Lieberman's Choice (19 page)

Chief of Police Marvin Hartz was pacing the living room of Jason Belding's apartment when the mayor's call came. Bill Hanrahan had the honor of picking up the phone as Hartz stopped pacing and looked at him, his face red, his slightly open mouth betraying his fear. Captain Alton Brooks, his SWAT uniform neatly pressed in contrast to the chief's now wrinkled uniform, stood, feet apart, hands folded in front of him, watching from the window.

“It's the mayor,” said Hanrahan, holding the phone toward the chief, who took it reluctantly.

Hanrahan moved across the room to at least create the illusion that the chief had some privacy.

“Yes, Mr. Mayor,” Hartz said, looking at Hanrahan, who pretended to be searching for something amid the paper rubble on a chair in the corner. Brooks simply stood there looking as if he were waiting for an order he knew was about to come. “I know … I believe that Captain Kearney plans to go up on the … No, I told him, ordered him not to go.”

Hartz dropped his voice and turned his back on Hanrahan, who now pretended to have found what he was looking for.

“I told him he was risking …”

Hanrahan gave up pretending, threw down the papers, and headed for the front door. Hartz spotted him, covered the mouthpiece of the phone, and hissed, “You stay right here.”

Hanrahan stopped, considered leaving the room in spite of the order, and decided against it. Instead, he leaned against the wall and looked directly at Hartz as the latter returned to his conversation.

“We can alert the SWAT copter to go to the assault alternative,” he said, looking at Brooks, who gave only the slightest of nods to indicate that he was ready. Then Hartz continued on the phone with, “But I thought … Yes, I'll clear all remaining officers and media from the area. … I … yes, I understand fully.”

Hartz hung up the phone and muttered almost, but not quite, to himself, “Yes, I understand whose ass is on the line.” And then to Hanrahan he said aloud, “Find Kearney. Don't talk. Just find him. Tell him I want him here now.”

Hanrahan pushed away from the wall, looked at Brooks, and left the apartment.

“Captain,” said Hartz, “clear all personnel from the area except your men on the door and the assault team. But remember, if they stay, they're volunteers.”

“They'll stay,” said Brooks.

“If we do have to go to the bomb … is it small?” Hartz asked.

“If Shepard has the place wired, it doesn't matter how small the bomb is. The chain reaction will …”

“Just do what you have to do,” Hartz said, putting on his cap. “Do it.”

On the stairway to the roof, Officers Howell and Spiza were again in their shirtsleeves at the metal door. Both were wearing dark work glasses. Spiza was working on the metal hinges of the door with a pinpoint and relatively quiet blowtorch when Kearney and Lieberman started up the stairs. To Lieberman, the two men looked like a formidable tag team, one black, one white, both powerful.

Spiza didn't see them coming, but Howell did and touched his partner's shoulder. Spiza turned off the torch and lifted his glasses.

“How's it coming?” asked Kearney.

Howell tilted his glasses back and said, “Few minutes. Good hit would probably take it down now.”

Kearney looked back at the SWAT officer, who now stood, rifle ready, at the foot of the stairs.

“He's out of control up there, you ask me, Captain,” said Spiza, looking at Howell for confirmation. Howell nodded. “He's talkin' to himself,” Spiza continued, “shooting. You think he really has the place wired?”

“Yeah,” said Kearney. “It's wired.”

A radio crackled at the bottom of the steps and Lieberman was aware of the SWAT man's whisper.

“Chief Hartz is looking for you, Captain,” called the SWAT man. “Wants you back at command fast.”

“You haven't seen me,” said Kearney without looking down.

“But …,” the SWAT man began, only to be cut off by Kearney's taking three steps up and throwing his shoulder at the steel door, which screeched and started to give way.

Both Spiza and Howell had moved out of, Kearney's way, but Lieberman came after him.

“Holy shit,” cried the SWAT man, lifting his rifle and dropping the phone.

“Captain,” Lieberman said, grabbing Kearney's arm.

“Back off,” said Kearney with a touch of madness in his face and words. “Back off and clear out. All of you, fast.”

“Captain,” the SWAT man shouted. “The chief says he does not, repeat, does not want you to go up there.”

“I think they changed their minds in City Hall, Captain,” said Lieberman softly as Howell and Spiza inched down a step or two.

“It doesn't matter,” said Kearney. “I'm going out there.”

“Then,” said Lieberman with a sigh, “we're going out there, but remember I've got a wife, a daughter, and two grandchildren, and tickets to Sunday's doubleheader.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” said Kearney.

Alton Brooks stood in the street, looking up and listening to his radio. He watched as two of his men came out of a top-story window of the Shoreham. They were dressed completely in black. Even the rifles slung over their backs were black.

One of the men raised a hand and waved down. Brooks waved back and the men began to search for footholds and places to grip for their climb to the roof.

“Captain Kearney passed Station Two at …,” the voice on the radio had said, only to be cut off by another voice adding, “Captain Kearney's here at Station Three. I gave him the order. He ignored me. He's opening the door, Zebra One, please advise.”

“Hit the lights, Briggs,” said Brooks clearly, quickly, decisively to his man at the main switches in the Shoreham basement.

On the roof of the Shoreham, Bernie Shepard turned toward the sound of screeching metal as the door began to open inward. Shepard wiped the sweat from his eyes and adjusted his glasses as Kearney stepped forward with someone behind him. Shepard watched the dog move toward the apparition, and Kearney reached down to pat its head.

Shepard wasn't sure whether it was really Kearney or another ghost. He looked toward the open hole where the door had been and saw only darkness.

“Get away from him,” Shepard called to the dog as he raised his weapon. “It's too soon.” He faced Kearney and checked his watch saying, “You've got another hour.”

“I'm calling this one, Bernie,” Kearney said, stepping forward. “Hartz just ordered me out of the area. I don't think he gives a shit if you blow up half the North Side. You let it go on too long, Bernie. You let it go on too long to get back at me. Now no one cares about you, this building, the entire North Side. Hartz wants you dead.”

Shepard laughed and looked at Lieberman and then back at Kearney.

“Christ, you're not real, either of you. But you will be in an hour. The real you will come up here. I can wait another hour. I can wait forever if I have to. Get out.”

Shepard raised his rifle quickly and took aim as Kearney stepped toward him.

“Shepard,” said Lieberman. “I'm not a ghost. I'm a very worried cop with about a dozen other worried cops in this building.”

“You been seeing ghosts, Bernie?” asked Kearney. “Well, I'm no goddamn ghost either. Not yet.”

Shepard cocked his head warily to one side to study the two men before him. Then he smiled, a slow smile that turned into another laugh.

“You couldn't wait,” he said. “You couldn't wait, so you came an hour early. And that is fine. You know why it's fine? Because I lied a minute ago, Al. I can't wait forever. I might not even make it another hour. I'm up to my ass in blood here and some of it's mine. Believe in destiny, Al, 'cause that's what brought you up here.”

Shepard pulled up his shirt. The bandage in the light of the moon was black with blood.

“You sent the copter,” said Shepard. “The two clowns, the Mex, but they couldn't stop this from happening, Kearney. You wasted your time.”

“Shepard,” said Lieberman reasonably. “You put down the gun. We walk down those stairs. You get a public trial where you can tell everyone in the world your story. And no one else dies.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Shepard. “But that's a whimper instead of a bang. I'm going out with a bang. Abraham, get your kosher ass out of here if you're so goddamn concerned about your family.”

“Bernie,” said Kearney. “You're a goddamn fool.”

“I'm a …? And what's your day been like, Captain? Is there anything left of your life? Is that why you came running up here early? God, I'm going to enjoy killing you.”

“Bernie, you are one fucking hypocrite.”

“I'm a …”

Shepard raised his rifle and fired into the night inches over Kearney's head.

“You screw your partner's wife, turn her into a whore, and I'm a …”

“… fool,” Kearney continued, now only half a dozen feet from Shepard. “She did what she did because you're a cold, self-righteous, unbending asshole. You treated her the way you treated everyone else, by the book. You weren't a husband. You were a keeper. You never listened to her, me, anyone in your life.”

Spiza, Howell, and the SWAT cop hovered back in the darkness of the stairwell next to the steel door that hung broken on a single twisted hinge. They had their weapons ready. They strained to hear the conversation on the roof but could catch nothing and could see little beyond the back of Sergeant Lieberman, who blocked most of their view.

The two SWAT men scaling the side of the building now reached the tiled eaves of the roof.

In Jason Belding's apartment fifteen stories below, Captain Alton Brooks stood, hands at his side, watching.

On the roof Bernie Shepard, swaying feverishly now, held the rifle aimed at Kearney's stomach.

“You are a lying bastard,” said Shepard.

It was Kearney's turn to laugh.

“Lying? What the hell have I got to lie about? I know you, Bernie. I'm not trying to change your mind. No one can do that. I just want you to know how much you fucked up. You think I screwed around with Livy?”

“I know you did, you shit. I watched you. You were my partner. I followed her to your place Thursday night. I waited. Three hours I waited. And when I went home later and asked where she'd been, she lied.”

Kearney shook his head.

“You asshole,” he said. “I was her friend. Friend. Do you know what that is? No, you don't. I should know that idea wouldn't get through to you. All you can think of between men and women is who's on top and how long. I could have taken her. When she cried and complained about what a frozen bastard you are. I could have taken her. I told her you wouldn't change. She thought she could change you when you were married. I warned her, told her what you were, said you were too old and too damn mean to change, but she saw something in you. She was wrong.”

“Beeton,” Shepard shouted. “The others.”

“Who the hell knows, Bernie?” Kearney shouted back. “Maybe she wanted you to catch her. Maybe she was looking for a cop who'd treat her like a person. Shit, maybe she was looking for some simple sex. I'm not excusing her. She doesn't need any excuses. You didn't give her a chance to give one. She's dead. No one betrayed you, Bernie. No one but Bernie Shepard.”

Shepard looked at Kearney and blinked his eyes. Confused, he raised his rifle toward the tower where he had placed the detonator. It was clearly marked with a spot of yellow glowing paint and he was reasonably sure that, even in his condition, he could still hit it from thirty feet.

“Shit,” muttered Lieberman. “Shepard, don't …”

“Lying,” said Shepard, blinking his eyes clear so he could keep the yellow spot in focus. “You're a lying son of a bitch trying to save your dirty pimping skin.”

“I'm not lying and you know it,” said Kearney. “What I'm telling you doesn't bring Livy or Beeton or those two assholes you shot back. It won't even save you and it sure as hell isn't helping me any. It doesn't do anything but show you that this whole self-righteous pile of shit was a stupid waste.”

“No,” shouted Shepard, his sweating forehead beet red with strain. “Self-respect. There's nothing else. In the end it's just lies and bad dreams if you don't respect yourself.”

Shepard tried to hold aim on the yellow dot. He moaned softly in anger and frustration, and wiped the moisture from his glasses and forehead with his sleeve. Somewhere behind him the dog groaned in confusion. Shepard's finger tightened on the trigger, and Lieberman had an instant to wonder if the look on Shepard's face showed any understanding of the horror of what he had done.

And then suddenly Bernie Shepard's face went slack—not, Lieberman decided, from pain, but resignation. There seemed to be a spark of terrible comprehension in his eyes as he lowered the rifle.

Shepard opened his mouth to speak, and to Lieberman there was something strange and mystical about the sweating man. For an instant Lieberman did not understand the pinpoint of red light on Shepard's forehead, a mark like the sign of Cain. Then he knew that Kearney had recognized the spot.

The dog was now running toward the doorway.

“No,” shouted Kearney, turning toward the open door where he sensed but couldn't see the SWAT man in the stairwell.

The dog leaped into the darkness and the SWAT man held up his rifle to keep the snarling animal from his throat.

A rifle shot.

For a beat both Lieberman and Kearney were confused and then they saw, beyond the back of Bernie Shepard, at the edge of the roof, two dark shadows.

Shepard dropped the rifle and fell in dying pain to the sound of dog and man battling in the darkness. As he slumped to the roof, Shepard's glasses fell from his face. He reached for them a good foot from where they clattered to the stones.