Lieberman's thief al-4

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  "Bobby, one Coke, one coffee, no questions," said Lieberman.

  "You got it. Guess who we got up here?"

  "Maury Povich," said Lieberman, looking at Rozier.

  "Come on, get real, Abe," sighed Arango.

  "Wilma Rudolph."

  "Who's Wilma…?"

  "Who've you got, Officer Arango?"

  "Chuculo Fernandez," Bobby answered.

  "Charges?"

  "Ghost rider on a Clark Street bus wreck. He was with a new girl, Leona something. Seems he wanted to play rough after the event. Celebrate his good luck. She didn't want to."

  "And?"

  "They played rough," said Bobby. "She turned him in on the ghost scam when Fernandez put her in the hospital."

  "How badly is she hurt?" Lieberman asked, looking at Rozier, who was looking out the window at a rapidly graying day.

  "Not too bad. She'll live. Want to talk to Fernandez? He asked for you."

  "Later. Coffee and Coke, Bobby," Lieberman reminded and hung up.

  Chuculo Fernandez was a member of the Tentaculos, a Hispanic gang headed by a madman, Emiliano Del Sol, who had a decidedly uncharacteristic fondness for Lieberman. Chuculo was stupid and quick with his knife. The Tentaculos were Mexicans, Guatemalans, and Panamanians led by the almost legendary El Perro, Emiliano Del Sol. El Perro was reported to have killed more than one manalways men-for looking at or seeming to look at the scar on his cheek for too long.

  Even a turn-away judge like Mitgang would have trouble giving Fernandez less than two years plus, even with a crime like ghost riding.

  Ghost riders are a big-city phenomenon-New York, Chicago, L.A., Detroit. Nothing new. A man or a woman with a criminal heart happens to be lucky enough to be on the scene when a bus gets in a wreck or four or five cars pile up. Our criminal heart joins the jolted passengers and claims he or she was on the bus and is dying of internal injuries. Four lawyers with police band radios are usually on the spot as fast as the police are, picking up clients. Sometimes, if they get there before the police, the lawyer will even join the jolted and claim he or she was on the bus. A felony. Not a big one, but a felony.

  Lieberman turned to the computer and flipped a switch.

  They went through two tapes with about eighty faces on each. Three times Rozier paused at pictures, all somewhat similar, thin white males in their forties. Each time he paused, Rozier asked the name of the person in the picture. None of the names rang a bell.

  Bobby Arango came in with the drinks, gawked discreetly, and exited professionally.

  Rozier stopped at two more mug shots in the thick book that Lieberman then placed in front of him, asked their names, and said they were close but he was sure they weren't the one.

  It was a game now and it was over. The third picture on the videotape had been Gregor Eupatniaks, a.k.a. George Patniks, a.k.a. Pitty-Pitty Patniks. Rozier had asked for no more information than the name of the man who had seen him murder his wife.

  "I'm sorry," Rozier said an hour and another Coke and coffee later, when they closed the final book.

  "That's all right," said Lieberman. "They come in all the time. We'll keep checking. He may be new at this or new in town."

  Lieberman had made a note of each man Rozier had considered.

  "I think I'd like to go back home now," said Rozier, rising and rubbing his forehead.

  "Let's go, and thanks for your cooperation."

  "You're welcome."

  "We'll catch him, Mr. Rozier. I've got a feeling he made a lot of mistakes. You don't just break into a house, panic, murder, and run without leaving something."

  "I hope you're right," said Harvey Rozier. "I hope to God you're right."

  "I've got to make one quick stop upstairs before we go. Do you mind?"

  "I'll just stay here if it's all right," said Rozier. "I wouldn't mind being alone for a few minutes."

  Lieberman nodded, went into the narrow hall and up the flight of steps to the squad room. Everyone called it the squad room, though there were no squads. It was just what you called the room where the detectives had their desks, took their calls, got their assignments, and brought suspects, victims, and witnesses.

  Joe Wiznicki was at his desk, rubbing his mouth and pecking out a report on his computer. "Black and White," Applegate and Acardo, hovered over a skinny woman clutching her purse in her lap. Probably a victim. In the corner, near the windows that were designed never to open, sat a handcuffed Chuculo Fernandez, a thin, surly twenty-year-old with a long record of violence and the distinction of being one of the three craziest members of the Tentaculos.

  Ernest Cadwell was talking to Fernandez, who, slumped in his chair, hat Sinatra style over his brow, was doing his best to look bored. Cadwell, a huge black man with a patience Lieberman admired but couldn't understand, was calmly asking Fernandez questions in a combination of English and Spanish.

  "Viejo," Fernandez said, seeing Lieberman.

  "Muy lejos de su pais, Chuculo," said Lieberman.

  "Pues…"

  "Digame, que pasa? In English," said Lieberman.

  "There was this puta, you know?" Chuculo said, slowly sitting up and tilting his hat back on his head. "I pay her good. She say OK, Chico. We fuck. Then she call a cop and they pick me up in front of some bar a block away. That sound like someone running?"

  "You hit the woman, Fernandez."

  "A little, maybe," he shrugged.

  "Broken right cheek bone, lacerations around the eye requiring suturing, bruised ribs, and a nasty bite on her left ear," said Cadwell matter-of-factly.

  "Hey, Viejo, you remember how it is," Fernandez explained. "Passion. You get carried away."

  "She says you were ghost riding," said Lieberman.

  "Nunca," said Fernandez with indignation. "Never in my life."

  "Battery and ghost riding, Chuculo. You're in for a long day. Mucho gusto de verle a usted, otra vez, Fernandez," Lieberman said, turning his back.

  "Wait, hold it," said Fernandez, starting to get up. Cadwell reached over, grabbed the young man's shoulder, and calmly pushed him back down.

  "Viejo, you go see Emiliano," Fernandez said. "He'll make you a deal."

  "When I have some time," Lieberman said, walking away.

  When Lieberman got back to the library, Harvey Rozier, apparently lost in his nightmare, looked up at him.

  "We can go now. Sorry," said Lieberman.

  Rozier shook his head and smiled understandingly.

  They drove back to Rozier's house in silence. Not even the radio. The sky was sunless and gray, as it had been for days, and the rain was back, light but certain.

  Lieberman was sure of one thing. He didn't like Harvey Rozier. Maybe it was class envy or that Rozier reminded him of some almost-forgotten enemy in high school or the way Rozier looked as if he were struggling to contain his grief. Or maybe Lieberman was wrong. It wasn't necessarily a meaningful observation. Abe had known victims who deserved shooting and no sympathy and he had known and liked more than one murderer.

  Lieberman would do his job. And it looked like he would miss the Cubs, at least today. Hell, it would probably be rained out anyway.

  Houses

  The game wasn't rained out. There were two delays but they rushed it through between cloudbursts. The Pirates were up four to two in the top of the seventh when Lieberman and Hanrahan came in the door of the T and L Deli on Devon.

  On the radio, Harry Carey was exhorting the crowd.

  "Let me hear ya," he cried, and the crowd came back with "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."

  At their reserved front table, the only table in the T amp; L, three of the Alter Cocker regulars-Herschel Rosen, Syd Levan, and Howie Chen-kept singing along with Harry when the policemen entered. There was a fourth man at the table who wasn't singing, but he was smiling knowingly and nodding his head.

  Syd Levan, the youngest Cocker at sixty-eight, motioned to Lieberman and Hanrahan to stop at their table. They did and dutifully waited till "Roo
t, root, root for the Cubbies" let the patrons of the T amp; L, including two women at the counter and a couple with a small child in one of the red leatherette booths, know that the important part was coming.

  "For it's one, two, three strikes you're out at the old ball game," the three Cockers and the little boy in the booth belted out.

  Syd, always jaunty, a retired insurance salesman, in a yellow sweater, held up a hand to let Herschel introduce the new man. Hersch, who was seventy-one, was a retired jewelry salesman. He had been "Red" Rosen back in the late thirties when Marshall High School went on a hundredgame winning streak. There were people who still recognized the name, though the white hair held only a hint of red-orange. Hersch was the acknowledged leader of the Alter Cockers, the wit, the one with the most moxie and the biggest reputation.

  "Detectives Lieberman and Hanrahan," Herschel Rosen said somberly, "I want you to meet a new member of our table, Morris Becker. Morris was telling us just before you came in that he didn't know if he should be carrying a couple of ounces of heroin in his pocket. He's from Saint Louis, where they let old farts get away with anything."

  "No," Morris Becker cried, suddenly standing up and almost knocking over what looked like a glass of cherry seltzer.

  Becker was frail, thin, and, in spite of a green jacket and a matching beret, less than a monument to free spirithood.

  "No," Becker repeated, looking at Herschel Rosen with disbelief. "I never… As God is my witness. On the grave of my father, aleh vei sholom, I've never…"

  "Herschel's joking," said Howie Chen. "He's getting a distorted idea of humor since he's gone senile."

  Howie, the only non-Jew hi the Cockers, was also the oldest at eighty-two, though he looked two decades younger. Howie had owned the Blue Dragon Restaurant a block away, working fourteen to eighteen hours a day for more than thirty years. When he retired and left the restaurant to his grandson, he had been welcomed to the table. Outside of Herschel and Morrie Stoltzer, Howie spoke the best Yiddish of all the Cockers.

  "Abe, tell him," Howie said.

  "It's a joke, Mr. Becker," Lieberman said, holding out his hand.

  'Then you're not the police," Becker said, slowly putting out his right hand, half expecting it to be grasped and the cuffs snapped in place like on television.

  "We are the police," said Hanrahan, "but we know Mr. Rosen. You're being initiated."

  "Pleased to meet you," said Becker, shaking hands and sitting back down with a suspicious glance at Herschel.

  "Al and Morrie?" asked Lieberman.

  "The atheists are in traffic court," explained Howie Chen. "Al backed into Morrie in the parking lot and-"

  "No, no, no," Herschel groaned. "Morrie backed into Al."

  "It makes a difference?" Howie asked, looking to Lieberman for help.

  "It makes a major difference here," Herschel insisted. "What are you talkin'? In China it might not make a difference. Here it makes a difference."

  Howie Chen had never been in China. He was born in San Francisco. Herschel had come to the United States in 1931. It gave Howie about three years longer in America.

  "Anyway," Howie went on, "they face each other in traffic court this afternoon. We're waiting for the winner to come and crow."

  Al Bloombach and Morrie Stoltzer were best friends, had been for almost seventy years. They were also known as the atheist contingent of the Alter Cockers. And, in spite of their shared conviction that there was no deity, they fought over almost every other issue.

  The rear booth near the kitchen was free. The detectives moved to it and slid in facing each other. The little boy with his parents at the next booth had heard the two men introduced as policemen. He was standing on his seat and looking back at Lieberman, who opened his jacket to reveal his holster. The boy's eyes widened. Lieberman winked and turned his attention to Hanrahan, who had pulled out his notebook.

  There was a poster on the wall above the booth. The faded colors oozed with the call of a Vienna red hot drenched in mustard, onion, tomato, and relish. Lieberman tried not to look.

  Manuel, the cook, who normally stayed in the kitchen handling short orders, brought Abe and Bill cups of coffee.

  "Where's Maish?" asked Lieberman.

  "Your brother's walking," said Manuel, a lean black man in his late forties. Lieberman had put Manuel away on a series of car thefts in 1967. When he got out of prison, where he learned to cook, Lieberman introduced him to Maish, who hired him immediately. That was over twenty-two years ago.

  "He does that a lot these days," Manuel continued.

  Lieberman nodded.

  Maish's son, a rising television executive, had been gunned down in a senseless robbery two months ago. Maish, known throughout his sixty-five years as the deadpan Nothing Bothers Maish, had been badly shaken. Maish had given his life to his wife, Yetta, his son, and his deli. Now he took long walks to who knew where and showed little interest in the business.

  "How about a corned beef, slice of sweet onion on fresh rye, small chopped liver or kishke on the side?" Manuel recommended.

  Hanrahan nodded yes, and Lieberman said, "Just a bagel, toasted, with maybe a little jam, jelly, something."

  Manuel shrugged and went to take some cash from the two women at the counter who were standing near the cash register.

  "You feelin' OK, Rabbi?" Hanrahan asked.

  "Diet again, the new doctor. Cholesterol. Don't ask. You, you had your cholesterol checked?"

  "Yeah, last year. Levels are low. Doc chalked it up to heredity," Hanrahan said, scanning the pages of his notebook.

  There were Cubs on first and third with one out. Grace hit into a double play. The Cockers groaned and the little boy in the next booth turned to look at the crazy old men.

  "So, Father Murph," Lieberman said just before sipping his coffee, "what do we have?"

  "None of Rozier's neighbors remember a handyman coming to their door. None of them has hired a handyman in months. Checked three blocks square. Should have brought my raincoat."

  "So either our thief was checking out the Rozier place…" said Lieberman.

  "Or there was no thief," said Hanrahan, looking up. "I don't like our recent widower. His grief is fake."

  Lieberman nodded. Hanrahan was a world-class griever.

  "That doesn't make him a killer, Father Murph."

  The Cockers chattered. The family at the next table left. Harry Carey said there were two more chances for the Cubs, and a trio of truck drivers came in and sat at the counter.

  "Man can be happy his wife is dead, or at least not unhappy, and not be responsible for her death," said Lieberman. "And he has a hell of an alibi."

  "Could have hired somebody," Hanrahan countered.

  "Could have. Could also be telling the truth."

  "Could. You don't like him either, do you?"

  "No," Lieberman confessed, wondering if he could start his diet tomorrow. What could one day hurt? One last bash before the long starvation. Who ever died of a hot dog? But he knew he wouldn't do it. There was no tempering for Abe Lieberman, never had been. He could give it up, but he couldn't settle for just a little.

  "So?"

  "You take Harvey," Lieberman said. "Find out if he inherits from his wife, if he's been cheating on her, or if she's been cheating on him. Check the alibi. Be careful. Our Harvey is an important man."

  "I'll make it quick and quiet, call in a few favors," said Hanrahan as Manuel returned and placed a huge sandwich in front of him. The pickle on the plate shone green and new.

  "I'll go for the thief," said Lieberman, looking at the toasted bagel in front of him and the small carton of red jelly. "Rozier asked me the names of five perps in the mug books. Says none of them was the would-be handyman. For a man who claims to remember faces the way Charlton Heston remembers Shakespeare, his asking for the names strikes me as-"

  "Odd," said Hanrahan, opening his mouth to attempt to encompass the enormity of the sandwich in his hands.

  Lieberman t
ook a bite of his toasted bagel and stood up.

  "I'll call Evidence and the coroner," he said. "Enjoy your sandwich."

  The phone was through the door to the kitchen, right next to the men's room. He made his calls, took notes holding the receiver tucked under his chin, asked questions, and hung up. When he got back to the booth, the Cubs had miraculously tied the game, the truck drivers' mouths were stuffed, and the Alter Cockers were laughing. The new Cocker, Morris Becker, was doing something with his face that may have been smiling.

  Hanrahan had, thanks to God, finished his sandwich and pickle.

  "What do we have?" he asked.

  "Puzzles," said Lieberman.

  "I don't like puzzles," said Hanrahan, sucking at something in his teeth.

  "Doing the autopsy now," he said. "I talked to Reasoner. He said he'd wring my neck if I let anybody know before Brice told us officially, but it looks like Dana Rozier was killed by multiple stab wounds in her arms, legs, back, stomach, chest, and face. No sexual assault with or without the weapon."

  "So where's the puzzle?"

  "They found ipecac in her stomach," he said. "The stuff that makes you throw up fast."

  "I know. So, she accidentally ate something that she thought was-" Hanrahan began, but Lieberman was shaking his head.

  "Our friend Dr. Reasoner says it doesn't look like there was anything in her stomach, that she hadn't eaten for at least six to eight hours. Still preliminary, but…" Lieberman shrugged.

  "I'll see if there's any ipecac at the Rozier house," said Hanrahan, working on his coffee as the Pirates scored one in the top of the ninth to go back out ahead by a run. "What else?"

  "Remember the mark in the blood, rectangle, about six inches by a foot and a half?"

  "Yeah, looked like the blood had flowed around it."

  "Evidence said they didn't take anything from the room. Didn't move anything," said Lieberman.

  "Maybe," Hanrahan tried, "the killer put something down when he killed Mrs. Rozier. Then when he was done, he picked it up and ran."

  "Nope," said Lieberman, working on his now-cold bagel. "Whatever was there was a good seven or eight feet from the body. It took awhile for the blood to get to there."