Lieberman's Folly (21 page)

“Hot dogs, peanuts, victory,” said Lieberman, reading the article for the fifth time. The article said that a man named Juan Hernandez De Barcelona had been murdered by two known prostitutes the night before, that the prostitutes had attempted to make it look as if another man had been shot by Barcelona, who had, in turn, shot the man. The article quoted a Detective LaSalle as saying that the intended fall guy had lived long enough to tell the police what had happened. The article pointedly neglected to name the now-deceased fall guy. The article had no date, nor the name of the paper. The article didn't even mention the city. Lieberman turned the article over as Bess said, “… what to do?”

“When I get home,” he said.

“Get something to eat, Abe,” Bess said gently. “And if you're going to sleep there, call me and let me know.”

“I love you, Bess,” Lieberman said.

“I love you, Abe,” said Bess.

Lieberman hung up the phone and turned the article over. It was part of a supermarket ad. The address of the supermarket, but not the name, was in the ad. And across the middle of the ad were the words, “The lowest prices in Corpus …” The rest was missing.

Lieberman turned the article over again and looked at the picture of the Madera sisters. Hanrahan had seen a copy of that same picture less than three hours earlier, and so had Lieberman, on the dresser in Estralda's bedroom.

He made his calls slowly, calmly. First Hanrahan's wife, Maureen. He knew she wasn't listed but he was a cop. She was just getting home from work.

“Maureen, it's Abe Lieberman,” said Lieberman, putting the article aside and reaching for a pencil next to the photograph of Dr. Deep's wife and four children.

“Yes, Abe,” she said soberly.

“It's about Bill,” he said.

“He's dead,” she said flatly.

“No. He's been shot. We're in the surgical wing of the University of Chicago Hospitals on Fifty-ninth. You know where it is?”

“I know,” she said and then silence.

“Maureen?” Lieberman asked.

“Sorry, it's not as … I thought it would come like this, but it's different in a way. You know what I mean?”

“You want me to call Michael?”

“No,” she said. “I'll call him. I should tell him his father … I'll call him. It's odd, Abe, I thought I'd … but I'm just sleepy. I want to go to sleep.”

“Maybe it's a good idea, Maureen,” he said.

“It's running away, Abe,” she said with a sigh. “I'll call Michael and be right there.”

Lieberman made two more calls. One to St. Bart's Church. Father Whiz Parker was out. He left a message with the old priest who answered. The third call was to Iris Huang at the Black Moon Restaurant. She was there. He told her what had happened.

“I'll come,” she said.

“He'll need you more when he knows what's going on in a day or two,” said Lieberman, not wanting to deal with both Maureen and Iris.

“Yes,” she said. “But I will also come to the hospital. Thank you for calling me, Detective …”

“Lieberman,” he said.

He hung up the phone and asked the long-distance operator for the number of police headquarters in Corpus Christi, Texas.

“Police,” came a voice with a distinctly Texas accent.

“Me too,” said Lieberman. “You have a detective named LaSalle.”

“LaSalle?” said the man. “LaSalle? Carrol LaSalle?”

“I guess,” said Lieberman.

“He's the mayor,” said the man. “You joking me.”

“No,” said Lieberman. “Thanks.”

He called information again and got the number of the mayor's office in Corpus Christi. An answering machine told him that the mayor's office was closed but gave an emergency number. Lieberman dialed the emergency number and got a man who identified himself as Scott Tynan. Lieberman stated his business and Tynan got the number in Dr. Deep's office.

Five minutes later the mayor of Corpus Christi, Texas, called Abe Lieberman.

C
ARROL LASALLE WAS A GOOD
old boy with a vengeance, but Lieberman caught the protective edge behind the carefully chosen words. And LaSalle, Lieberman found, could choose both carefully and quickly.

“Lieberman,” he said. “Chicago P.D. You got a superior officer?”

Lieberman gave him Hughes's name and number.

“You got a badge number, card number, such like?” asked Mayor LaSalle of Corpus Christi.

Lieberman gave it.

“Call you right back if I can find him,” said LaSalle, who hung up.

Ten minutes later, while Lieberman sat looking out the window at another building just like the one he was in, the phone rang again.

“Ask your question, Detective,” said LaSalle. “I understand it's about the whorehouse murders.”

“Juan Hernandez De Barcelona and …” Lieberman paused, waiting for the fill-in.

“Harte,” said the Mayor of Corpus Christi. “James. Also known around the state of Texas and parts of Louisiana as ‘Skettle.' Prominent citizen. Uncle was once governor and old Skettle owned land bigger than most Arab states. Kept Skettle out of the papers a while but someone let it slip. Tell you the truth here, Detective Lieberman, I rode that case pretty damn hard and far. Corruption, cleanup, honest citizen murdered, framed by two whores.”

Lieberman had a pretty good idea of who had let Harte's name slip to the newspapers.

“What can you tell me that wasn't in the early clips?” asked Lieberman.

“First off, I can tell you that if you find those ladies, I'd appreciate your giving some credit to Carrol LaSalle whose knowledge of the case and cooperation … You got the idea, Detective. I got some competition coming up in the next election. A local Negro lawyer is out to out-liberal Carrol LaSalle.”

“I got it, Mayor.”

“Be nice with elections coming in six short months to remind the people—”

“I get it, Mayor,” Lieberman said. “The case.”

“Gettin' testy here, Detective?”

“My partner's been shot. Might not make it. I'm in the hospital waiting to see. Estralda Valdez, alias Estralda Maderas, was killed here on Friday. My partner was investigating when he got shot.”

“How was she killed?” asked LaSalle.

“Knife, multiple,” said Lieberman.

“Partner?”

“Gunshot, pistol, close range, back of the neck. Assailant took the bullet,” said Lieberman. He looked up and saw Iris and Maureen walking down the corridor, not quite together but both heading toward him.

Mayor LaSalle sighed deeply.

“Hernandez was shot back of the head,” said LaSalle. “Set up to make it look like a double homicide. Those girls botched it bad. If Hernandez shot first, ole Skettle didn't have the reflexes to pull a trigger with a bullet cutting his spine. And Hernandez had a bullet in the back. Went straight down on his face away from Skettle. But hey, there's more. Gun was in Skettle's right hand. He was left-handed. We traced the ladies a bit. One, the younger one, Estralda, and I'd appreciate your sending a picture of her to—”

“She's your Estralda,” Lieberman said. Maureen and Iris had both paused in front of the door looking at Lieberman, who nodded for them to enter. “Doesn't look much different from the clipping and I found the same photo in her mother's house.”

“Lost her trail in San Diego anyway,” said LaSalle. “Other one, older sister, left a better trail, St. Louis then Georgia. Lost her there.”

Maureen entered first. Iris followed and closed the door gently.

“Some figure those girls swished out of here with a lot of Hernandez's money,” said LaSalle, and then to someone on the other end, “Just finishing up, Jess. Tell the ladies and gentlemen I'm talking to George Bush.”

Maureen was looking like Maureen only better. A little thinner than Lieberman had last seen her. More make-up, a yellow dress that followed her lines instead of hiding them. Her hair was redder than he remembered it and Lieberman figured that nature had some help from the pharmacy. She looked worried, but she looked good. She put her purse on the desk next to the photograph of Dr. Deep's kids and looked at Iris, who wore a longish dark blue skirt and matching blouse. Her hair was short and her eyes were red from crying, though she wasn't crying now.

“Lieberman,” LaSalle went on. “Hernandez owned the Babe O'Brien bar for a lot of years. No bank accounts. Not a spender. Not a sign of the dollars. We're talking whores here, Detective, not small talk. They killed Hernandez and Skettle Harte. I got a feelin' they did it for more than fun. You know what I'm sayin'?”

“Prints?” asked Lieberman.

“Between you, me, and Southern Bell or M.C.I. or whoever is handlin' this call,” said LaSalle. “First boys on the scene that night laid hands on everything. They figured it for a whorehouse double with no complications. Got to go. Got your office number and address from the cop at your station, Briggs. I'll send you copies of anything else I turn up. If you catch up with our dancin' lady, I tell you off the record what happens. We ask for extradition. We cry for priority. You do what you can to see your people up there don't give it. Carrol LaSalle claimed and will continue to claim that we got those girls nailed shut on murder one, but with all this time, evidence who knows where and a good defense lawyer, that girl could walk on the double and we want justice served.”

And, Lieberman thought, we don't want the mayor embarrassed.

“I understand, Mr. Mayor,” said Lieberman.

“Good talkin' to you, Detective. Ever get down our way, you look me up. Promise you the best seafood on the Gulf.”

Mayor Carrol LaSalle hung up and Lieberman faced the two silent women.

“Maureen Hanrahan, this, I believe, is Iris Huang.” The women did not look at each other. “Iris is a recent friend of Bill's and—”

“How is he?” asked Maureen.

“Doctor says he should probably be fine,” said Lieberman.

“Probably?” asked Maureen.

“No guarantees,” said Lieberman. “They don't deal in guarantees.”

“Can we see him?” asked Iris.

“I'll ask the doctor,” said Lieberman. “Maybe you can look in on him, but he's out.”

“The doctor's name?” asked Iris.

“Dalawal,” said Lieberman.

Iris got up.

“I think I'll look for him,” Iris said. “The doctor.”

“Sure,” said Lieberman.

Iris smiled at Maureen, who smiled back, and Iris left carefully, closing the door behind her.

“Seems nice,” said Maureen.

“Seems,” said Lieberman.

“She should keep walking down the hall, get in the elevator, and save herself a lot of grief,” said Maureen.

Lieberman got up.

“You call Michael?” he asked.

Maureen nodded.

“They're coming in the morning,” she said. “They didn't want to keep Billy up all night. Only direct flight they could get here from Toronto was at nine. They can get an Air Canada … What's the difference?”

“He'll make it, Mo,” said Lieberman, moving to her side.

“Not the point, Abe,” she said, biting her lower lip. “Tell me the truth. Do you really like him?”

“He's a good partner,” said Lieberman.

“When he's sober,” said Maureen, the old bitterness coming back.

“He's a good partner, a good cop,” said Lieberman.

“And you like him?” asked Maureen again, looking up at Lieberman.

“I like him, Mo,” said Lieberman.

“You need a shave, Abe,” she said. “You'll have white beard by morning.”

“I'm not a kid, Mo,” he said.

“I've been building up the courage to go for a divorce,” said Maureen, looking away. “Got a lawyer, talked to Father Boyer at the archdiocese. They've got people looking into it.”

“Might try Father Stowell at St. Nathan's,” Lieberman suggested. “Used to be a lawyer and spent four years at the Vatican handling appeals like this.”

“Who don't you know, Lieberman?” she asked, looking back at him.

“Probably myself,” he said.

“How's Bess?” asked Maureen. “I thought a couple of times of calling her the last few years, but I didn't want it to be awkward for her, you. Did you ever tell her?”

Lieberman looked through the office window down the corridor. A black priest in his thirties stepped out of the elevator and looked around for the nursing station.

“Nothing to tell her, Mo,” he said. “We never did anything.”

“We thought about it,” she said. “Talked about it.”

“It was a tough night,” he said.

“The thought is the deed where I come from,” said Maureen. “Hard to believe that a few Hail Mary's will … I'm lying. I haven't been the Virgin Mary since I walked out on Bill and I can see that he hasn't been either.” She looked over her shoulder in the direction Iris had gone.

“My sins, however, have been pathetic,” she said. And then, suddenly, she stood up. “What am I talking about?”

“Guilt,” said Lieberman. “I've got it too. I let Bill go to the place he was shot while I was at a baseball game with my grandchildren.”

“That's it?” she said. “That's all you've got? You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

She was pacing the room now. Lieberman sat down again. Both knees were warning him.

“You win,” said Lieberman. “You're guiltier than I am.”

“Thank you,” she said angrily.

She stopped pacing and glared down at him.

“You're welcome,” he said.

“What's hurting you?” she asked.

“Knees,” he said. “Arthritis.”

“Mine's in the shoulders,” Maureen said, sighing.

“I've got to get back to work,” said Lieberman, standing.

“Got time for a cup of coffee first?” Maureen asked.