"You know, Gregor," Wanda Skutnik said to her son as she sat in her favorite chair and tried to talk over Jenny Jones. "Those things on the things."
She held out her hand and moved it about as if she had developed a regional palsy.
"I don't know, Ma," George said.
"Oh," Wanda said in exasperation, trying to find the right words. "The ones my sister gave me when she came in… nineteen and eighty-two."
"The coasters? Little round things with flowers on them?"
Wanda nodded, relieved.
"You gave them to Mr. and Mrs. Karawan for Christmas, before I went back… Look, Ma, I want to talk about Seattle again."
"I know," Wanda said, sitting up, eyes not leaving the television screen, where Jenny was arguing with a fat, bearded man who had a wife and a mistress who used to be a man.
"Look, Ma."
She held up her hand. "I know what I was trying to think of before the little round things. A mouse."
"Ma, we don't have any mice."
"Not the animals," she said, shaking her head at her son's denseness. "The ones on the typewriters with the screens."
"You mean the mouse on the computer?" asked George.
"Yes," she said, relieved. "If you have more than one mouse, is it mouses or mice?"
"Why would anyone have more?"
"If you sold them you would have more," she said patiently. "If you were the person at the computer store who sold them and you had to order more."
"I don't know," said George. "I don't know what you'd call them."
George Patniks was defeated.
He hadn't slept well last night Dreams, fears, and shadows. He had gotten up a little after four, taken a shower, gotten on some reasonably clean sweats, and gone back to the painting. By a few minutes before eight, when he heard his mother's feet shuffling across the floor above him, George finished the painting. He stepped back and examined it, waiting for the release he wanted.
The woman was vivid now, her face pleading with horror, and the robed figure above her, knife in hand, was looking out of the canvas as if he had discovered the painter. Harvey Rozier's face was as vivid as his wife's. The white-white of the kitchen hi the painting contrasted with the deep pool of dark blood on the terrazzo floor. Things were reflected hi the blood, dark, grinning things only suggested by light and shadow. And in the midst of the blood sat George's toolbox, mundane, out of place, inappropriate for the horror depicted.
It was probably the best work George Patniks had ever done, but he'd never be able to show it. He didn't want to show it. He wanted to take the image from his memory and banish it to the canvas.
Should he have jumped out and gone for Rozier, tried to save the woman? He had been surprised, hypnotized, as if watching a horror movie suddenly thrown up on his ceiling hi the middle of the night. Even if he had jumped out, George had reasoned as he looked at his painting, the woman was nearly dead already, wasn't she? And the floor was covered with blood. George would have slipped and Rozier would have been all over him. George shuddered. That picture was clear and sudden. He hoped he didn't have to paint it. Wait, Rozier had a knife and Rozier was in better shape and outweighed George. George had done all he could do. He had saved himself.
But the phone. George had cut the phone line. Dana Rozier had gone for the phone, her last chance, and had gotten nothing. Rozier had been through the door and had attacked her within seconds, but would those seconds on the phone been enough for her to call 911 and simply say, "My husband's killing me"?
"You should take a shower, Gregor," Wanda said.
"I already took one," he answered, looking at himself and realizing that he was, once again, covered in paint. "Ma, I want to pack today and go to Seattle for that art fair. You don't want to come, OK. I'll call Tommy. He and Sissy can look in on you, maybe stay awhile."
The doorbell rang.
George's hands clutched the arms of the chair, knuckles and hands white under dabs of blue and red paint "The mistress is better looking than the wife," Wanda said, looking at the television screen and clearly not hearing the doorbell. "And she ain't even a woman. I see that all the time."
The doorbell rang again.
This time she heard it.
"Gregor, the door. It's ringing,'' she said, looking at her son. "Gregor, are you OK? Get the door. It's probably Mrs. Vivlachki or someone."
The doorbell rang again and George got up. His mother was right He couldn't go through mis every time the doorbell rang. Rozier couldn't have found him this quickly. Rozier would probably never find him, especially if he moved to Seattle for awhile. He'd have to tell his latest parole officer, but…
The doorbell rang once more.
George shuffled past his mother and into the little hallway with the tiny faded fringe rug. George took a deep breath and opened the door.
The rain had stopped but the dark skies suggested that it was only a temporary halt.
Before him stood a man about George's size, maybe sixty-five or older, curly white hair and a little white mustache. The man looked weary and bored, and George knew with certainty that the man was a cop.
"Gregor Eupatniaks?" asked Lieberman.
"Yes, but my legal name is George, George Patniks."
Lieberman was wearing an open raincoat over his brown jacket and a tie he had gotten for his birthday from Barry and Melisa. The tie depicted little brown World War I airplanes circling purple clouds against a dark blue background.
"Name's Lieberman. I'm a detective with the Clark Street Station in Rogers Park. I think you know the neighborhood."
Lieberman took out his wallet and showed his ID card.
"Yes," said George.
"Can I come in?" asked Lieberman.
"My mother's watching TV. She gets upset cops come around. You know?"
"We can get in my car, go for a coffee," offered Lieberman reasonably.
"OK, sure," Patniks said. "Let me just tell my mother."
Lieberman nodded and stepped into the house.
"I hear you're a painter," Lieberman said.
"Yeah."
"I like painting. Things that look real. Is that the way you paint or do you do things that don't look like anything?"
"My paintings look like things," George said nervously.
"I'd like to see them," said Lieberman.
This was a nightmare. Not the one George had anticipated, but a nightmare. You go on a job and suddenly a man is murdering his wife. You hear the doorbell ring and there's a cop wanting to look at the painting you did of the guy who killed his wife. Nightmare. George's legs went weak.
"Maybe sometime. I'll tell my mother," he said.
From the hallway Lieberman watched the man move to a heavy woman planted in front of a Sony television set.
George leaned over and said, "I'm going out for a half hour or so. This man wants to talk to me."
Wanda Skutnik turned heavily in her chair without turning her neck. The chair creaked. Jenny Jones was shouting, "Wait a minute. Wait a minute."
"OK if I change my shirt, pants-just take a minute?" George asked.
Lieberman nodded and George hurried for the door that led down to his room.
"You're a police," Wanda said.
"Yes."
"You are old for police," she observed.
"I just look old," Lieberman said. "The job does it to you."
"Mrs. Maniaks's nephew, Stan. He was a policeman. You knew him?"
"Don't think so," said Lieberman.
"He took money from the stores on Division. And then he wasn't a policeman."
The woman nodded and Lieberman asked, "Is there a way to the street from George's room?"
"Door," she said. "Stand by the window over there and you can see it, but George isn't going to run away."
Lieberman moved to the window and looked out.
A commercial came on. A woman was wild with enthusiasm for the Home Shopping Network.
"You can get some good buys on Home Shopping," Wanda said. '1 got a clock that looks like a soldier, alarm clock. Screams at you, 'Get up. Rise and shine.' "
"Sounds cute," said Lieberman.
"What?"
"Sounds cute," Lieberman repeated loudly.
"Gave it to one of my sons, Tommy, for last Christmas. You think they have Home Shopping in Seattle?"
"Probably," said Lieberman.
The woman sighed deeply.
"I don't think I want to go to Seattle,'' she said. "My legs, it's far. Who needs travel at my age?"
"You've been thinking about visiting Seattle?" he said.
"Gregor, he's got this vishmite, this thing about going to an art show, fair, something in Seattle. Gregor is an artist, a painter. He had ribbons and one time…"
Her voice trailed off and then she sighed and asked, "What did Gregor do this time?"
Below him through the thin floor, Lieberman could hear George Patniks shuffling around, moving things. What could he be moving?
"I don't know that he did anything," Lieberman said. "I just need some information from him. Night before last. You remember if he was home?"
"Night before…" Wanda Skutnik turned to the television set for inspiration. "Not last night, but… He was home. All night."
"Good," Lieberman said with a smile.
With George Patniks having his own entrance and a hard-of-hearing mother, the woman's information didn't mean much. Lieberman checked his watch. Almost two minutes. He was about to go after Patniks when he heard the sound of footsteps coming up from below. George, now wearing jeans and a neatly ironed white shirt, came through the door. There were still dabs of paint on his forehead and hands.
"Wear a jacket," Wanda said as George moved toward Lieberman.
"I will, Ma," he said, opening a closet and pulling out a zippered blue jacket. "I'll be right back."
"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Lieberman said.
Of the five men whom Harvey Rozier had asked about as he looked through the tapes and books of mug shots, one was dead, one was in the Federal Security Prison in Marion, another had moved to a farm in Tennessee. Lieberman had found one of the two remaining men, Sandoval "Sandy" Borchers, in his apartment on Claremont. Borchers, a born-again Christian, told Lieberman that he worked nights, including the night of the murder, at the Toddle House on Howard Street. A call to the night manager, who had to be awakened by his wife, confirmed that Borchers had been working with the manager and another worker all night, no time away from the restaurant from eight at night till four the next morning. That left George Patniks, who was proving to be a promising prospect.
"You want to know why I'm here?" Lieberman asked as they got into the car parked in front of the house.
"Sure," said George with a shrug.
"You seemed curiously uncurious," said Lieberman. "You want a coffee?"
George shrugged again. Lieberman reached down, removed two Dunkin' Donuts coffees from a bag, and handed one to George.
"Thanks," he said.
The coffee was warm but no longer hot. The two men drank and watched the thin rain that had returned in the last few seconds. Across the street someone peeked through first-floor curtains. All of the houses on the block were small, wooden, and old with little front yards enclosed by low fences.
"You know a man named Rozier?" Lieberman asked.
"No," George answered, looking straight out the window at nothing and shaking his head. "Knew a con named Rozell. That be the guy?"
"No," said Lieberman, pausing to take a sip of tepid coffee. "Your entire life you're sure you've never run into someone named Rozier?"
"Not that I recall. You meet a lot of people."
"You want to know why I'm asking?"
George shrugged to show that he didn't care.
"Your mother says you're planning a trip to Seattle."
"Thinkin' about it."
"What's in Seattle?"
"Art fair. Chance to sell some of my paintings. I do pretty good at paintings. Learned it inside."
Lieberman looked over at the person watching them through the parted curtains across the street.
"Everyone here know you're a con?"
"Most everybody. We've got no neighborhood newspaper. Lot of people couldn't read it if we did," said George.
"What's the name of this fair in Seattle?" asked Lieberman. "My wife's an art lover. Maybe we can fly up for a day or two, see the sights, taste the wares, go to an art show."
A young woman holding a coat over her head with one hand and the hand of a small white-haired boy with the other came out of the house next door. The rain was a little harder now, more than a drizzle. The woman hurried, dragging the boy along and across the street in front of Lieberman's car. The boy's eyes met the detective's. Then mother and child were gone.
"Cute kid," said Lieberman.
"Peter, Peter Wascaboinik," said George, resisting the urge to rub his hands together or play with his ring.
"The art fair, George. We were talking about an art fair in Seattle," said Lieberman. "You were going to give me the name of the fair and maybe a name and number of someone running it."
"Off the top?" George asked, still not meeting Lieberman's eyes. "Who remembers?"
"You got it written down. We can go look," Lieberman said reasonably.
George laughed, afraid his voice would break and give him away.
"What is all this?" he said, finally turning to meet the detective's waiting eyes. "OK, there is no art fair in Seattle. I just want to get away from here for a week or so, pick up a woman. I've got a little saved. Seattle, that's just something I told my mother. And what difference it make if I shack up with a whore in the Loop or go to Seattle? What's it prove one way or the other? What you want from me?"
All said with a combination of pain, indignation, and self-righteousness.
Lieberman kept looking at George Patniks and drinking his coffee.
George blinked first, turned his head forward, hit the dashboard and said, "Damn."
"Woman was found dead night before last," said Lieberman. "Murdered. Mutilated. Good-looking lady before it happened."
"Sorry to hear it," George said, sounding genuinely sorry.
"Her husband said a man came around early part of last week looking for handyman jobs. Man fits your description. You a handyman now, George?"
"No," he said.
"You mind being in a lineup?"
"I never went to no one's house saying I was a handyman. This is nuts."
"Then you won't mind a lineup."
George shrugged and said, "I'm busy."
"An hour. No more. Maybe a little less. You know I can get the papers and have you uptown by this afternoon. You have something to be afraid of, George?"
"Oh, Jesus," George groaned.
"I beg your pardon," said Lieberman. "I'm not asking you to confess to murder, George. I'm just asking you to stand in a lineup. You've done it before. Lots of times."
"When you want to do it?"
"Now's not bad. Maybe an hour or so from now so I can call our witness," said Lieberman.
"I never met this guy Rozier," George said. "Honest to God. Hand to my heart."
"Rozier? Who said the husband's name is Rozier?"
"Come on, Liebowitz-"
"Lieberman."
"Come on, Lieberman," George said wearily. "You ask me do I know a guy named Rozier. Then you tell me there's a dead woman and her husband talked to a handyman who maybe looked a little like me."
"Seems logical," Lieberman said, pursing his lips. "Shall we proceed to the lineup?"
"I gotta tell Ma," George said.
Cool rainy spring morning. George Patniks was sweating. Lieberman decided to make him sweat a little more.
"Good," he said, opening the door. "We can take a few minutes and look at some of your paintings."
"You've got no warrant," said George as Lieberman got out.
"Patrons of the arts don't need warrants, George. They get invited in by starving middle-aged painters. You got something in your room you don't want me to see?"
"No," said George with mustered indignity.
"A quick look," Lieberman said softly, getting out of the car. "What can it hurt?"
"Nothing," said George, letting himself be guided back to the house by the policeman.
They went back into the house to the cry of Wanda Skutnik calling, 'Take the shoes off or wipe the feet good."
Both George and Abe Lieberman wiped their feet on the little runner in the hall.
"Gonna show Mr. Lieberman some of my work. Then we got to go out for awhile."
Wanda turned to watch the two men as they headed for the door beyond which was the stairway leading to George's room.
"What have you done this time, Gregor?"
"Nothing, Ma. Nothing. Watch your show."
"Montel has a stupid show today," she answered. "Policeman, what did my son do this time? Who did he rob?"
"I'll have him back in less than three hours," answered Lieberman, following George through the door.
"That's an answer to my question?" she shouted. 'Trapped in my own house. No one tells me anything. Are you hungry? You want some roast beef and potato salad?"
Lieberman followed Patniks down the narrow wooden steps.
George's room was a mess. Paints and paintings, palettes and newspapers, an unmade bed, piles of magazines. Lieberman wondered what George had been moving when he heard him through the floor less than ten minutes earlier.
"Nice work," said Lieberman, holding up a painting of a woman behind what looked like the counter of an all-night diner. The woman looked sad. There were no customers for whatever she was selling.
"Thanks," George said.
"What are you working on now? Don't artists have easels, something?"
"I'm not working on anything now."
"Then how'd you get covered with paint?"
"Mixing, looking for colors," explained George weakly. "I'm in the sketch stage. Pencil. Here, I'll show you."
George found a pad and opened it, flapping through pages of dark men and darker shadows.
"Illuminating," said Lieberman.
"Thanks," said George. "Can we go now?"
Lieberman looked around the room and nodded. Above them the television cackled.
"Let's go out the back," George said.
On the way across town to the station, Lieberman called Harvey Rozier and asked him to come to the station, said it was definitely important, that he had a possible line on the so-called handyman.
"Ken and I will be right there, and Lieberman, I think it only right that I tell you I've issued an official protest about the conduct of your partner who came to my house last night and treated me as if I were the prime suspect in my wife's murder."
"He is willful," said Lieberman.
"Is that sarcasm, Officer?" the quivering voice of Ken Franklin said, obviously from an extension.
"The truth," said Lieberman. "I'll see you at the station in an hour. Mr. Rozier knows the way."
When he hung up, Lieberman turned to George Patniks. There was no doubt that the man at his side was perspiring like a kid with a bad case of pneumonia. ›. _ Ken Franklin turned to Harvey Rozier and said, "They're more than a bit high-handed, these policemen, but they do seem to be giving full attention to the case. Are you all right, Harv?"
Harvey Rozier stood pale and sweating in his University of Illinois T-shirt and snorts, a towel around his neck. He had just finished forty minutes at 5.0 on the treadmill in the basement and now he stood in his office study wondering if there were some way he could get out of this. He had no choice but to agree immediately to Lieberman's request that he come and identify the man they had found. In all likelihood it wouldn't be Patniks. He had decided to wait till the immediate furor over Dana's death had faded before he located and contacted Patniks. But now this. And what about the mistakes he had made? Harvey Rozier had been confident that he could carry this off, but he had never murdered anyone before and he certainly couldn't have anticipated that a burglar would be a witness to the crime.
The ipecac, the ipecac-that was the mistake. He should have said Dana kept it around because she had a fear of food poisoning. Perhaps he could remember this casually, even refer to some time when she got sick and they were nowhere near a doctor. Nassau last year.
"Harv?" Ken Franklin said with concern, moving to the younger man. "Are you all right?"
"Under the circumstances, fine," said Rozier, giving his lawyer the faint smile of the victim who is doing his best to bear up under his grief.
Franklin smiled sympathetically and said, "You'd better take a shower and get dressed."
Rozier nodded and left the room.
There was something else he had not considered in this. He had a nearly perfect alibi, and he had told no one of his plan for murder, but what he hadn't counted on was the police coming up with the idea that he might have hired someone to murder Dana. He wasn't sure that this was their line of reasoning, but it made more than a little sense.
He stripped in the bathroom, leaving his clothes on the floor for the housekeeper to pick up. He wondered for an instant how Dana paid the woman. He would have to ask.
Harvey ran the water as hot as he could tolerate and it pelted him into thought and revived his confidence. Ken would stick by him, as would Betty, who, given her age, was in great condition and much better in bed than he would have imagined when he started to move on her almost six months ago.
Confidence, he told himself. There's no way they can get you on this, no way. Give you a hard time? Yes. But that would be it, and Ken, providing his health held up, would stand in front of Harv and take the worst of it.
Harvey had purposely not varied his work routine in any way before the murder. Even though he knew he would not be coming in for weeks, he had made appointments, set up meetings, made promises. This morning he had called Alan Gibson and told him to carry on as best he could and Alan had dutifully told him not to worry.
He had left to Betty the job of contacting Dana's relatives and booking them into the Hyatt. Betty had told them that Harvey was too distraught to see anyone yet.
Ten minutes after he stepped into the shower Harvey was dressed and downstairs. Ken was standing in the front hallway waiting, a newspaper in his hand.
"You haven't looked at the newspapers, have you?" Franklin asked.
"You asked me not to." 'Television?"
"Not the news."
"Good. The invasion of privacy will go on for a week or two and start to fade. No reason for you to be reminded of…"
"Thanks, Ken. I don't know what I'd do without you and Betty."
"We'll take my car," Ken said. "It's in the driveway."
Harvey nodded gratefully.
The crowd of curious observers was gone and the murder of Dana Rozier, while not forgotten by the press, was yesterday's news, particularly since it was clear that Harvey Rozier would not respond to questions.
Harvey climbed into Franklin's Lincoln Town Car, closed the door, and tried to think of how he should handle the situation if, by some stroke of luck or Harvey's error, they had found Patniks.