Lonny Wayne got off the Sheridan bus a stop before Irving Park and headed for Broadway. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he was heading south and the general direction of home.
A cop car had passed die bus just before Irving. Lonny had slid down in his seat, certain that an old black man pretending to read a newspaper was watching him. When the cop car passed, Lonny turned to face the man with the newspaper. The man kept his face in the paper. The bus wasn't crowded: three old women and the man with the paper.
Through the front window of the bus Lonny could see the cop car slowing up. Lonny pulled the cord and the bus eased up at the next corner. Lonny got up languidly, wanting to run, forcing himself to stay cool, standing in front of the fuckin' door the driver was taking forever to open.
Then it opened with a clack and he leaped off. As the bus pulled away, the old man with the newspaper looked down at him through the window with something that looked like pity.
Lonny hurried toward Broadway, the gun in his jacket pocket bumping against his side.
He'd walk back to the neighborhood, sixty blocks. Not get trapped on a bus or an el. Walk back and then… what? lago was dead for sure. Damn. A cop. Walks right in. Gun in his hand, shooting. And that motherfuck doctor. He's shooting. And lago, he's shooting. And the cop goes down and Dalbert screams. Lonny had leaped over the fallen, groaning cop with lago behind him. They'd gone down the stairs, tripping over each other. And then in the street, lago waving the gun. The damn car gone. And then the shot and lago was down.
Lonny wasn't sure who had shot lago. He had picked up the gun and ran down an alley. Shit, for all he knew Dalbert was dead too, or talking to the cops right now.
Lonny was no fool. He kept himself from running. Long way to go and thinking to do. Even if Dalbert was dead too, they'd find out the three of them had been friends. The doctor with the gun could identify him. And what about Reno, the drug dealer whose car they had stolen? He'd see the newspapers or the TV, see lago's name, figure out who took his wheels, got him messed up with a cop shooting, and he'd be after Lonny too, maybe quicker than the cops.
There was a Burger King across Broadway. Lonny crossed, went in, bought three cheeseburgers and a Coke and sat down where he could see the door.
He had less than three dollars left and nowhere to go, but he had a gun and not much to lose.
Lonny watched the door, telling himself mat the cops weren't going to come into every Taco Bell and Burger King, not for him, not for one black kid. He'd never seen cops doing that. There weren't enough cops. He had time, a little time.
He had to get out of the city. That's it. Out of the city, maybe to Atlanta, where his cousin Jackie lived. Tell nobody. Lonny shivered and chewed a dry burger, wondering what had happened to his saliva. Lonny had never been more than ten miles from the city limits of Chicago. Atlanta was as far as China, but he had to go, had to have some money. He'd call his mother, sister, tell them he was sorry, not tell them where he was going. Cops couldn't be there yet Not yet. He had time. Not to go home, but to call.
Then he remembered Skilly Parker, the bar on Forty-second. Skilly was trying to sell his car. That was a week-no, two weeks ago. Skilly hung out at the Ease Inn Bar. He wanted three hundred for the car, cash, a '72 Chevy with the miles rolled back, had papers and everything.
Three hundred cash.
Lonny couldn't finish his second burger. He left it and the unwrapped one on the table and got up.
"Clean your trash," said a raggedy old white lady with a shopping bag on the table in front of her.
Lonny ignored her and went for the door. Shit, what did he have to lose? He had a gun. He had to get out of town. He needed money.
The rain was coming down again before he got a block from the Burger King. It wasn't much of a rain, but Lonny had a lot of walking to do in it. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and decided he would hold up the grocery store near the hospital, a little convenience stop for doctors, nurses, and clean-up people. Carryouts, some fruit, hot coffee. It was home turf. There were places to hide when he was done till he could move out of the city.
Lonny stopped at an outdoor phone booth, found a quarter, and looked up the number of the Ease Inn. About half of the pages were missing from the phone book, torn out. The right page of Es was still intact. A good sign. He dropped the quarter hi the slot and hit the buttons.
"Ease Inn," came a man's voice.
"Skilly there?" asked Lonny.
"He's here. I'll get him."
Lonny looked up and down the street, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. There weren't many black people around here but there were some inside the stores and restaurants he had passed.
"Skilly here," came a nervous voice.
"Lonny, Lonny Wayne. Say, man, you still tryin' to sell the ol' Chevy?"
"Still tryin'," Skilly said. "You buyin'?"
"How long you gonna be there?"
"Till you get here with three hundred bills, cash money."
"What time's it now?"
"Little after one by the Bud Light clock over Howard's head," said Skilly.
Lonny thought quickly. Shit. He'd take a chance on the subway, pick it up on Chicago Avenue.
"I'll be there with cash by four," Lonny said. "You have the car and the papers."
"Will be," said Skilly and hung up.
Lonny was wet and cold. He plunged his hands into his pockets and hurried down the street, covering the precious bouncing weapon to protect it from the rain.
A long walk and a short subway ride without incident and Lonny Wayne was back on his turf.
He arrived thirty minutes after the three black men with Spanish accents who were making the rounds of hangouts, bars, and fast-food joints looking for a brother named Lonny with a dark lightning scar through his right eyebrow.
Lieberman's eyes moved from Rozier to Betty Franklin and stayed with her. He had the feeling that if she had not stopped Harvey Rozier when he came into the living room and Rozier had not seen Lieberman, something… Lieberman knew the look of nervous guilt, but it wasn't on the face of Harvey Rozier. It belonged to Betty Franklin, who stood a few feet from Rozier, trying not to meet Lieberman's steady brown eyes.
Rozier and Betty Franklin? She was old enough to be his mother, and Rozier's murdered wife had been a beauty- not that Betty Franklin was a meesldte, but still… Kenneth Franklin was a dying man, a rich dying man. A motive definitely suggested itself.
"A few questions," Lieberman said, standing. "You must have the funeral to arrange, all kinds of things. I remember when my mother died. Had to take care of everything. My brother and me. My father was already gone."
"I appreciate your empathy," said Rozier. "If Dana's body is released by the medical examiner and can be… prepared by the funeral home, the funeral will be tomorrow."
Betty Franklin's eyes had closed when Harvey Rozier spoke. She wrung her hands, actually wrung her hands.
Lieberman couldn't remember seeing someone do that since Mary Astor in the The Maltese Falcon.
"I gotta tell you this," Lieberman said, scratching his head and smiling. "My mother, can you imagine this, a widow for ten years, a woman almost seventy years old, has a heart attack in the tub where she's taking a bath with the son of my father's partner, Bernie Witt. Bernie couldn't have been more than…" Lieberman looked at Rozier now and continued, "your age."
The result was more and better than Lieberman had expected.
Betty Franklin looked as if she were going to collapse. She caught her breath and moved to the nearby table for the comfort of a cigarette.
"Can we come to the point, Detective?" Rozier said, being careful, Lieberman was sure, not to look at Betty Franklin, who was fumbling with a lighter.
"Sorry," said Lieberman. "Long night. Hard day. Family problems."
"I would like to get to my office," Rozier said.
"One or two questions and…" Lieberman opened his hands, "I'm on my way."
"Do you mind if Mrs. Franklin goes in the other room while we finish talking?" Rozier said. "I think she's been upset enough by the last two days-"
"But it's Mrs. Franklin I want to talk to," said Lieberman.
Betty Franklin almost dropped the lighter she was about to use.
"Me?" she said, looking at Harvey, who still avoided her eyes.
"I'm sorry to say this," Lieberman said, looking deeply pained as he sat back down, hands folded in his lap. The chair may have been an antique, but it wasn't comfortable. Still, Lieberman did his best to look as if he would be content to sit there for hours. "But my partner, Hanrahan-" Lieberman shook his head. "He thinks Mr. Rozier is somehow involved in what happened to his wife. Or at least that he knows something."
"Your captain told me-" Rozier began with indignation as Betty Franklin managed to make it to a chair, where she sat with perfect posture, an unlit cigarette in her hand.
"And your complaint was heeded. Bill's been reprimanded, but… he won't stop, and I'm afraid Captain Kearney's told him to make some more inquiries. To stay away from you, mind you, but to make more inquiries."
"This is crazy," Rozier said, taking a quick glance at Betty Franklin to see how she was holding up. "I think I'll ask you to leave now, Lieberman."
"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 around 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.