"I beg your pardon," said Lieberman. "I'm not asking you to confess to murder, George. I'm just asking you to stand in a lineup. You've done it before. Lots of times."
"When you want to do it?"
"Now's not bad. Maybe an hour or so from now so I can call our witness," said Lieberman.
"I never met this guy Rozier," George said. "Honest to God. Hand to my heart."
"Rozier? Who said the husband's name is Rozier?"
"Come on, Liebowitz-"
"Lieberman."
"Come on, Lieberman," George said wearily. "You ask me do I know a guy named Rozier. Then you tell me there's a dead woman and her husband talked to a handyman who maybe looked a little like me."
"Seems logical," Lieberman said, pursing his lips. "Shall we proceed to the lineup?"
"I gotta tell Ma," George said.
Cool rainy spring morning. George Patniks was sweating. Lieberman decided to make him sweat a little more.
"Good," he said, opening the door. "We can take a few minutes and look at some of your paintings."
"You've got no warrant," said George as Lieberman got out.
"Patrons of the arts don't need warrants, George. They get invited in by starving middle-aged painters. You got something in your room you don't want me to see?"
"No," said George with mustered indignity.
"A quick look," Lieberman said softly, getting out of the car. "What can it hurt?"
"Nothing," said George, letting himself be guided back to the house by the policeman.
They went back into the house to the cry of Wanda Skutnik calling, 'Take the shoes off or wipe the feet good."
Both George and Abe Lieberman wiped their feet on the little runner in the hall.
"Gonna show Mr. Lieberman some of my work. Then we got to go out for awhile."
Wanda turned to watch the two men as they headed for the door beyond which was the stairway leading to George's room.
"What have you done this time, Gregor?"
"Nothing, Ma. Nothing. Watch your show."
"Montel has a stupid show today," she answered. "Policeman, what did my son do this time? Who did he rob?"
"I'll have him back in less than three hours," answered Lieberman, following George through the door.
"That's an answer to my question?" she shouted. 'Trapped in my own house. No one tells me anything. Are you hungry? You want some roast beef and potato salad?"
Lieberman followed Patniks down the narrow wooden steps.
George's room was a mess. Paints and paintings, palettes and newspapers, an unmade bed, piles of magazines. Lieberman wondered what George had been moving when he heard him through the floor less than ten minutes earlier.
"Nice work," said Lieberman, holding up a painting of a woman behind what looked like the counter of an all-night diner. The woman looked sad. There were no customers for whatever she was selling.
"Thanks," George said.
"What are you working on now? Don't artists have easels, something?"
"I'm not working on anything now."
"Then how'd you get covered with paint?"
"Mixing, looking for colors," explained George weakly. "I'm in the sketch stage. Pencil. Here, I'll show you."
George found a pad and opened it, flapping through pages of dark men and darker shadows.
"Illuminating," said Lieberman.
"Thanks," said George. "Can we go now?"
Lieberman looked around the room and nodded. Above them the television cackled.
"Let's go out the back," George said.
On the way across town to the station, Lieberman called Harvey Rozier and asked him to come to the station, said it was definitely important, that he had a possible line on the so-called handyman.
"Ken and I will be right there, and Lieberman, I think it only right that I tell you I've issued an official protest about the conduct of your partner who came to my house last night and treated me as if I were the prime suspect in my wife's murder."
"He is willful," said Lieberman.
"Is that sarcasm, Officer?" the quivering voice of Ken Franklin said, obviously from an extension.
"The truth," said Lieberman. "I'll see you at the station in an hour. Mr. Rozier knows the way."
When he hung up, Lieberman turned to George Patniks. There was no doubt that the man at his side was perspiring like a kid with a bad case of pneumonia. ›. _ Ken Franklin turned to Harvey Rozier and said, "They're more than a bit high-handed, these policemen, but they do seem to be giving full attention to the case. Are you all right, Harv?"
Harvey Rozier stood pale and sweating in his University of Illinois T-shirt and snorts, a towel around his neck. He had just finished forty minutes at 5.0 on the treadmill in the basement and now he stood in his office study wondering if there were some way he could get out of this. He had no choice but to agree immediately to Lieberman's request that he come and identify the man they had found. In all likelihood it wouldn't be Patniks. He had decided to wait till the immediate furor over Dana's death had faded before he located and contacted Patniks. But now this. And what about the mistakes he had made? Harvey Rozier had been confident that he could carry this off, but he had never murdered anyone before and he certainly couldn't have anticipated that a burglar would be a witness to the crime.
The ipecac, the ipecac-that was the mistake. He should have said Dana kept it around because she had a fear of food poisoning. Perhaps he could remember this casually, even refer to some time when she got sick and they were nowhere near a doctor. Nassau last year.
"Harv?" Ken Franklin said with concern, moving to the younger man. "Are you all right?"
"Under the circumstances, fine," said Rozier, giving his lawyer the faint smile of the victim who is doing his best to bear up under his grief.
Franklin smiled sympathetically and said, "You'd better take a shower and get dressed."
Rozier nodded and left the room.
There was something else he had not considered in this. He had a nearly perfect alibi, and he had told no one of his plan for murder, but what he hadn't counted on was the police coming up with the idea that he might have hired someone to murder Dana. He wasn't sure that this was their line of reasoning, but it made more than a little sense.
He stripped in the bathroom, leaving his clothes on the floor for the housekeeper to pick up. He wondered for an instant how Dana paid the woman. He would have to ask.
Harvey ran the water as hot as he could tolerate and it pelted him into thought and revived his confidence. Ken would stick by him, as would Betty, who, given her age, was in great condition and much better in bed than he would have imagined when he started to move on her almost six months ago.
Confidence, he told himself. There's no way they can get you on this, no way. Give you a hard time? Yes. But that would be it, and Ken, providing his health held up, would stand in front of Harv and take the worst of it.
Harvey had purposely not varied his work routine in any way before the murder. Even though he knew he would not be coming in for weeks, he had made appointments, set up meetings, made promises. This morning he had called Alan Gibson and told him to carry on as best he could and Alan had dutifully told him not to worry.
He had left to Betty the job of contacting Dana's relatives and booking them into the Hyatt. Betty had told them that Harvey was too distraught to see anyone yet.
Ten minutes after he stepped into the shower Harvey was dressed and downstairs. Ken was standing in the front hallway waiting, a newspaper in his hand.
"You haven't looked at the newspapers, have you?" Franklin asked.
"You asked me not to." 'Television?"
"Not the news."
"Good. The invasion of privacy will go on for a week or two and start to fade. No reason for you to be reminded of…"
"Thanks, Ken. I don't know what I'd do without you and Betty."
"We'll take my car," Ken said. "It's in the driveway."
Harvey nodded gratefully.
The crowd of curious observers was gone and the murder of Dana Rozier, while not forgotten by the press, was yesterday's news, particularly since it was clear that Harvey Rozier would not respond to questions.
Harvey climbed into Franklin's Lincoln Town Car, closed the door, and tried to think of how he should handle the situation if, by some stroke of luck or Harvey's error, they had found Patniks.
Confrontations
Hanrahan was late. When Lieberman called him and told him to get to the station, Bill Hanrahan had just finished shaving and putting on his clothes. His tie was still open, but that could wait till he got to the front door.
He had pulled in the Tribune, read the Rozier story at the top of page two, and found that Captain Kearney had been quoted to the effect that there were several good leads, that the crime was one of the most wanton and savage he had ever worked on, and that Harvey Rozier was bearing up remarkably well.
Hanrahan was on his second cup of coffee. He had eight more in the coffee maker. He hadn't bought a new, smaller machine when Maureen left him, and it was automatic with him to grind the beans and fill the machine with ten cups. He'd reheat it in the microwave when he got home at night and dump what was left when he went to bed. Caffeine didn't keep Hanrahan awake at nights. Sometimes his shattered knees ached and the need for the prescription pills that eased the pain woke him in a cold sweat, but usually it was thoughts, thoughts of Maureen, Iris, the boys. He fought the rage and bitterness and the lure of the bottle, and each day he won, but it took a lot out of him. And he needed coffee.
Someone knocked at the front door. Hanrahan put down the newspaper and, cup of coffee in hand, went to the door, opened it, and found himself looking at three Oriental men. All were dressed in dark suits. The one in the middle looked like one of those dogs with the wrinkled faces. The ancient man wore thick glasses and carried a cane, simple, bamboo.
"Mr. Hanrahan," the old man said. "May I have but a brief word with you?"
Hanrahan looked at the two younger men. They looked fit and smart, probably knew some martial arts crap that looked good in the movies. No, he decided quickly, they had too much class for that, and besides, the bigger one to the old man's left was definitely carrying a weapon under his jacket. He didn't need martial arts.
"I've only got a few minutes," Hanrahan said, stepping back to let them in.
"That is all we shall take," said the old man, nodding as he and the other two stepped into Hanrahan's living room.
Hanrahan closed the door as the old man looked around the room.
"Modest and clean," the old man said with approval.
"Glad you like it," said Hanrahan. "Coffee's in the kitchen. We can sit."
"You know who I am?" asked the old man, following Hanrahan to the kitchen.
"Wouldn't take much of a detective to figure it out," Hanrahan said, holding the door open so the trio could enter the kitchen.
Hanrahan motioned the men to the table. Laio Woo closed his eyes and nodded at the other two men to sit. They did and so did he.
"Do you take anything in your coffee?"
"Black for all of us," said Woo, placing his cane on the kitchen table.
"I could get you tea," said Hanrahan.
"I do not care for tea," said Woo.
All very polite so far, thought Hanrahan, serving his visitors coffee and sitting down in the chair left open for him. Hanrahan put his coffee cup down and neatly folded the newspaper.
"You are a fastidious housekeeper," said Woo. "That is admirable."
"As I said, I'm glad you approve," said Hanrahan, checking his watch.
The four men drank for a minute or more without speaking and then Woo placed his cup on the table, folded his hands, and looked at Hanrahan.
"You know why I am here," he said.
'To keep me from marrying Iris Chen," Hanrahan said.
"Mr. Chen, Iris's father, informs me that in spite of my associate's call to you, you have pressed your suit with Miss Chen and asked that she marry you."
"That I did," said Hanrahan, a phrase his father used frequently.
Maybe the formality of his guest moved Bill Hanrahan to the Irish formality of his father. He could clearly hear the accepted voice of County Kildare, and it rested inside him like a Cheshire cat, a silent voice with no face.
"Please understand," said Woo, leaning forward. "Miss Chen would be ostracized from her community. Her father would be shamed. You are Caucasian, divorced, an alcoholic. Am I being too blunt?"
"It cuts through the bullshit," said Hanrahan with a smile.
"Yes," said Woo pensively.
"Is that it?" Hanrahan said, looking at all three men and standing up. "I've got to get to work."
His eyes met the old man's and held.
"This marriage might be good for you. Iris Chen is a good woman, but it would not be good for her. What she would gain from you could not possibly compensate for what she would lose. You do not look like a selfish man. If you would, please tell me with honesty if you believe me wrong."
"Oh, Lord," Hanrahan said with a sigh. "No, much as I'd dearly like to throw the three of you out and break your cane over my knee, you're right. I'll do some more thinking about it."
"You have been a lonely man," said Woo. "Do not sacrifice Iris Chen to your fear of being alone. I say this because I know what it is like to be alone." ox "I appreciate that," said Hanrahan.
Woo, with the help of his cane, stood up, and the other two men joined him.
"You have a look of failed expectation," said Woo, facing Hanrahan. "Did you expect me to threaten you, try to bribe you?"
"Maybe."
"Would that have had any effect?"
"No," said Hanrahan. "You handled it just right."
Woo extended his hand and Bill Hanrahan took it. It was a hand of wrinkled skin and thin bones. The policeman was careful with it.
"You need not show us out," said Woo, heading for the kitchen door with his men.
"But I wish to," said Hanrahan, leading the way.
The three visitors made a move with their heads that might have been a bow and left without a word.
"Quite a show," Hanrahan said aloud when the door was shut behind them.
A lot of polite reason, he thought, and a hidden weapon or two. Hanrahan wasn't afraid-he had carried around a bit of a death wish since Maureen left him-but he was troubled by the visit.
Not for the first time, Bill Hanrahan realized that Laio Woo was probably dead right, that the old man had said no more than Hanrahan had thought himself.
He rinsed the cups and saucers, put them in the dishwasher, and hurried for the door. He was more than a little late.
By the time Hanrahan got to the Clark Street Station, the lineup was almost over. The small room with the one-way mirror was crowded. Lieberman, Captain Kearney, Harvey Rozier, Kenneth Franklin, and a young female lawyer from the state attorney's office. Hanrahan couldn't remember her name.
No one looked at Hanrahan. Their eyes were fixed beyond the mirror on the small platform where four men stood. Two of the men were cops. One man was a local derelict named Mi/e. The detectives gave Mize three bucks for every lineup he stood. The last man, second from the left, was the real suspect, George Patniks. Hanrahan had never seen Patniks before, but he knew a frightened man when he saw one.
Bill Hanrahan leaned against the back wall and folded his arms. Lieberman sat next to Rozier and said nothing. In the room beyond, the eyes of George Patniks were fixed on the plate of glass through which he could not see. He was breathing deeply and trying not to show his anxiety, but he was doing one hell of a lousy job.
"Seen enough?" Lieberman asked softly.
"Yes," said Rozier.
"Don't want any of them to step out, turn around, speak again?"
"Not necessary," said Rozier.
Lieberman nodded and knocked twice on the window. Nestor Briggs ushered the four men in the lineup out to the right. Hanrahan switched on the light.
Kenneth Franklin turned to face him with a look of open contempt.
"I would ask that this officer not be present," Franklin said. "My client has already issued an official complaint of harassment against him."
Rozier turned to meet Hanrahan's eyes.
"Sorry, Mr. Franklin, Detective Hanrahan is an investigating officer on this case," said Captain Alan Kearney. "I will be talking to him later in the day concerning your complaint."
Kearney, at forty-one, was the youngest captain hi the Chicago Police Department. Until a year ago he had a promising career and the near certainty of becoming the youngest police chief in Chicago history. But a bombshell had hit-a cop had gone mad, barricaded himself in a high-rise room, raised hell, and accused Kearney of seducing his wife. The cop on the roof had died and Alan Kearney's ambition had died with him.
Kearney was dark and ruggedly good looking, but fading, a dangerous man who no longer had anything to lose by being honest.
"I think I'll have to insist, Captain," Franklin said.
"And I think I'll have to ask you to back off," said Kearney. "The point of all this is to find the person or persons who murdered Mrs. Rozier, not to get sidetracked by fragile personalities."
"Ken," said Rozier, touching Franklin's arm. "He's right"
Kearney nodded at Lieberman, who said, "Did you recognize any of those men, Mr. Rozier?"
"No," said Rozier with a shake of his head.
"You're sure none of them was the man who came to your door looking for handyman work?" Lieberman went on.
"Positive," said Rozier.
"Harvey, as I believe I told you, has a phenomenal memory for faces," said Franklin.
"Well, then," said Kearney, getting out of his chair, "we'll just have to keep trying."
"We would appreciate that," said Franklin.
"Bill, Abe, in my office. Thank you for coming, gentlemen. We'll keep you informed."
"Thank you," said Rozier.
Kearney left the observation room.
"You know the way out?" asked Lieberman.
"We'll find our way," said Franklin.
"Sergeant," Rozier interrupted, "thanks for trying. If you need me again, I'll be available. Any time, day or night. You're both doing your jobs. Please appreciate mat I'm not myself."
Lieberman's thief al-4 Page 12
