"I'll tell your mother," Lieberman agreed and the two children disappeared into the kitchen.
"They acted as if I were already gone," said Todd, adjusting his glasses.
"I like Faye," said Lieberman.
"Lisa and I are both tragedy," said Todd. "You understand? Faye is comedy."
"I understand," said Lieberman.
Lieberman had admitted it to no one but himself that Todd was, indeed, better off without Lisa. Though she was his own daughter, there was an air of martyred despair and seriousness about her that definitely came from generations lost in antiquity and the farmlands north of Kiev from which both Lieberman's and Bess's grandparents had come.
"Then you'll…?"
"Talk to Lisa, yes," Lieberman agreed.
"And then I'll talk to her. I promise," said Todd, allowing himself to be ushered toward the door.
"I believe you," said Lieberman, opening the front door.
"Remember, Abe, it was Lisa who wanted some freedom, who walked out with the kids."
"I absolve you, Todd. Go forth into the world and live a life of goodwill and self-fulfillment."
"Abe, don't-" he began, opening the front door.
"I'm sorry, Todd. I'm tired. I'm hungry for a dozen Ritz crackers covered with chopped liver. I want to shave in a hot tub and do a crossword puzzle. I want 'The Henry Morgan Show' to return to radio. I want a new stomach, new knees, and everything to be the way it was in 1958. Is that too much to ask?"
"It can't be," said Todd.
"I know. Good night. I'll talk to Lisa."
Todd nodded, adjusted his glasses, plunged his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, and hurried into the night. It was raining harder now.
He found them at the kitchen table working on white icecream mountains covered with syrupy chocolate. Abe Lieberman longed to join them.
"Can I count on you two to clean up and go to bed reasonably clean?"
"Can we watch television for an hour?" Melisa said, her nose dotted with chocolate. "I have no trouble waking up in the morning. You know that."
Barry looked at the ceiling, making it clear that he would not join this debate.
"One hour," Lieberman agreed. "You both watch the same thing. Upstairs. In bed. No fights. You hear your mother and the lights go out before she catches you. Deal?"
"Deal," Melisa said.
"She'll tell," said Barry.
"I won't," Melisa insisted, jabbing her spoon into the softening mound of ice cream and chocolate.
"We'll see," said Barry, looking exactly like his father.
"I'm getting back in my bath. Good night," said Lieberman.
"Don't see Beethoven's Second, Grandpa," Melisa said as he went out the door. "It sucks."
There were lights on in the Rozier house-not a lot of lights, but enough to suggest that the grieving Harvey Rozier was not swooning in bed a few minutes before ten.
There were no private security men on the door.
Hanrahan knew why he didn't like Rozier. The man was arrogant and his grief a fraud. That didn't make him guilty of killing his wife or hiring someone to do it. Many unlik-able people are innocent just as many a murderer is a decent individual. Still, Bill Hanrahan did not like Harvey Rozier.
He rang (he bell. A chime echoed. Pause. He rang again and heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Then the door opened and Harvey Rozier, barefoot, in pale jeans and a red Chicago Bulls sweatshirt, was glaring at the policeman at his door.
"You didn't ask who I was before you opened the door," Hanrahan said.
"You're right," Rozier said with irritation.
"Don't want to take chances," said Hanrahan.
"I'll be more careful," said Rozier.
"You know who I am?"
"One of the policemen who came mis morning. Detective Lieberman's partner. I'm sorry, I don't remember your-"
"Hanrahan, Detective William Hanrahan. Mind if I come in?"
"What's happened?" asked Rozier.
"A few questions. I'll be fast."
"Who is it, Harvey?" came a woman's voice from inside the house.
"A policeman, Betty," Rozier answered, and then, to Hanrahan, "The Franklins won't let me stay here alone."
"Good friends to have," Hanrahan said, stepping past Rozier into the hallway.
Mrs. Franklin, her white hair cut in a perfect cap and wearing an appropriate black dress, stepped out of the living room just to the left of the hall.
"This is Detective Hanrahan, Betty," Rozier said. "He has some questions. You've met Mr. Franklin. This is his wife."
The woman was a bookend match for the tall lawyer Hanrahan and Lieberman had dealt with that morning. Tall, distant, and annoyed.
"I'll call Ken," she said, moving to the phone on an antique table against the wall.
"Let Ken get some rest," Rozier said. "I'm sure I can answer Detective Hanrahan's questions without my attorney."
"Couldn't this have waited till the morning?" Mrs. Franklin asked. "Harvey's been through-"
"I'll be quick," said Hanrahan. "I thought you'd be pleased that we're putting in late hours trying to find the person who murdered your wife."
Rozier nodded, brushed his hair back, and motioned toward the living room. Hanrahan followed, with Mrs. Franklin behind him to be sure he didn't pocket some valued bric-a-brac.
The Rozier living room was right out of one of those movies about French kings two hundred years ago. Dark wood, fading but light fabric with twining vines and flowers. Sideboards and sofas with spindly legs, and paintings on the wall of dogs and deep woods.
Neither Rozier nor Mrs. Franklin sat.
"Ipecac," said Hanrahan. "You have ipecac in the house?"
"Ipa…?" Rozier began, looking puzzled.
"The stuff you use to induce vomiting when you've accidentally swallowed something poisonous," explained Hanrahan.
Rozier should have known that. They weren't dealing with some esoteric drug here.
"Yes, of course," Rozier said, suddenly understanding. "I'm sorry. A little surprised. I don't think we have any ipecac. Why…?"
"Your wife had more than a trace of ipecac in her stomach."
"Why on earth would Dana… T Betty Franklin said, clenching her hands.
"That makes no sense," Rozier said, sitting on one of the old French chairs. "Why would she take ipecac?"
"Maybe she didn't," said Hanrahan. "Maybe someone gave it to her."
"What?" cried Betty Franklin. "Why would anyone give Dana something to make her throw up?"
"Who knows?" Hanrahan said, his eyes never leaving Rozier. "Maybe someone wanted her sick and at home last night. Maybe she knew the killer who planned to murder her."
"That's insane," said Betty Franklin. "Why would anyone want to murder Dana?"
"Somebody did," said Harvey Rozier. "Go on, Mr. Hanrahan."
"Mind if I check around, see if we turn this ipecac up?"
"Can't it wait till tomorrow?" asked Rozier. "Or Betty and I can look and let you know-"
Something in Hawaiian's eyes stopped Rozier cold with the knowledge that the policeman suspected him. But there was no reason to suspect him. It was a technique. That was all. Everyone's guilty of something. Keep the witnesses, suspects, and victims on edge. Harvey had employed the same technique with clients and business enemies. When Lieberman had chiseled at his alibi this morning, it was no more than Harvey had expected. It took only an occasional look at the ten o'clock news to know that the spouse who survived a murder was the prime suspect and very often the murderer. It was a situation he had anticipated and prepared for.
"I see," said Rozier.
"See what?" demanded Betty Franklin, moving to a table and removing a cigarette from a dark enameled box.
"I'm a suspect," said Harvey, smiling up at her.
Now that she had something to do with her hands, Betty Franklin was a bit more calm.
"I'm calling Ken," she said, moving toward an old-fashioned phone on an end table near Rozier.