Lieberman's Folly by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

exercise?”
    â€œNothing,” said Lieberman.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œWhen it gets cold,” said Lieberman.
    â€œAllergies are the same,” Hartman said, looking at the bottom of his list. “Milk intolerance.”
    â€œI don’t drink it anymore,” Lieberman lied.
    â€œThen,” 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.”
    â€œI’ll think about it,” said Lieberman, also standing. “Can I ask you a question?”
    â€œAsk me a question,” said Hartman. “I’ve only got a few charity cases waiting.”
    â€œHanrahan come in for his physical yet?” said Lieberman. Hartman removed the x-rays from the light box and turned it off.
    â€œHanrahan,” said Hartman, turning to face his patient. “Hanrahan. Yes.”
    â€œHe’s my partner,” said Lieberman.
    â€œRight, 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?”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œPlace looks nice,” said Lieberman. He accepted a hot cup and noticed that the dish drainer was empty.
    â€œAbraham,” 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.”
    â€œGood coffee,” said Lieberman, sitting at the kitchen table. The top of the wooden table was spotless.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYeah,” said Lieberman.
    â€œI 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