Lieberman's Folly by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

liquid Palmolive, rinsed it, and put it in the dishwasher.
    â€œJust came from Doc Hartman,” said Lieberman finishing his coffee. “Says aside from my bad knees, blood pressure, screwed-up back, trick finger, and weak stomach, I’ll be good for another year.”
    â€œNever doubted it,” said Hanrahan with a smile, taking Lieberman’s now empty cup.
    â€œHe says you should see the shrink,” Lieberman said.
    â€œDon’t believe in them,” said Hanrahan. “Believe in them less than I believe in the God of my fathers. Let’s change the subject.”
    â€œNew subject is last night,” said Lieberman. “How are you feeling?”
    â€œResponsible,” said Hanrahan. “And I don’t want to lose that feeling. I didn’t find our friend Jules the Walker. Kept at it till about three. Came home and went to bed sober. I’m tired but I’m ready.”
    â€œMy daughter talked to me till after four,” said Lieberman. “I’m tired and I don’t know how ready I am but I’m walking. Let’s go.”
    They took separate cars and arrived at the Clark Street Station just before ten. It was a busy Saturday. People were lined up to fill out complaints. The squad room was filled, mostly with Hispanics from the immediate neighborhood, sitting stone silent and frightened or angry.
    Mel Hobson looked as if his temper was about to go. The last time it went was in the winter, when he almost ripped the ear off of a mugger named Jonas who wouldn’t answer questions for his rap sheet. Allen Bootes and Joanna Mishkowski were in the corner talking to a frightened little black girl who kept looking up at an equally frightened black man handcuffed to a bench across the room.
    â€œCalls,” said Connie Parish, covering the phone with her hand. “On your desk. And a prelim on the P.M. corpus.”
    â€œI like the hairdo,” Lieberman said. “Very chic.”
    Connie, whose uniform was perfectly tailored and whose skin had been badly dealt with by heredity, smiled, touched her tinted straw hair, and went back to the phones. Lieberman was on the phone at his desk making a call and reading the preliminary autopsy report on Estralda Valdez when Hanrahan came in. Lieberman waved to him.
    â€œRight,” Hanrahan heard as he approached Lieberman’s desk. “I hear you, Sol. You’re right … I don’t know … Who knows? You have any idea where he might be? … I’ll try it. I may need a statement from you … Maish’s fine. His son, my nephew Joe, remember? The lawyer, running for alderman. Why would I kid? You stay in touch and you’ll know … Bess’d like that … I might not be home but you can look at the lawn. You can knock. You can hope. Keep your brother-in-law out of trouble.”
    Lieberman hung up and looked at the notes he had written. Some of it didn’t make much sense. He told Hanrahan what he had, handed him the autopsy report, and the two of them moved through the squad room to the hallway and up the stairs to Hughes’s office. Hanrahan did the knocking. Lieberman opened the door and Hughes looked up at them from the report he was reading. The office looked more like that of an accountant or a ward committeeman than a police captain. The furniture, donated by various grateful businesses in the area, was somber, dark, serious wood. The bookcases were filled with books on the law and weapons, and department regulations, along with a thesaurus, dictionary, and assorted reference books. One wall was a picture window looking out into the parking lot so Hughes could see his men coming and going. The other three white walls each held a single photograph. The one behind Hughes was of the captain shaking hands with the late Mayor Washington, who had his left arm around Hughes’s shoulder and his right hand clutching Hughes’s hand. The photograph on the wall to the