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."
"Understood," said Lieberman. "Thanks for coming."
In the hall, walking toward Kearney's office, Lieberman said, "What're you, catching my insomnia? Father Murphy, you look like a wet dog biscuit."
"Lot on my mind, Rabbi," Hanrahan said. "Got a lot on my mind."
"What happened to Chuculo Fernandez?" asked Lieberman.
"Victim's not so sure anymore," said Cadwell without looking up. "Captain says we come up with something sure or we tell the public defender why we're not releasing him. Next time we get Fernandez in here it'll be for murder one. Remember I said it here and I said it first."
Hanrahan met his partner's eyes as they approached Kearney's office.
"Don't look at me like that, Rabbi. I'm sane, sober, and wide awake."
Kearney's office was in the corner of the squad room. It was small, but it was almost soundproof. The captain was seated behind his desk, waiting for them. The detectives sat.
"Well?" asked Kearney.
"I'd say Rozier recognized him."
"So would I," said Kearney.
"So, most likely case," said Lieberman, "is Rozier hired Patniks to kill his wife,"
"Doesn't figure," said Kearney.
"Nope," agreed Lieberman. "It doesn't figure. Patniks's not a gun for hire. Certainly not a knife. But who knows?"
"Who knows?" agreed Kearney, looking down at notes on his desk. "Mrs. Rozier was insured for twenty-five thousand. Harvey Rozier spends that in two months on public relations and lunch. The funeral will cost at least five or ten thousand. Mrs. Rozier left everything to him, but that's just about nothing but her half of the house. Doesn't look like a money motive."
"Doesn't look," Lieberman agreed. "Did he fool around?"
"Looking at him, I'd say yes," said Kearney, "but that's not money in the bank. You thinking she was threatening divorce, going for everything he owns?"
"It's happened," said Lieberman.
"Our Harvey, the grieving widower, does not have a hell of a lot she could have taken from him," said Kearney. "He's in a break-even business, scrambling every month to keep it going. Overhead-entertaining, rent, support staff. Our Harvey didn't have much, but he could use some big money."
Kearney bit his lower lip and scanned the notes again.
"Rozier's in good health. No shady deals we can find. Can't say the same for our lawyer, Kenneth Franklin. Franklin is very rich and very sick. Cancer."
"Accounts for some of his attitude," said Lieberman.
"Might," said Kearney, looking up at Hanrahan. "What the hell were you trying to do last night?"
"We," said Lieberman. "Bill and I agreed he'd go talk to Rozier."
"At ten at night? The time alone, without an emergency, is enough to give some weight to Franklin and Rozier's screams about harassment."
"He's guilty of something, and-" said Hanrahan.
"And you're sorry you did it," Kearney finished.
"Absolutely," said Hanrahan.
"The bottle of ipecac," Kearney said, dismissing the reprimand. "No fingerprints on it. Not a trace. Not a smudge. Wiped clean. Know anyone who wipes medicine bottles before they put them away?"
"An odd fetish," said Lieberman.
"Evidence says the other bottles in Dana Rozier's closet were handled by her. Best possibility here?"
"Rozier wiped his prints off the bottle and put it in his wife's drawer," said Hanrahan.
"Rozier or the killer. Can you think of any reason a break-in burglar who just committed a murder would wipe fingerprints off a bottle of ipecac?" Kearney paused. "Neither can I. So why didn't Rozier throw the bottle away?"
"Smart enough to know that we might find traces in her," said Hanrahan. "We find it. Looks like she kept it hidden. It's all a puzzle to the grieving spouse."
"So," said Kearney, "what have we got?"
"Bubkes," said Lieberman.
"Right. We've got nothing," said Kearney. "A bottle of throw-up medicine with no fingerprints, a suspect who we think recognizes a burglar in a lineup but says he doesn't, a suspect with no apparent motive and an alibi. What do we do?"
"We find some evidence," said Lieberman. lago Simms was grinning, but unless you knew him as well as Dalbert and Lonny did, there was no way of knowing, lago's face sagged to the left and his teeth were exposed on the right.
"Yes," said lago, holding up the pistol he had found in the glove compartment of the car they had just borrowed from Reno the drug dealer.
Getting into the garage had been harder than they thought it would be. Three locks on the door. It wasn't daylight yet so they were reasonably sure no one had seen them. Lonny was all for giving up on the whole crazy idea, but there was no way he'd let Dalbert and lago know it.
"Fuck, kick it down," Lonny had said, and Dalbert hadn't hesitated. Over two hundred pounds hit the garage door. It gave but didn't break. Dalbert turned to Lonny.
"Again," Lonny said, looking around to see if any lights were going on in the houses behind them.
"Put some shit in it this time," lago encouraged.
And Dalbert tried again, throwing himself against the door. It cracked and spat open, cracking against the wooden wall and almost hitting Dalbert in the face when it bounced back.
"Get the garage door up fast," Lonny said. lago moved to the maroon Chrysler and opened the driver's side door, heading straight for the wiring under the dash. Dalbert hit the switch, opening the garage doors. They slid open smoothly in spite of the breaks.
"Hurry up," Lonny cried.
"Got it. Got it. Got it," called lago. The engine purred awake. "There."
The three of them scrambled into the car, Lonny driving, and sped down the alley.
"Hey, we didn't close the door," Dalbert cried, looking through the rear window.
"Don't matter," said Lonny.
"Why?"
" 'Cause," said lago, turning in the front seat, "you kicked the door to shit. No way we can get it back and not have some nigger fool with a sawed-off waiting for us. We do the job and drop the car wherever. That right, Lonny?"
"That's right," Lonny said. lago had turned on the radio. Some woman was singing about men being no good. Lonny reached over and turned the radio off. It was then that lago opened the glove compartment and found the gun.
"Our lucky day, damn sure," said lago, aiming the gun out the window with one eye closed.
It didn't feel lucky to Lonny. The day already felt like bad news, but there was no going back. He drove without talking, drove within the speed limit north on Lake Shore Drive, past Lincoln Park and Lake Michigan following them on the right, luxury high-rises beyond the park to the left.
Lonny had trouble finding the windshield wiper switch and almost lost control of the car, but after three false tries, he hit a button and the wipers came on, spreading the thin layer of rain into the morning.
Twenty-two minutes from the time they left the garage, Lonny was parking on Argyle across from Jacob Berry's office.
"He there yet?" asked Dalbert.
"Don't look it," said lago.
"What we do?" asked Dalbert.
"Wait, that's what we do," said Lonny. "We just wait. When he comes, someone should stay in the car, be ready. We got no time to fool around disconnecting and shit like that, you got that?"
"No lie," said lago. "But I'm not stayin' in the car. Dalbert can stay."
"No way," said Dalbert angrily.
If he could have trusted the two of them, Lonny would have sighed his put-upon sigh, his I-don't-know-how-I-put-up-with-you sigh. Then he would have stayed in the car. It had felt bad when they got to the garage and it didn't feel any better now, sitting there waiting for the doctor to come to work. Shit, they'd all go in.
"Maybe we can just like break in up there and look for the drugs, money, all that shit. See what I'm sayin'?" Dalbert tried.
"We wait for him," Lonny said, imitating that bald dude Hawk used to be on "Spencer" on TV. "We wait."
Jacob Berry woke up that morning not sure whether he felt worse or better about coming to Chicago. The sky was dark and drizzly, no better or worse than East Lansing but maybe a little grittier.
He showered, shaved, dressed, had a large glass of orange juice-not from concentrate-a cup of decaf Folger's, and a toasted poppy seed bagel as he listened to the radio.
Rain, rain, more rain, and then rain again. Killers of little girls in the news. Fathers going mad and taking their children hostage. Bus crashes. No leads yet in the knifing of the woman in a good neighborhood, in her own home. And this was just in the city. Dr. Berry changed the station. Rock music. He changed it again. Oldies. Chubby Checker.
Bagels were better in Chicago. Food was better. People were not.
He rinsed the dishes and put them neatly into the dishwasher before he walked to the front door, picked up his briefcase, opened it on the table, and checked to be sure the gun was there, reassuring, ready. He considered putting the weapon in his pocket, but that was too awkward and heavy. When he got to the office he would remove the gun and put it in the drawer.
Jacob was ready to meet the day. He encountered no one on the elevator, which was fine with him. He didn't want to tell people he was a doctor and have them give him a strange, questioning look that said, "If you're a doctor, what're you living in this building for? I've got no choice, but a doctor?"
Jacob didn't know the names of anyone in the building, though he did recognize a few faces.
He made it through the small, dank-smelling lobby and onto the street, where he found his '90 Toyota unscratched and not broken into. It wasn't much of a car, but he didn't want to go through the anguish of dealing with the insurance company.
Jacob was only ten minutes from his office. He had a paid parking space behind the Golden Wing Vietnamese Restaurant. For thirty dollars a month, the Hee family would keep an eye on the vehicle for him and provide him a reasonably certain parking space in a heavily trafficked neighborhood. In East Lansing he had a free space with his name on it right outside the clinic.
Mrs. Hee came out when he had parked and waved at him as she dropped a plastic bag of garbage into one of the containers chained to the wall. Jacob waved back.
A distant el train rumbled as he came through the alley and headed toward his office. Cars already lined the street, some of them belonging to people who lived nearby, others belonging to early customers or the people who worked in and owned the shops. A shiny maroon Pontiac Grand Prix idled across the street. There seemed to be no one in the car.
Jacob unlocked the downstairs door, flipped on the hall lights, went up the stairs, and opened his office. When he nit the switch he knew that all was well. Everything was where it should be.
He moved into the office examining room, opened his briefcase, and put his gun in his desk, leaving the drawer just slightly open.
He checked his watch. Nine. He had an appointment at nine and another at ten, both police physicals. Jacob went to the window and pulled up the shade, just a little, enough to let in a dusty stream of gray light but not enough to allow anyone to look in from the el platform or a passing train.
His nine o'clock was late. He heard someone try the front door. As usual, Jacob had locked it. Someone knocked.
"Coming," he called, adjusting his starched lab coat.
Jacob was sure it was his nine o'clock physical. He never considered any other possibility as he opened the door and saw the three young men in front of him. They had come. The ones who had looked through the window. Jacob Berry's knees started to buckle.
One of the three, a little one with a twisted face, held a gun to Jacob's belly. A second one, short and solid, held a knife in his hand. The third, tall with a dark, angry scar through his eyebrow said, "Back in."
The little one pushed Jacob back with the barrel of his gun and the one with the scar closed the door behind him.
"Now," said the big one with the scar. "You go fill a bag with money, drugs, everything you got, and fast, or we operate on you, and believe me, motherfucker, we don't know shit about surgery."
Jacob couldn't speak. His legs carried him backward but threatened to buckle.
"I've only got a few drugs and the money in my wallet, about forty dollars," he said, reaching for his wallet.
The heavy-set one with the knife wrenched the wallet from his hand and shoved it in his pocket.
"You lyin'," the tall one said. "Find somethin', and fast. We got no time to spend here."
"But I don't…"
"Find it or you're dog food," said the little one with the gun.
"OK, all right," Jacob said, backing up. "I've got something."
The one with the knife grinned and Jacob eased around the desk to the partly open drawer.
"Move your ass," cried the one with the gun.
And then all hell broke loose. The nine o'clock appointment, a patrolman named Matthews, who also happened to be black, came through the unlocked outer door, noticed by no one in the office and noticing nothing unusual. Matthews had a fear of needles. He just wanted to get the physical over with.
When he stepped into the door of the inner office, he saw the three young men, saw the gun and knife, and met the frightened eyes of Dr. Berry behind the desk.
Matthews went for his gun. lago Simms turned and fired. Jacob Berry groped for the weapon in his desk, pulled it out, aimed in the general direction of the three hold-up men, and began pulling the trigger. Someone screamed.