Lieberman's Choice (12 page)

Carl whimpered once and reached in pain for the rifle he had dropped. The sun laughed at him as he leveled his weapon in the general direction of the figure beyond the concrete bunker. Bernie Shepard fired. Carl, sensing a second agonizing bite or shot in his torn shoulder, staggered back with a terrible scream and tumbled over the edge of the roof.

The dog stood looking from roof edge to Shepard, who came out from behind the barrier, a shotgun in his hands, and moved to the man he had just shot. He used his foot to turn the man, keeping his weapon pointed at the body. The glazed open eye convinced Shepard the man was dead. Shepard moved to the edge of the roof where Carl had fallen, leaned over with the gun balanced against the brickwork, and began to fire.

From the doorway of the Shoreham, Alton Brooks looked at the twisted, bloody body of Carl Binyon and watched as Bernie Shepard blew out the flashing lights of two parked police cars.

From where he stood he could see Abel Fernandez, his best rifleman, on top of the five-story building across the street. Fernandez was protected by a brick chimney. He looked in Captain Brooks's direction and gave a slow, negative shake to show that he could not get a shot at Shepard.

Brooks nodded back to show that he understood. Something came crashing down to the street, and Brooks knew it was the body of the second man. He had expected it. What he didn't expect was the fluttering sound that followed the body. Brooks took a step away from the doorway and looked up. Curling down as if it had life and purpose was the rope ladder. It caught a current of dry wind, changed direction slightly, and headed for an old Buick parked across the street. The ladder snapped into the roof of the car with a metallic thud and slithered to the street. And then there was silence.

From the window of Jason Belding's apartment, Abe Lieberman, Bill Hanrahan, and Alan Kearney watched the purple comedy. The two bodies fell. The lights of the patrol cars went out. The ladder floated down. Two SWAT men ducked for cover behind a car. Lieberman sipped at his coffee and spoke without looking at Kearney.

Just before Shepard had come on the radio to give his warnings about coming through the door, Abe had been on the phone with Nestor Briggs, who had given him a long list of calls ranging from “don't call backs” to “urgents.” The urgents included calls from his daughter, his son-in-law, and Jeanine Kraylaw.

“What'd she say?” Abe had asked about the Kraylaw call.

“He did it again,” said Briggs. “This time it was something about how his sister disappeared five years ago.”

“No direct death threat?” asked Lieberman.

“Didn't sound like it to me, Abe,” said Nestor, “but …”

“I know,” said Lieberman. “I'll get over there if I can get away. Todd, my son-in-law …”

And that's when Shepard's voice had crackled onto the radio.

Now, three minutes and two bodies later, Lieberman looked at Alan Kearney.

“You giving serious thought to going up there tonight, Captain?” asked Lieberman.

“I'm thinking,” said Kearney. “What would you do?”

“Clear the neighborhood and tell Shepard to go ahead and blast,” said Hanrahan. “Urban renewal.”

Kearney was staring at Dave's body in the middle of the street.

“I don't like the idea of Bernie Shepard being gunned down up there with a bullet in his brain,” said Kearney. “Whatever he's done, he deserves an end. He deserves better.”

“Meaning,” said Lieberman. “He deserves you?”

“Meaning, I don't know what,” said Kearney, forcing his eyes away from the window.

“You've got it backwards, Captain,” said Hanrahan. “He wants you up there to put one in your brain.”

The knock at the door was light.

“I'll take it,” said Lieberman, moving to the door while Kearney and Hanrahan continued to stare out the window.

Lieberman opened the door on a good-looking young uniformed cop whose name he couldn't remember.

“Sergeant,” said the cop, “this isn't a good time.”

“I concur,” said Lieberman.

“I mean,” said the cop softly, looking at Kearney, “I was on my way when …”

“What is it?” asked Lieberman, guiding him back into the hallway outside of the apartment.

“It's about Olivia Shepard,” said the young man as Lieberman closed the door.

The corridor was dark. The carpet soft and silent.

“I …,” he began. “She and I …”

“Keep it,” said Lieberman. “What's your name?”

“Voyce, Raymond Voyce.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“My daughter's ten years older than you,” said Lieberman. “She asks for advice. I give her advice. She doesn't listen. I'm giving you advice, Raymond Voyce.”

“But I've …”

“Are you a Catholic?”

Voyce looked puzzled.

“Yes.”

“Then take it to a priest.”

“I did.”

“I've got a question,” said Lieberman. “Who's your confession going to help? I mean your confession here?”

“I don't …,” Voyce started in confusion.

Lieberman put a hand on the young man's shoulder and turned him gently toward the stairs.

“Think about it, Raymond Voyce.”

When he went back into the apartment, Hanrahan walked toward him and whispered, “Rabbi, no way I would go up there.”

Lieberman looked at Kearney's back and knew that quite the opposite was true of Captain Alan Kearney.

I
N THE OFFICE OF
the mayor of Chicago, Aaron Jameson and his assistant, Ty Wheeler, were eating sandwiches at the mayor's desk.

“Dry,” said His Honor. “Too dry. Maybe we should keep a jar of mustard in the office.”

“You don't eat here often enough to make it worthwhile,” said Wheeler.

“And maybe I won't be eating here at all in two months if we don't take care of business with our rooftop moralist.”

The mayor took a drink of beer from an amber bottle as Wheeler put down his sandwich and went to his briefcase. The phone rang and the mayor picked it up.

“No calls, Harriet,” he said. “I said none unless …”

The mayor listened silently to his secretary as Wheeler sat up and handed him a neatly typed sheet of paper.

“Yes,” said the mayor into the phone. “I see. Tell Chief Hartz I'll get back to him as soon as I can. No, I don't want to talk to Channel Four, Seven, Nine, any newspaper, any radio station, the pope, Jesse Jackson, or the president.”

As he hung up the phone, he looked at Wheeler and said, “We're going to have to call a press conference. Our good sergeant Shepard, our rooftop vigilante, just shot two citizens who probably went after him to collect the reward. … Only there ain't no damn reward. What was that old cowboy movie with Gregory Peck where all the young guys kept trying to shoot him because he was so famous?”

“The Gunfighter,”
answered Wheeler. “If Chief Hartz's plan doesn't work, I suggest a simple statement of confidence in Captain Kearney with your assurance that under no circumstances will you permit the good captain to go up on that roof.”

Aaron Jameson examined the neatly typed sheet. He found a clear spot on the desk, reached for the fountain pen his daughter Sonia had given him for his last birthday, signed the sheet, and handed it back to Wheeler.

“Go ahead,” said the mayor. “I take it we put a bit more pressure on Hartz to insure that Captain Kearney heroically and silently refuses my protection and keeps his rendezvous high above the city in the light of the full moon.”

“The moon won't be quite full tonight,” Ty Wheeler corrected. “It's starting to wane.”

“Then we have some hope,” said the mayor, examining his sandwich again and wishing for mustard. “He doesn't think of everything.”

“Hartz is no problem,” said Wheeler, placing the signed document in his briefcase and closing it. “He may not be capable of influencing Kearney.”

Aaron Jameson had lost his appetite.

“Ty,” he said. “Are you suggesting that I talk to Captain Kearney?”

“No,” said Wheeler. “Only that you use your considerable powers of persuasion to inspire Chief Hartz to levels of rhetoric he has not previously been known to possess.”

Jameson shook his head, swiveled in his leather chair, and looked out the window.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Are we really better than Wojeckski? Are we really any damn better than the Republicans?”

Wheeler paused so long before he answered that the mayor glanced over his shoulder to be sure he had been heard.

“If I didn't think so,” Wheeler said finally, “I wouldn't be doing all this dirty work to keep you in office. The city needs you, Aaron. You want to stay in office, there's a price to pay.”

Wheeler stood, picked up his briefcase, and headed for the door.

“And,” said the mayor, continuing to look out the window, “Captain Kearney's going to pay it. I wonder if he even voted for me?”

“You want me to find out?” Wheeler asked emotionlessly.

“No,” said the mayor. “Just have Harriet issue that statement to the press. Press conference in the morning. Let's make it early, let the bastards suffer.”

“Six?”

“Perfect,” said the mayor. “If we get through this one, I owe you a dinner at Escargot.”

“If we get through this one,” said Wheeler with his hand on the door, “I'll gift wrap a jar of mustard and have it on your desk by noon tomorrow.”

“I'll put in a call for Chief Hartz to be back here in an hour.”

“You don't have much faith in his plan?” said the mayor.

“Do you?”

“I'm the politician, Tyrone. Why do you answer me with a question?”

“It's not a question of faith, Your Honor,” said Wheeler, opening the door. “My job is contingencies.”

Four months earlier, Frankie Kraylaw had been standing in the living room of his two-room apartment just off of Clark Street with one arm around his son, Charlie, and another around his wife, Jeanine.

They looked like they were about to break into a cheerful old song like “Side by Side.” Frankie's grin was broad and looked phony, but Lieberman had the chilly feeling that the young man was sincere and maybe more than a little crazy. His wife and son winced in pain and Lieberman said, “I think you're hurting your family, Frankie.”

Kraylaw, still grinning, looked first at his son and then at his wife. Wife and son smiled back at him, but there was no joy in their smile. The wife was young, with dark straw-colored hair, and wearing a loose-fitting dress. Her eyes looked puffy red from crying. The boy looked like his father. Straight red hair, green eyes, pale. He had a large “Sesame Street” Band-Aid on his forehead.

“No,” he said, his straight reddish hair flopping over his eyes so he had to clear them with a nod.

“Let them loose,” said Lieberman, stepping closer. “Now.”

Kraylaw let out a short, sharp sigh and let his wife and son go. Jeanine Kraylaw led her son to the sofa near the window and sat rubbing his arm and watching the old policeman who looked like some kind of tired dog. She had the hope that Frankie wouldn't be able to fool this one.

“Neighbors say you've been making a lot of noise,” said Lieberman. “Sounded like you might be beating your wife and son.”

“I never,” said Frankie, looking shocked.

“Did he hit you?” Lieberman asked Jeanine and the boy.

“Did I ever hit you, love?” Frankie asked with great sincerity. “Don't I love you?”

“Frankie, sit down,” said Lieberman.

“He never,” said Jeanine, her eyes following her husband, who moved to a wooden chair in the corner and sat.

“Never,” agreed Charlie, looking at his father.

“There's been a misunderstanding, Officer,” said Kraylaw. “We did make some noise, television too loud maybe. Laughing. Hey, was it last night Charlie fell over and hit his head on the table? Lot of noise, screamed something fierce. That right?”

Jeanine nodded and Lieberman turned to Kraylaw, who smiled, eager to help clear up this terrible misunderstanding.

“You got a job?”

“White Hen Pantry on Broadway,” he said. “But I've got ambitions. Saving up. Well, will be saving up when we catch up on some things. Gonna get one of those ice-cream carts, or hot dogs or cookies. You can make money if you get the right spots. Be your own boss.”

“The American dream,” said Lieberman. “How about you and me go in the other room and talk.”

“I've got no secrets from my dear ones,” said Frankie Kraylaw, pointing to his wife and son.

At that moment Lieberman was convinced that he was dealing with a very dangerous and very crazy young man.

“Man talk,” said Lieberman, gesturing for Frankie to come with him.

“You're not goin' to take me in there and beat up on me?” he asked, still sitting.

“Talk only,” Lieberman assured him.

“God's truth?”

“God's truth.”

“Then,” said Kraylaw, standing cheerfully, “why not?”

The bedroom was small, a double bed against one wall, a battered dresser. The bed was made, covered by a worn but decent quilt. A large painting of Jesus with a halo hung on the wall.

“Where's the boy sleep?” asked Lieberman.

“With the angels,” said Frankie, closing the door behind them.

“With the angels?”

“I mean by that,” said Frankie, pacing the room, “he sleeps in the living room on the pull-out. I mean by that he is a blessed child, as I was.” Frankie touched his own chest with his left hand and looked at the painting of Jesus. “You're a Jewish man?” he asked.

“I'm a Jewish man,” Lieberman confirmed.

“I could tell,” said Frankie with satisfaction.

“You indeed have great powers of observation. Listen, Frankie,” Lieberman said with a sad smile. “Stop walking and listen.”