"Suit yourself," Lieberman said, rising from the chair. "Mrs. Franklin, could you accompany me to the station for a few questions?"
A definite gasp escaped from Betty Franklin.
"Hold it," said Rozier, stepping in front of Lieberman angrily. "She's not leaving here or answering any questions till I talk to Ken. Are you crazy, Lieberman?"
"I'm the cop you requested, remember?" Lieberman said. "I think we should get some answers, give them to Hanrahan and Kearney, and show them that you couldn't possibly be involved."
"It's horrible," Betty Franklin said with a shudder.
"Horrible," Lieberman agreed with a sympathetic sigh.
"A man's wife is murdered, and he is immediately suspected," Rozier said. "Is that the way it's done?"
"Usually," said Lieberman. "Or when the husband dies, the wife is suspected. It's stupid, simpleminded, shows a lack of imagination on the part of the police, but you'd be amazed at how often it turns out to be true. Not this time, of course. You've been cooperative, helpful. I told the captain, but-"
"Detective, please stop babbling and ask your questions," Betty Franklin said, her voice low, just within control.
"I really don't think-" Rozier began.
"You were sitting next to Mr. Rozier all through the concert?" Lieberman asked, stepping between Rozier and Betty Franklin.
"I could see him the entire time," she said, looking at Rozier, who stood with his fists clenched.
"That wasn't my question," said Lieberman. "Were you sitting next to him?"
"We had seats together. Dana, Harvey, Ken, and I," she went on. "And… because Dana had been ill, Harvey insisted on sitting in the back, where he could step out and phone her, check on her. You know?"
"And you spent the entire concert looking… how many rows back?"
"I don't know. Eight, ten," she said.
"You spent the entire concert with your head turned, looking at Mr. Rozier?"
"Not the entire concert," she admitted. "But frequently. We, Ken and I, were concerned."
She was working hard at not meeting Rozier's eyes now.
"Enough, Lieberman," Rozier said behind him, but Lieberman went on.
"Are the lights on during the concert?" he asked.
"On stage, yes. The room is not completely dark, but the lights are down."
"My partner is there right now," Lieberman lied, just as he had lied about his mother in the bath. "He's having them turn the lights down to concert level and someone is going to sit in the seat where Mr. Rozier was sitting and my partner is going to sit where you and Mr. Franklin were sitting. What do you think he'll see?"
"I… I," she stammered.
"Lieberman, I was at the concert, goddamn it. I remember everything about the performance, every nuance, every slip. I'll never forget a second of it. It's a nightmare I'll always have. I should have been home with Dana. I should-"
Lieberman turned completely around now to face Rozier as Betty Franklin rose to take Harvey's hand. Harvey Rozier's eyes met those of Abe Lieberman and Harvey could see that the detective was no longer buying any of this or trying hard to pretend that he did.
"My partner's a suspicious man," said Lieberman. "He's seen just about everything. You own a tape recorder, a small one you can carry around?" 'Tape recorder?" asked Rozier,
"A little one," said Lieberman, showing an approximate size with his hands.
"Everyone owns a tape recorder," said Rozier. "What are you trying to say?"
"Me?" Lieberman pointed to himself and looked at Mrs. Franklin. "Nothing. Bill thinks you could have taped the concert, listened to it later. Crazy idea. I said it was crazy. I said if you wanted to kill your wife, you'd hire someone to do it. But Bill, Bill says you wouldn't trust anyone, wouldn't put your life in anyone else's hands. I'm afraid my partner has as low opinion of you as you do of him."
"Get out, Lieberman," said Rozier. "Now."
"I'm going to have to insist that Mrs. Franklin come down to the station and sign a statement swearing that you were not out of her sight for more than twenty minutes. Simple as that and I'm out of your life. I'm telling you, Mr. Rozier, Captain Kearney won't let it go till she does."
"Lieberman, why the hell would I want to kill Dana?"
"Mrs. Franklin," Lieberman answered and let a beat fall before he went on. "Think before you answer. Was there a time of more than twenty minutes during which you could not swear Harvey Rozier was in that room? I'll be asking your husband the same question."
Rozier put his arm around Betty Franklin's shoulder.
"I don't know," she said with a sob. "I don't know. But Harvey didn't kill Dana, and he didn't have anyone paid to kill Dana. He wouldn't, couldn't…"
"Because he loved her," said Lieberman.
"He couldn't," she said, and Lieberman believed that she believed.
"I'm going to ask Kenneth Franklin to begin a suit against the Chicago Police Department, you and your partner, and the city of Chicago," Rozier said, pointing at Lieberman. "You've badgered me and my closest friends into a near breakdown."
"That's your right," said Lieberman, walking toward the front door.
"I will no longer talk to you or any member of the police department without my attorney present," Rozier went on, helping Betty Franklin into a chair. Lieberman left the Rozier house without another word He had found a possible motive but still lacked evidence.
There was a bed, a dresser, a table with two chairs, and an overstuffed chair in George Patniks's room. Hanrahan found the overstuffed chair surprisingly comfortable. He folded his hands on his lap and looked at George, who sat on the edge of the bed, without saying anything.
"What?" asked George.
Nothing from the cop.
"He didn't identify me," George said. "He couldn't. I didn't do anything."
"He?" said Hanrahan finally.
"Hey, I can read the newspaper, I can see the TV. The Ro/ier murder. The old cop asked me did I know Rozier. Two and two make four. He. Period. Simple."
Hanrahan nodded and looked around the room, stopping at the wrapped painting George had been going out the front door with.
"You're good," Hanrahan said. "Bit morbid for my taste, but you got control, style, good sense of color."
"You know something about painting?" George asked suspiciously.
"Ex-wife did some painting," explained Hanrahan. "I read some books, took an extension course through DePaul, tried to keep up with her." 'Tried?"
"She left me."
"Sorry."
"Happens to a lot of cops," Hanrahan said. "Your mother always keep the television that loud?"
"Always," said George.
"Must drive you crazy," said Hanrahan sympathetically.
"I get used to it Tell her to turn it down sometimes."
"I got a problem, George," Hanrahan said, looking around to be sure no one was about to leap out of a closet and hear the revelation. "Want to hear?"
"I guess."
"Got a woman I want to marry, but her people think I wouldn't be good for her. You want to know why?"
George shrugged.
"I have a reputation for sudden fits of violence," he said, shaking his head as if he had confessed to bearing a rare disease.
"Wait-" George said, getting up from the bed.
"You were going to skip town, break parole," said Hanrahan, still seated.
"I was going to check it out with my parole officer. I told you," George whined.
"Bag packed, painting wrapped up under your arm. Counting on an affirmative answer, weren't you?" said Hanrahan.
"I guess. She's been OK with it in the past for shows. I tell her how to reach me, check in."
Hanrahan was shaking his head no.
"What?"
"Rozier knows you, Pitty-Pitty. I was sitting behind that mirror watching his face. He knows you. The way my captain figures it, Harvey Rozier hired you to kill his wife."
"Never," George said indignantly, looking arou
nd the empty room for someone to believe him.
"Looks that way to the captain. I gotta see his point, you know?"
"I never hurt no one. My whole life."
"You got nailed for carrying," Hanrahan reminded him.
"I was a kid," George pleaded.
"Pitty-Pitty, I think I'm going to lose my temper. I can feel my Irish coming up on me," said Hanrahan, hearing his father's words, his father's voice.
"I swear on my mother upstairs," George said, hand to his heart. "I swear to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, to the Virgin Mary. I didn't kill that woman."
"I'm a Catholic, Pitty-Pitty," Hanrahan said so softly that George could barely hear him. "Don't he in the name of the Lord."
"I'm not lyin'. I…"
"And you'll swear in the name of the Holy Virgin that you don't know who killed Dana Rozier?"
George stood silent "I think you're gonna go down for it, Pitty-Pitty. I think old Harvey Rozier is going to decide one morning that he made a mistake, that he suddenly remembers you. Your word against his and your word's not worth a tinker's damn."
George walked to the wall near the window, put his palms to the cool brick, let his head drop, and then turned around.
"What's the charge for witnessing a murder and not reporting it right away?"
"Don't know. Could be lots of reasons for not reporting a crime right away. Fear. Say a man has a record. Police can be very generous with an honest witness, even if he is a little late."
"Walk freer' he asked.
"Could be arranged," said Hanrahan.
"I saw Rozier murder his wife. You protect me from him. I walk and I'll testify."
"Still your word against his, George."
"Let me show you somethin'," George said.
He moved to the wrapped painting and began to tear away the brown paper.
Tricks and Traps
"Doctor Berry," Detective Applegate said, and Jacob Berry looked up from the waiting room chair at the policeman.
The waiting room at Edgewater Hospital still smelled faintly of cigarettes, though it had been a smoke-free room for almost a full year. Coffee was brewing in a corner. Newspapers were neatly stacked on tables. There were two others in the post-op waiting room besides Jacob Berry and his brother, who sat next to him. There was a pretty young Hispanic woman sitting upright near the bank of windows, an open book in her lap, and an older woman in a pink volunteer's smock.
The older woman, who had almost pink hair, asked in a whisper if either of the two detectives wanted coffee or a sweet roll.
"No, thanks," said Acardo at Applegate's side.
The Berry brothers were almost twins-same height, weight, glasses-though Isaac Berry was a good ten years older, hair fuller, with definite gray in his sideburns and a tired look in his eyes. The detectives, in contrast, looked nothing alike. Applegate was tall, black, bespectacled, and wearing a neatly pressed navy blue suit with a perfectly matched red-and-blue striped tie. Acardo, his partner, was short, white, almost bald, and definitely disheveled. They were known on the streets and in the squad room as Black and White.
Jacob Berry recognized the white officer. Berry had given Acardo a physical about two months earlier. Acardo should have been a physical disaster. He overate the wrong foods, got no exercise, and was on the verge of a serious drinking problem. His vital signs, however, were fine. No high or low blood pressure, cholesterol well within reasonable bounds.
"Yes," said Jacob.
"We'd like a description from you of the man who got away," said Applegate. "Do you think you could help us?"
"I… about six one, dark, wearing a denim… no, a leather jack… I'm not sure. He had a scar. Here."
Jacob made a slashing motion down his forehead through his right eye.
"Dark scar. I'd say it was at least a year old, maybe more."
"Anything else?" Applegate asked politely.
"I think he was the leader," Jacob said.
"Officer Matthews," asked the other Dr. Berry. "Is he, do you know…?"
"Critical, but alive," said Applegate. "Bullet went through a rib and right lung, took a turn, and hit the spleen."
"I shot hun," Jacob said, looking from one policeman to the other.
"Jake," his brother said. "I don't think you should say any more."
"According to the paramedics, you also saved his life in the ambulance," said Acardo.
"Thank God," said Isaac Berry, patting his brother's hand.
"Sorry to do this, Doctor," Applegate said, "but we've got to read you your rights."
"Wait a minute…" Isaac Berry said, rising from the vinyl seat that whooshed as he left it "No," his brother countered.
"They would have killed my brother if he didn't have that gun," Isaac insisted.
"Officer Matthews disrupted the robbery, not Dr. Berry," said Applegate evenly. "We're not really here to argue the merits of the charges, just to deliver them."
Acardo droned off the Miranda while Isaac Berry did his best to look angry and the still-seated Jacob Berry looked through (he window over the shoulder of the pretty Hispanic woman.
"Possession and firing of an illegal weapon," Applegate said. "Assault with said weapon. Assault-"
"Wait," said Isaac. "Assault with a deadly weapon?"
"Charge has been brought by one Albert Davis, one of the three men who entered your brother's office this morning. He claims he was unarmed and Dr. Berry shot him. My guess is that Officer Matthews shot him, but we'll see when they finish getting the bullet out of Davis's leg."
"This is crazy," said Isaac Berry, raising his voice. "A man comes into my brother's officer to rob and maybe kill him. The man gets shot and he wants Jacob to… He can't do that."
"I'm afraid he can," said Applegate. "Was he unarmed, Dr. Berry?"
"Don't answer him, Jacob," Isaac said.
'The little one with the crazy face had the gun," said Jacob dully. "One of them, I can't remember which, had a… the heavy one-he had the knife."
"You sure?" asked Acardo.
"I'm sure."
"You're going to have to come to the station with us, Doc," said Acardo, looking at both doctors to be sure there would be no trouble.
"Fine," said Jacob, rising slowly with Applegate's help.
"Jake, don't say anything more, not a word. I'll have a lawyer at the station as fast as I can."
"I think we should go now, Doctor," Applegate said gently.
"This is illegal, a clear violation of my brother's rights," Isaac insisted.
"No, sir," said Applegate. "It may not seem fair to you, but it's perfectly legal."
"How would you know? Are you a lawyer?" Isaac said, stepping between the detectives and the exit to the waiting room.
"Yes, he is," said Acardo.
"DePaul University Law School, nineteen-eighty-four," said Applegate. "Now, I know you're distraught, but if you even touch one of us, you will be obstructing justice and we'll have to fill out a lot of papers and this could get very complicated."
"Isaac, please. It'll be all right," Jacob Berry said, touching his brother's arm.
"Oh, Jake, what'd I do? I talked you into coming to this goddamn city and now…"
"I'll be all right," Jacob said, moving toward the door with the two policemen. "The officer's not dead. He saved my life and I shot him. Can you imagine?"
Jacob's eyes met those of the pretty Hispanic woman. He thought she was, indeed, trying to imagine, and a look crossed her impassive face mat made it clear that her imagination matched his deed.
Applegate and Acardo flanked Jacob Berry and ushered him down the blue-carpeted corridor.
It was Applegate's opinion, shared only with his partner and based on almost fifteen years of experience, that Dr. Jacob Berry would be a bigger television news splash than the Dana Rozier murder. Public indignation, the fear of invading blacks, and the gun control flap would make Dr. Berry a hero or a martyr. The sagging man between him and Acardo would probably walk awa
y from all of this with a suspended sentence and a fine. The American Medical Association would probably issue a note of censure, but that wouldn't keep Berry from practicing. He'd have to leave the city, but Acardo doubted if at this point that meant very much to the young doctor. Applegate and Acardo had seen it before. Slightly different script, but same story. They could save a lot of time and taxpayers' dollars by packing Dr. Jacob Berry's things and putting him on the next train to Lordsburg. But that wasn't the way things worked.
"We're stopping for a coffee on the way back," said Acardo. "You want one?"
They stepped into the empty hospital elevator.
"I don't know," said Jacob, looking at Applegate. '1 don't know."
Lonny stood in the parking lot and looked at the entrance to the convenience store. An ad for Virginia Slims showing a lean, light-skinned black girl with the whitest teeth and the fullest lips in the world glared at him from the store's stone wall. Next to it was a sign that announced a dollar off on a six-pack of Coke.
Lonny didn't try to find shelter. He was soaked through and tired. He just stood behind a car and waited till there were no customers inside. Then he looked around to see if anyone was heading toward the store before he hurried across the lot and opened the door.
The whole day had been a bad dream. It was just continuing. Lonny Wayne did not carry guns. Lonny Wayne did not rob stores. Lonny Wayne didn't get drug dealers angry with him by stealing their wheels. Lonny Wayne just wanted a few dollars in his pocket, a car, and the girl he'd met last night in McDonald's. What was her name? He had it written down on a sheet in his wallet His ambitions were small. He wasn't even asking for the fox in the Virginia Slims ad.
Lonny grabbed something from a shelf, some Dolly Madison cupcakes. He brought them to the counter, where one of those people from India or somewhere stood waiting, watching Lonny drip on the floor.
"Anything else?" the thin, dark man said.
Lonny put the cupcakes on the counter and pulled his few dollars from his pocket. The man behind the counter, who had seen derelicts and addicts, robbers, and madmen and women in his four years in the store, was suspicious, but dozens with Lonny's vacant look came in every day. Money was money. The man opened the cash register to put in the two singles and give Lonny his change. Lonny saw bills hi the tray. He had to be sure that there was a chance at the three hundred before he pulled this.
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