Hanrahan had, thanks to God, finished his sandwich and pickle.
"What do we have?" he asked.
"Puzzles," said Lieberman.
"I don't like puzzles," said Hanrahan, sucking at something in his teeth.
"Doing the autopsy now," he said. "I talked to Reasoner. He said he'd wring my neck if I let anybody know before Brice told us officially, but it looks like Dana Rozier was killed by multiple stab wounds in her arms, legs, back, stomach, chest, and face. No sexual assault with or without the weapon."
"So where's the puzzle?"
"They found ipecac in her stomach," he said. "The stuff that makes you throw up fast."
"I know. So, she accidentally ate something that she thought was-" Hanrahan began, but Lieberman was shaking his head.
"Our friend Dr. Reasoner says it doesn't look like there was anything in her stomach, that she hadn't eaten for at least six to eight hours. Still preliminary, but…" Lieberman shrugged.
"I'll see if there's any ipecac at the Rozier house," said Hanrahan, working on his coffee as the Pirates scored one in the top of the ninth to go back out ahead by a run. "What else?"
"Remember the mark in the blood, rectangle, about six inches by a foot and a half?"
"Yeah, looked like the blood had flowed around it."
"Evidence said they didn't take anything from the room. Didn't move anything," said Lieberman.
"Maybe," Hanrahan tried, "the killer put something down when he killed Mrs. Rozier. Then when he was done, he picked it up and ran."
"Nope," said Lieberman, working on his now-cold bagel. "Whatever was there was a good seven or eight feet from the body. It took awhile for the blood to get to there."
"How long?" Hanrahan asked.
"Who knows? Two, maybe three minutes. Man kills a woman in panic when he's caught in a burglary and then waits a minute or goes back to looking for candlesticks?"
"Not likely, unless he's a real hard-core addict," Hanrahan answered. "But it's still possible, Rabbi."
"Most self-respecting thieves who hadn't planned the crime would get the hell out of there as fast as they could. So I ask you, Father Murphy, what made that shape in the blood and where is it?"
"Cubs win! Cubs win!" Harry Carey shouted. "Holy cow."
"I'll be looking for our mysterious object," said Hanrahan, "but…"
"It's probably nothing. I know. Last puzzler. Fingerprints found match Rozier, Franklin, his wife, the dead woman. Footprints in the blood also check for Rozier, Franklin, and his wife plus two others, one with sneakers."
"Two burglars?" said Hanrahan.
"We'll ask when we find one of them, Father Murphy," said Lieberman.
Manuel came to the table bearing two side orders of potato pancakes with sour cream.
"Compliments of the boys," he said, nodding at the Cockers' table. "In honor of the Cubs' victory."
Lieberman looked at the Cockers, who raised their seltzer, chocolate phosphates, and coffee in a toast to the Cubs.
Were latkes on Doc Berry's hit list? Absolutely not, Lieberman decided. At least not till I ask Doc Berry. And with that he dug in.
When he left to drive Bill Hanrahan home fifteen minutes later, Maish had still not returned.*** The hardest thing for Harvey Rozier to do was keep from working. Playing the role of grieving husband was proving to be the most difficult part of murdering his wife. He sat in the living room trying to look overwhelmed while Betty Franklin, who had relieved her husband, fielded endless calls from business associates, Harvey's secretary, near and distant relatives, and the media.
The bloody toolbox the thief had left was locked inside Harvey's second safe in the garage. The safe was behind the tool cabinet and looked as old as the house, which had been built in the 1920s.
He had to find that thief, the witness to his crime. He had his name, George Patniks or Eupatniaks. He would check the city and suburban directories and, if necessary, ask a friend in the phone company to see if the man had an unlisted number. No, Harvey decided. He couldn't do that. No more than he could simply have someone in City Hall call the thief's parole officer or check the files to find the man's address. He couldn't have anyone who could trace him to the thief, particularly if Harvey had to kill him.
If the man were reasonable, Harvey told himself, he might consider threatening him with revelation as the murderer, complete with the man's bloody toolbox as evidence. He might. But Harvey doubted it.
Tonight, when he was alone in his room, he would check the directories and hope that the man was listed. If he wasn't, the job would be that much harder.
There were no parking spaces on the street in front of his house, not even the one by the fire hydrant. A van with a CLERGY sign on the pulled-down visor was illegally parked there.
Art Hellyer was joyfully announcing the next string of oldies on the radio as Lieberman turned the corner on Birchwood and drove around the back into the alley.
The rain had stopped, and there was a heavy, cold Chicago spring chill as Lieberman got out of the car, found the right key on his chain, and opened the garage. The garage door had ceased subservient cooperation more than a decade ago. It grew more reluctant with each opening. Weary from Chicago heat, cold, and rain, it simply wanted to be left alone. Normally Lieberman honored that wish, but there were a few nights, like tonight, when it was either park two or three blocks away or try to wake the dying door. Lieberman struggled, pulled, heard the impatient humming of his car engine behind him. Trying to lift with his knees and protect his back, Lieberman coaxed and pampered as the door reluctantly began to slide upward with a rusty squeal.
No more, Lieberman decided. He would not park in the garage again. He would fill the garage with junk from the closets. It was either that or fix the door, a challenge he did not even give serious consideration.
It was late, later than he liked, a little after eight. A little talk with the kids before they went to bed, some contentious banter with his daughter, something to eat-but what? — and then to the bedroom with Bess if he didn't get a call.
Abe opened the porch door, crossed the few feet to the back door. He heard the loud, confident baritone voice the instant he opened the door. The voice sounded familiar. Abe kicked off his shoes and placed them on the sheet of newspaper laid out next to the door. The aroma of cooking brisket filled the room. I'm undone, Lieberman thought.
"No doubt, none whatsoever," the man's voice pontificated from beyond the closed kitchen door.
"Well…" Bess answered.
Abe had crossed the kitchen, opened the door, and met his wife's eyes. She and the man were seated at the dining room table.
Bess was five years younger than Abe Lieberman. On a bad day she looked fifteen years younger. On a good day she looked like his daughter. She was Abe's height, dark, and slender. Not a classic beauty but a Lady, a lady with a capital L. She wore her curly dark hair short and she had the most beautiful and distinctive soft voice Lieberman had ever heard. Bess's father had been a butcher on the South Side, but Bess, now the president of Temple Mir Shavot, carried herself as if she had come from generations of successful bankers.
"Oh, Abe," she said looking up at him. "I was hoping you'd be home. You know Rabbi Nathanson?"
There was something in Bess's voice that made it clear she needed support or rescue.
Rabbi Ira Nathanson of Temple B'nai Shalom, south of Devon, rose and held out his right hand. In his left hand was an envelope. Rabbi Nathanson was a tall man, four or five years younger than Lieberman. His shoulders sagged and his dark face and heavily bagged eyes had given him the nickname among the children of Rabbi Camel. The rabbi was wearing a dark suit and tie and a grave look.
"We've met," Lieberman said, taking the rabbi's large hand in a firm shake. "Three years ago. Member of your congregation, Isadore Green. Missing person."