Lieberman's Folly (10 page)

Lieberman found 4851 wedged between a hot dog shop which smelled of yesterday's onions and a used book store featuring books in foreign languages. Dupree's name was marked in pencil on the mailboxes just inside the door. The five others who had apartments over the stores had written their names in everything from crude capitals in crayon to flowing Arabic script.

Lieberman rang the bell. He thought he heard the distant sound of ringing. Nothing. He rang again and then heard a door open and someone pad out of an apartment and down the stairs. Lieberman walked to the inner door and looked through the dirty glass. A lean man in a gray and black robe and bare feet appeared on the steps and said, “What?”

“Francis Dupree?”

“So?”

Lieberman showed his badge.

“Come in,” said Dupree. “The damn door doesn't lock.”

Lieberman went in and followed Dupree back up the stairs. Dupree moved slowly, coughing once, and entered the open door of an apartment on the first floor. Lieberman followed him. Dupree closed the door behind them, bolted and chained it.

“What you think?” asked Dupree, looking around his room.

Lieberman looked at Dupree, figured him for about fifty, maybe younger. Life had kicked him in the face with golf shoes. His skin was bad, his eyes were bleary, his hair a gray-yellow that suggested he had once dyed it but had long since given up the pretense. The room was reasonably neat, the furniture furnished-apartment unmatched, cheap, built so that if some tenant walked with it it could be replaced for a few bucks.

There was a small television on a table, an unmade bed in the corner, and one surprising item, a neatly polished violin on a small chrome-legged table with a cracked white Formica top.

“You play?” asked Lieberman.

“Used to play with Louisiana Fonso's Band,” said Dupree, running a hand through his hair and accomplishing nothing. “Never made no money, but had fun, you know? Then I got this.”

He held up his left hand. The small finger and the one next to it were missing.

“Can't play good stuff no more,” said Dupree. “Jus' play for myself. I'm talkin' too much. You got questions. You wanna know about that fare las' night, right? Dispatch called. He said somethin' funny goin' on. You wanna sit down? Drink a beer?”

“No thanks. Woman was killed last night,” said Lieberman.

“That got somethin' to do with my fare?” asked Dupree, touching the fiddle and sitting down at one of his two kitchen tables. His knees were knobby and there were marks around his ankles. Lieberman had seen flea bites before.

“Where did you pick up her bags?” asked Lieberman. “What floor?”

“Don't remember for sure,” he said, looking down at his feet and wiggling his toes. “Think it was sixth floor. She was out there with them before I got to the door. Told me she was in a hurry. I took her to the corner over on Broadway and Lawrence. She gave me fare, a tip, never another word.”

“She have an accent?” Lieberman asked.

“No, she talked … you know. Like you maybe,” he said. “Sometimes I think I'm getting the arthritis of the toes from cabbing, you know? Step on the pedals, feet sweating.”

“I don't think you get arthritis from sweating,” Lieberman said. “But you may be right. I've got it in the knees from walking.”

“That a true fact?” asked Dupree, looking up as if he were receiving confirmation from a specialist.

“A true fact,” said Lieberman. “Think you could recognize this woman if you saw her again?”

“Don't know, maybe,” Dupree said with a shrug. “She had a big chapeau like this.” He demonstrated the size of the brim. “And dark glasses. I think she was a good looker though. Smelled
tres bon
. Think I would recognize that, par-fume.”

“Thanks,” said Lieberman. “We may get back to you.”

Dupree was fingering the fiddle again.

“I'll be here or in the cab,” said Dupree. “No place much else to go.”

Lieberman put his notebook away and went back out onto Kedzie. He checked his watch and got into his car.

Dr. Ernest Hartman's office was in Uptown on Bryn Mawr right next to the el stop. Dr. Hartman's patients could, while they were waiting or having their fluids drained or taken, indulge in neighborhood bird watching. The trains came rumbling in front of his window and a sharp-eyed woman with the flu or man with a murmur would occasionally spot a Black-Jacketed Daytime Mugger on the platform, though you were more likely to catch sight of a Fleet-Footed Purse Snatcher.

Dr. Hartman's office was small and ancient and smelled like decaying wood. Parking was difficult, even for a cop, and the waiting room had only four chairs. Hartman's other offices were in the Fullbright Building downtown on Wacker Drive across from Marshall Field's and in the Carlson Building in Evanston across from the library. The Edgewater office was primarily for the cops and to satisfy Hartman's belief that he should be doing charity work. Lieberman had arrived five minutes late, taken the tests, which lasted fifteen minutes, and was asked by Hartman to have a seat.

“Results,” Hartman said, coming into the small office next to his examining room where Lieberman sat flipping through an old
People
article on Princess Di.

An el rumbled into the station and Lieberman looked across the desk at Hartman, who was, at forty, decidedly overweight. Other than his weight, Hartman, his sparse hair brushed forward like a cartoon Napoleon, carried a cheery smile even when announcing inoperable tumors and terminal diseases. Hartman was wearing a blue lab coat over his suit. He looked less like a doctor than an actor about to do a commercial for Maalox.

Behind Hartman's desk was a light box to which he was now clipping x-rays of Lieberman's innermost parts and processes. Hartman, when he had finished clipping the x-rays, sat in his swivel chair and examined them.

“Yep,” he said. “See, right there.”

Lieberman looked in the general direction he was pointing.

“What?” he asked.

“The knees, both of them,” he said. “Arthritic joints. Padding, that white stuff between the bones. Right there. Worn down.”

“I know,” said Lieberman. “You told me last year.”

“A little worse this year,” said Hartman. “Not a lot but a little. Knees ache, tender?”

“When I walk a lot,” said Lieberman.

“You walk a lot?”

“I walk,” said Lieberman.

“Impact's no good for knees like that,” said Hartman, looking at Lieberman. “You don't play volleyball, jog, basketball, things like that?”

“No.”

“Good, but you'll probably need an operation,” said Hartman, swiveling again to examine the x-rays.

“When?”

“Who knows,” said the doctor. “When it starts hurting, interfering with your walking. Ten years, possibly twenty. Maybe never if it doesn't get bad enough and you don't do a lot of impact.”

“What else?”

“Blood pressure is under control,” Hartman said, looking at the check list in front of him. “You take the Tenormin every morning, right?”

“Every morning,” agreed Lieberman.

“Liver enzyme is still up there,” said Hartman. “You still come out positive for hepatitis. Liver's a little large.”

“I've had that for thirty years,” said Lieberman.

“Have it till you die probably,” said Hartman. “You can't give blood.”

“Can I take it?” asked Lieberman.

“Do you need it?” asked Hartman.

“What else?”

“Let's see,” the doctor continued. “Bone spur in the little finger of the left hand. There on the next x-ray. Should have been taken care of when it happened.”

“That was 1969,” said Lieberman. “Broke it chasing a woman named—”

“I'd leave it alone since you don't seem to mind that you can't bend the finger,” Hartman said, looking at the x-ray.

“Go on,” said Lieberman.

“Heart's OK. Lungs OK. You do anything for exercise?”

“Nothing,” said Lieberman.

“I don't either,” Hartman confided. “Probably should. I mean I probably should. Metabolism. You've got a little belly starting but your weight is fine. Upper back still giving you trouble?”

“When it gets cold,” said Lieberman.

“Allergies are the same,” Hartman said, looking at the bottom of his list. “Milk intolerance.”

“I don't drink it anymore,” Lieberman lied.

“Then,” said Hartman standing, “that's it. Considering the climate, your age, and your profession, you're a healthy man. I'd suggest when you hit that pension age you sell everything you've got and move to Florida. I hear Fort Myers is still cheap. That's what I'm going to do.”

“I'll think about it,” said Lieberman, also standing. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask me a question,” said Hartman. “I've only got a few charity cases waiting.”

“Hanrahan come in for his physical yet?” said Lieberman. Hartman removed the x-rays from the light box and turned it off.

“Hanrahan,” said Hartman, turning to face his patient. “Hanrahan. Yes.”

“He's my partner,” said Lieberman.

“Right, I remember,” said Hartman. “I told him to watch his liver, his weight, and his mental attitude. I encouraged him to go on a diet, stop drinking, and make an appointment with the police psychology office. I told him it was up to him this year but if he didn't, and he survived till next year, I'd put in a recommendation. That what you want to know?”

“It's what I want to know,” said Lieberman.

The visit to Hartman had taken less time than Lieberman had thought. Since it was more or less on the way back to the station, and since he had the time, Lieberman drove south about ten blocks to Wilson and then away from the lake to the dead-end street in Ravenswood where Hanrahan's house stood. Kids were playing in the street when Lieberman went up the steps and knocked on the door. Every third word the kids said was something that would have gotten them drop-kicked by Lieberman's mother half a century ago. None of them could have been more than ten.

Hanrahan answered by the second knock. He was dressed in a clean shirt and tie and had obviously recently shaved and showered. Only his pink face and bloodshot eyes betrayed him.

“Come in,” he said, backing away from the door. “I'll get you a coffee.”

Lieberman went in. It had been at least five years, when Maureen was still living in the house, since he had been inside. The house, like Hanrahan, surprised him. It was neat, uncluttered, clean. They moved to the kitchen, where a pot of fresh coffee was brewing.

“Place looks nice,” said Lieberman. He accepted a hot cup and noticed that the dish drainer was empty.

“Abraham,” said Hanrahan. “I can see beyond those drooping eyes. You expected me to be hung over. You expected this place to smell and look like the inside of a dumpster, like Strewbecki's apartment or something out of a TV cop show.”

“Good coffee,” said Lieberman, sitting at the kitchen table. The top of the wooden table was spotless.

“I keep it like this,” said Hanrahan, looking around and taking a sip. “I do the laundry, put it away, vacuum the rugs, have Mrs. Boyer come in every two weeks. It's my therapy, Rabbi. I keep thinking maybe Maureen will knock at the door some night and I'll be sitting in here with a pot of stew I made … I've turned into a good cook … and … you get the picture.”

“Yeah,” said Lieberman.

“I let this place fall apart and I'm that much closer to falling apart,” said Hanrahan. He finished his coffee and moved to the sink, where he washed the cup with liquid Palmolive, rinsed it, and put it in the dishwasher.

“Just came from Doc Hartman,” said Lieberman finishing his coffee. “Says aside from my bad knees, blood pressure, screwed-up back, trick finger, and weak stomach, I'll be good for another year.”

“Never doubted it,” said Hanrahan with a smile, taking Lieberman's now empty cup.

“He says you should see the shrink,” Lieberman said.

“Don't believe in them,” said Hanrahan. “Believe in them less than I believe in the God of my fathers. Let's change the subject.”

“New subject is last night,” said Lieberman. “How are you feeling?”

“Responsible,” said Hanrahan. “And I don't want to lose that feeling. I didn't find our friend Jules the Walker. Kept at it till about three. Came home and went to bed sober. I'm tired but I'm ready.”

“My daughter talked to me till after four,” said Lieberman. “I'm tired and I don't know how ready I am but I'm walking. Let's go.”

They took separate cars and arrived at the Clark Street Station just before ten. It was a busy Saturday. People were lined up to fill out complaints. The squad room was filled, mostly with Hispanics from the immediate neighborhood, sitting stone silent and frightened or angry.

Mel Hobson looked as if his temper was about to go. The last time it went was in the winter, when he almost ripped the ear off of a mugger named Jonas who wouldn't answer questions for his rap sheet. Allen Bootes and Joanna Mishkowski were in the corner talking to a frightened little black girl who kept looking up at an equally frightened black man handcuffed to a bench across the room.

“Calls,” said Connie Parish, covering the phone with her hand. “On your desk. And a prelim on the P.M. corpus.”

“I like the hairdo,” Lieberman said. “Very chic.”

Connie, whose uniform was perfectly tailored and whose skin had been badly dealt with by heredity, smiled, touched her tinted straw hair, and went back to the phones. Lieberman was on the phone at his desk making a call and reading the preliminary autopsy report on Estralda Valdez when Hanrahan came in. Lieberman waved to him.

“Right,” Hanrahan heard as he approached Lieberman's desk. “I hear you, Sol. You're right … I don't know … Who knows? You have any idea where he might be? … I'll try it. I may need a statement from you … Maish's fine. His son, my nephew Joe, remember? The lawyer, running for alderman. Why would I kid? You stay in touch and you'll know … Bess'd like that … I might not be home but you can look at the lawn. You can knock. You can hope. Keep your brother-in-law out of trouble.”