"Not too bad. She'll live. Want to talk to Fernandez? He asked for you."
"Later. Coffee and Coke, Bobby," Lieberman reminded and hung up.
Chuculo Fernandez was a member of the Tentaculos, a Hispanic gang headed by a madman, Emiliano Del Sol, who had a decidedly uncharacteristic fondness for Lieberman. Chuculo was stupid and quick with his knife. The Tentaculos were Mexicans, Guatemalans, and Panamanians led by the almost legendary El Perro, Emiliano Del Sol. El Perro was reported to have killed more than one manalways men-for looking at or seeming to look at the scar on his cheek for too long.
Even a turn-away judge like Mitgang would have trouble giving Fernandez less than two years plus, even with a crime like ghost riding.
Ghost riders are a big-city phenomenon-New York, Chicago, L.A., Detroit. Nothing new. A man or a woman with a criminal heart happens to be lucky enough to be on the scene when a bus gets in a wreck or four or five cars pile up. Our criminal heart joins the jolted passengers and claims he or she was on the bus and is dying of internal injuries. Four lawyers with police band radios are usually on the spot as fast as the police are, picking up clients. Sometimes, if they get there before the police, the lawyer will even join the jolted and claim he or she was on the bus. A felony. Not a big one, but a felony.
Lieberman turned to the computer and flipped a switch.
They went through two tapes with about eighty faces on each. Three times Rozier paused at pictures, all somewhat similar, thin white males in their forties. Each time he paused, Rozier asked the name of the person in the picture. None of the names rang a bell.
Bobby Arango came in with the drinks, gawked discreetly, and exited professionally.
Rozier stopped at two more mug shots in the thick book that Lieberman then placed in front of him, asked their names, and said they were close but he was sure they weren't the one.
It was a game now and it was over. The third picture on the videotape had been Gregor Eupatniaks, a.k.a. George Patniks, a.k.a. Pitty-Pitty Patniks. Rozier had asked for no more information than the name of the man who had seen him murder his wife.
"I'm sorry," Rozier said an hour and another Coke and coffee later, when they closed the final book.
"That's all right," said Lieberman. "They come in all the time. We'll keep checking. He may be new at this or new in town."
Lieberman had made a note of each man Rozier had considered.
"I think I'd like to go back home now," said Rozier, rising and rubbing his forehead.
"Let's go, and thanks for your cooperation."
"You're welcome."
"We'll catch him, Mr. Rozier. I've got a feeling he made a lot of mistakes. You don't just break into a house, panic, murder, and run without leaving something."
"I hope you're right," said Harvey Rozier. "I hope to God you're right."
"I've got to make one quick stop upstairs before we go. Do you mind?"
"I'll just stay here if it's all right," said Rozier. "I wouldn't mind being alone for a few minutes."
Lieberman nodded, went into the narrow hall and up the flight of steps to the squad room. Everyone called it the squad room, though there were no squads. It was just what you called the room where the detectives had their desks, took their calls, got their assignments, and brought suspects, victims, and witnesses.
Joe Wiznicki was at his desk, rubbing his mouth and pecking out a report on his computer. "Black and White," Applegate and Acardo, hovered over a skinny woman clutching her purse in her lap. Probably a victim. In the corner, near the windows that were designed never to open, sat a handcuffed Chuculo Fernandez, a thin, surly twenty-year-old with a long record of violence and the distinction of being one of the three craziest members of the Tentaculos.
Ernest Cadwell was talking to Fernandez, who, slumped in his chair, hat Sinatra style over his brow, was doing his best to look bored. Cadwell, a huge black man with a patience Lieberman admired but couldn't understand, was calmly asking Fernandez questions in a combination of English and Spanish.
"Viejo," Fernandez said, seeing Lieberman.
"Muy lejos de su pais, Chuculo," said Lieberman.
"Pues…"
"Digame, que pasa? In English," said Lieberman.
"There was this puta, you know?" Chuculo said, slowly sitting up and tilting his hat back on his head. "I pay her good. She say OK, Chico. We fuck. Then she call a cop and they pick me up in front of some bar a block away. That sound like someone running?"
"You hit the woman, Fernandez."
"A little, maybe," he shrugged.
"Broken right cheek bone, lacerations around the eye requiring suturing, bruised ribs, and a nasty bite on her left ear," said Cadwell matter-of-factly.
"Hey, Viejo, you remember how it is," Fernandez explained. "Passion. You get carried away."
"She says you were ghost riding," said Lieberman.
"Nunca," said Fernandez with indignation. "Never in my life."
"Battery and ghost riding, Chuculo. You're in for a long day. Mucho gusto de verle a usted, otra vez, Fernandez," Lieberman said, turning his back.
"Wait, hold it," said Fernandez, starting to get up. Cadwell reached over, grabbed the young man's shoulder, and calmly pushed him back down.
"Viejo, you go see Emiliano," Fernandez said. "He'll make you a deal."
"When I have some time," Lieberman said, walking away.
When Lieberman got back to the library, Harvey Rozier, apparently lost in his nightmare, looked up at him.
"We can go now. Sorry," said Lieberman.
Rozier shook his head and smiled understandingly.
They drove back to Rozier's house in silence. Not even the radio. The sky was sunless and gray, as it had been for days, and the rain was back, light but certain.
Lieberman was sure of one thing. He didn't like Harvey Rozier. Maybe it was class envy or that Rozier reminded him of some almost-forgotten enemy in high school or the way Rozier looked as if he were struggling to contain his grief. Or maybe Lieberman was wrong. It wasn't necessarily a meaningful observation. Abe had known victims who deserved shooting and no sympathy and he had known and liked more than one murderer.
Lieberman would do his job. And it looked like he would miss the Cubs, at least today. Hell, it would probably be rained out anyway.
Houses
The game wasn't rained out. There were two delays but they rushed it through between cloudbursts. The Pirates were up four to two in the top of the seventh when Lieberman and Hanrahan came in the door of the T and L Deli on Devon.
On the radio, Harry Carey was exhorting the crowd.
"Let me hear ya," he cried, and the crowd came back with "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."
At their reserved front table, the only table in the T amp; L, three of the Alter Cocker regulars-Herschel Rosen, Syd Levan, and Howie Chen-kept singing along with Harry when the policemen entered. There was a fourth man at the table who wasn't singing, but he was smiling knowingly and nodding his head.
Syd Levan, the youngest Cocker at sixty-eight, motioned to Lieberman and Hanrahan to stop at their table. They did and dutifully waited till "Root, root, root for the Cubbies" let the patrons of the T amp; L, including two women at the counter and a couple with a small child in one of the red leatherette booths, know that the important part was coming.
"For it's one, two, three strikes you're out at the old ball game," the three Cockers and the little boy in the booth belted out.
Syd, always jaunty, a retired insurance salesman, in a yellow sweater, held up a hand to let Herschel introduce the new man. Hersch, who was seventy-one, was a retired jewelry salesman. He had been "Red" Rosen back in the late thirties when Marshall High School went on a hundredgame winning streak. There were people who still recognized the name, though the white hair held only a hint of red-orange. Hersch was the acknowledged leader of the Alter Cockers, the wit, the one with the most moxie and the biggest reputation.