Lieberman's Law by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

ringing.
    Hanrahan had finally realized that she was not coming back. He had been attacked by a murderer during an investigation and was hospitalized with critical head wounds. Maureen had come. One of his boys, Bill Junior, had come. There had been no love in his eyes. A touch of sadness. A tic of regret. A quiver of sympathy. Maureen and their son had come once, heard that he would live and had departed after a few words of bitterness from Bill Junior. His younger son, Michael, had refused to fly in to see his father. Maureen had said little, but had made it clear that she had a new life, was seeing other men, had a decent job in an insurance office, and as a good Catholic, had no hope in seeking a divorce or annulment within the church. Instead, she had pursued a legal divorce and obtained it, though she told herself that she would have to live out her life in the eyes of the church still married to William Hanrahan.
    Hanrahan picked up the phone.
    â€œFather Murph,” said Lieberman from his car phone.
    â€œRabbi,” answered Hanrahan.
    â€œI’m heading for Hyde Park with Said.”
    â€œBe more specific and I’ll meet you there,” said Hanrahan.
    â€œHow about you get the short list of neo-Nazis and skinheads and start paying them a visit instead?”
    â€œRight,” said Hanrahan. “Watch yourself.”
    â€œI’ll check my well-groomed mustache in the mirror right now. Catch up with you later,” said Lieberman.
    â€œAbe.”
    â€œYeah, Bill?”
    â€œForget it. See you later.”
    They hung up. In this room were ghosts, even the ghost of the man he had murdered, the madman with the gun, Frankie Kraylaw, who Hanrahan had set up before the man could kill his own wife and little boy.
    Hanrahan stood up. It was time to leave the ghosts. He’d sell and send half the money to Maureen, though the house was in his name and she had not asked for it in their quick civil divorce. She had asked for no money and no support, wanting none, knowing that Hanrahan probably wouldn’t have it even if the court ordered him to pay. She wanted all chains cut. They had paid off the house years ago. She deserved half. He thought she’d keep it, but she might send it back to him.
    What had brought all this back? The sight of destruction, anger borne of a hatred Hanrahan could not understand. He had simply stood there while the Skokie police and the FBI had gone over the chapel. He had read the signs, seen the destruction.
    He really needed a drink. He called Smedley Ash, who answered after three rings. “Smed? It’s Bill Hanrahan. The bottle’s calling.”
    Smedley Ash was an alcoholic. He had been sober for a decade. Ironically, Bill Hanrahan had arrested Smedley on two occasions for disorderly conduct. Now Smedley was sober and working as the manager of the Now Boutique on Oak Street. Smedley was quietly but proudly gay.
    â€œWhat happened?” Smedley asked.
    Hanrahan rambled for about ten minutes about Maureen, his kids, what he had seen earlier that day, Iris.
    â€œI’ll be right over,” said Smedley.
    Hanrahan sighed. “No,” he said. “It’s passing and I’ve got to get to work. I just needed to let it out. I don’t even know what it is.”
    â€œOK,” said Smedley. “I’ll give you a call later, maybe we can talk after work.”
    Hanrahan thanked him and hung up. He put on his shoes, checked his gun, holstered it, put on his jacket, and headed for the door. The phone rang. Hanrahan considered ignoring it, but he had no answering machine, and he picked it up.
    â€œBill?” came a woman’s voice.
    â€œIt’s me,” he said. “Bess?”
    â€œYes,” she said, trying to speak calmly and evenly. “I’ve got to find Abe. Someone threatened to kill us, came right up to Barry when he was playing baseball in the park, said he’d kill us if Abe didn’t leave him