thought as he drove down the expressway that it would be a needed consolation if his son Michael were still at the house. Michael was probably strong enough to talk to and Michael, too, was an alcoholic, but Michael was dry now and sober and back with his wife and kids after spending a month with his father, a month of drying out and reconciliation.

No, the house would be empty. Bill's best bet was his partner. He never knew what Lieberman would say, but it would usually make things look less bleak than they certainly seemed. Lieberman knew how to accept failure and was cautious about celebrating anything that resembled victory. “Hope for the best. Expect the worst.” Lieberman's motto number one or two. He got it from a Mel Brooks movie, but it made sense. Lieberman said he had also found it in the Bible.

Hanrahan pushed the button and listened to the Chicago oldies station. Buddy Holly and the Crickets were singing “Peggy Sue.” Where was he when that song was popular? Dating Maureen, being courted by Division One colleges. He pushed another button and listened to a grumpy talk show host. The words didn't matter. It was company.

When he took the off-ramp at Touhy, Hanrahan compromised by stopping at Big Eddie's for a pair of hot dogs with everything. Big Eddie's was a shack whose owner had been fighting condemnation for years. The ancient black man who had owned Big Eddie's for about half a century made the best dogs in the city, bar none. His name was Ben. No one knew who Big Eddie was or had been. The atmosphere left something to be desired for many customers, particularly first-timers, but regulars and semiregulars like Bill Hanrahan didn't mind the darkness and the three tables that required endless matchbooks underneath the legs to keep them close to level. People left you alone at Big Eddie's. Ben didn't even say hello. He was a surly son of a bitch, but the food was good and fast and hot and brought back memories of the old days and the Sanborn Drive-in not far from Chicago Vocational High where Bill had reigned before Dick Butkus. Hanrahan didn't dwell on the memory, but it was there. He could have stopped at Maish's T&L, but that would take too much time and he might have to answer questions. He would be answering enough questions soon.

It was almost noon when he pulled into the parking lot behind the Clark Street station. The rain had stopped but the sky rumbled with the threat of another torrent. Hanrahan would have welcomed it. It suited his mood. He made his way through the back door and up to the squad room. The place was busy. It was probably the rain. People got cooped up by the rain, got on each other's nerves, got into fights about what show to watch on television or whether the Yankees would beat out the White Sox or what someone actually said about some relative's cooking. Sometimes people got killed. Burglaries went down. Burglars, unless they were desperate for drug money, were like other people. When the weather was bad, they stayed home. Same for muggers. That was one of the reasons they became criminals. So they could stay out of the rain when they wanted to. At least most of them.

Hanrahan looked around for Lieberman. He wasn't there. A few faces lifted toward him. Detectives at their desks hovered over suspects or witnesses. He saw sympathy, but no one spoke. It could have happened to any of them and they knew it, but Hanrahan would take the drop for losing someone whose life he was supposed to protect.

He knocked at Captain Kearney's door.

At a desk behind him, he heard a young man's voice with a heavy Hispanic accent saying “I don' know, man. If the guys says it was me, he's crazy nuts. I didn't stab him. I don't know him. Swear on the holy mother, on my own mother. He's mistakin' me for some other guy. You know?”

“Come in,” Kearney called, and Hanrahan entered.

Kearney was behind his desk. The office was large, large enough for both a desk with two chairs in front of it, a small couch and a small conference table. Behind the conference table was a blackboard with a list in blue chalk of the cases that Kearney felt were top priority.

There were three narrow windows in the office. One was behind Kearney. The other two faced Clark Street. Kearney was just hanging up the phone. The lights were not turned on in the office in spite of the rain-threatening darkness. Not a good sign.

Kearney's handsome, worn face turned to Hanrahan.

Bill opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the captain, who said, “Put it in writing. I want it in an hour. Cover your ass. Make it long. Here's an address. Be there by two whether you finish the report or not. It looks like we can take the guy who's been running the paving scam.”

Hanrahan stood at the door and Kearney looked at the window. His job was a reasonably high-ranking one and it kept him busy, but those who knew him also saw the occasional distant look at what might have been. The spark of ambition wouldn't die completely.

Kearney brought Hanrahan up to date on the Gornitz business, including the phone call and the pressure from Carbin and the state attorney's office. Kearney didn't ask what had happened, didn't complain about how Hanrahan's failure would reflect on both of them. Kearney was remembering the accusations that had sat him permanently at the Clark Street station.

Hanrahan's mother would have said “He needs a nice Irish girl.”

Maybe she would have been right, but for now, it looked as if Kearney's history would dampen his criticism of his detective.

“I'll go write the report,” Hanrahan said.

“Remember, make it long and boring. If it's long and boring enough, Carbin will probably stop reading it by the middle of the first page.”

Hanrahan nodded and went back into the squad room, where three detectives were holding down the young Hispanic who had claimed to be innocent of stabbing someone. The young man was shouting in Spanish. Some of the detectives at other desks ignored the battle and went on working. A few paused and waited for the battle to end and the young man to be dragged off screaming for a public defender.

Hanrahan had escaped. Kearney was going to protect him. It wasn't because they were both Irish. The Chicago police department still had more Irish than any other ethnic group. Kearney and Hanrahan shared failure.

Hanrahan went to his desk and worked on his report wondering where Lieberman was.

He could sure use a dose of Abe Lieberman.

“I don't know,” said the old man holding an umbrella over his head though there had been a pause in the rain. He wore an oversized gray sweater and a look of uncertainty as he looked down at the driveway.

“Look at the cracks,” the big man at his side said.

The big man had introduced himself as Mike. He looked a lot like the guy on television and in the movies John Goodman, but Mike was deadly serious and he wore serious gray overalls and a matching gray baseball hat and tucked under his arm was a clipboard with a black plastic cover. Behind him in the driveway stood Mike's white van.

“I don't know,” said the old man.

“I'm tellin' you,” said Mike. “Not just the cracks. See the gravel leaking from under the drive into the street there?”

“Yeah,” said the old man, rubbing his chin.

The street was wet with puddles and streamlets gliding toward the sewer.

“Two thousand'll save this driveway, Gerald,” Mike said.

Mike had started calling the old man Gerald from the start and had urged the old man to call him Mike.