But the phone. George had cut the phone line. Dana Rozier had gone for the phone, her last chance, and had gotten nothing. Rozier had been through the door and had attacked her within seconds, but would those seconds on the phone been enough for her to call 911 and simply say, "My husband's killing me"?
"You should take a shower, Gregor," Wanda said.
"I already took one," he answered, looking at himself and realizing that he was, once again, covered in paint. "Ma, I want to pack today and go to Seattle for that art fair. You don't want to come, OK. I'll call Tommy. He and Sissy can look in on you, maybe stay awhile."
The doorbell rang.
George's hands clutched the arms of the chair, knuckles and hands white under dabs of blue and red paint "The mistress is better looking than the wife," Wanda said, looking at the television screen and clearly not hearing the doorbell. "And she ain't even a woman. I see that all the time."
The doorbell rang again.
This time she heard it.
"Gregor, the door. It's ringing,'' she said, looking at her son. "Gregor, are you OK? Get the door. It's probably Mrs. Vivlachki or someone."
The doorbell rang again and George got up. His mother was right He couldn't go through mis every time the doorbell rang. Rozier couldn't have found him this quickly. Rozier would probably never find him, especially if he moved to Seattle for awhile. He'd have to tell his latest parole officer, but…
The doorbell rang once more.
George shuffled past his mother and into the little hallway with the tiny faded fringe rug. George took a deep breath and opened the door.
The rain had stopped but the dark skies suggested that it was only a temporary halt.
Before him stood a man about George's size, maybe sixty-five or older, curly white hair and a little white mustache. The man looked weary and bored, and George knew with certainty that the man was a cop.
"Gregor Eupatniaks?" asked Lieberman.
"Yes, but my legal name is George, George Patniks."
Lieberman was wearing an open raincoat over his brown jacket and a tie he had gotten for his birthday from Barry and Melisa. The tie depicted little brown World War I airplanes circling purple clouds against a dark blue background.
"Name's Lieberman. I'm a detective with the Clark Street Station in Rogers Park. I think you know the neighborhood."
Lieberman took out his wallet and showed his ID card.
"Yes," said George.
"Can I come in?" asked Lieberman.
"My mother's watching TV. She gets upset cops come around. You know?"
"We can get in my car, go for a coffee," offered Lieberman reasonably.
"OK, sure," Patniks said. "Let me just tell my mother."
Lieberman nodded and stepped into the house.
"I hear you're a painter," Lieberman said.
"Yeah."
"I like painting. Things that look real. Is that the way you paint or do you do things that don't look like anything?"
"My paintings look like things," George said nervously.
"I'd like to see them," said Lieberman.
This was a nightmare. Not the one George had anticipated, but a nightmare. You go on a job and suddenly a man is murdering his wife. You hear the doorbell ring and there's a cop wanting to look at the painting you did of the guy who killed his wife. Nightmare. George's legs went weak.
"Maybe sometime. I'll tell my mother," he said.
From the hallway Lieberman watched the man move to a heavy woman planted in front of a Sony television set.
George leaned over and said, "I'm going out for a half hour or so. This man wants to talk to me."
Wanda Skutnik turned heavily in her chair without turning her neck. The chair creaked. Jenny Jones was shouting, "Wait a minute. Wait a minute."
"OK if I change my shirt, pants-just take a minute?" George asked.
Lieberman nodded and George hurried for the door that led down to his room.
"You're a police," Wanda said.
"Yes."
"You are old for police," she observed.
"I just look old," Lieberman said. "The job does it to you."
"Mrs. Maniaks's nephew, Stan. He was a policeman. You knew him?"
"Don't think so," said Lieberman.
"He took money from the stores on Division. And then he wasn't a policeman."
The woman nodded and Lieberman asked, "Is there a way to the street from George's room?"
"Door," she said. "Stand by the window over there and you can see it, but George isn't going to run away."
Lieberman moved to the window and looked out.
A commercial came on. A woman was wild with enthusiasm for the Home Shopping Network.
"You can get some good buys on Home Shopping," Wanda said. '1 got a clock that looks like a soldier, alarm clock. Screams at you, 'Get up. Rise and shine.' "
"Sounds cute," said Lieberman.
"What?"
"Sounds cute," Lieberman repeated loudly.
"Gave it to one of my sons, Tommy, for last Christmas. You think they have Home Shopping in Seattle?"
"Probably," said Lieberman.
The woman sighed deeply.
"I don't think I want to go to Seattle,'' she said. "My legs, it's far. Who needs travel at my age?"
"You've been thinking about visiting Seattle?" he said.
"Gregor, he's got this vishmite, this thing about going to an art show, fair, something in Seattle. Gregor is an artist, a painter. He had ribbons and one time…"
Her voice trailed off and then she sighed and asked, "What did Gregor do this time?"
Below him through the thin floor, Lieberman could hear George Patniks shuffling around, moving things. What could he be moving?
"I don't know that he did anything," Lieberman said. "I just need some information from him. Night before last. You remember if he was home?"
"Night before…" Wanda Skutnik turned to the television set for inspiration. "Not last night, but… He was home. All night."
"Good," Lieberman said with a smile.
With George Patniks having his own entrance and a hard-of-hearing mother, the woman's information didn't mean much. Lieberman checked his watch. Almost two minutes. He was about to go after Patniks when he heard the sound of footsteps coming up from below. George, now wearing jeans and a neatly ironed white shirt, came through the door. There were still dabs of paint on his forehead and hands.
"Wear a jacket," Wanda said as George moved toward Lieberman.
"I will, Ma," he said, opening a closet and pulling out a zippered blue jacket. "I'll be right back."
"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Lieberman said.
Of the five men whom Harvey Rozier had asked about as he looked through the tapes and books of mug shots, one was dead, one was in the Federal Security Prison in Marion, another had moved to a farm in Tennessee. Lieberman had found one of the two remaining men, Sandoval "Sandy" Borchers, in his apartment on Claremont. Borchers, a born-again Christian, told Lieberman that he worked nights, including the night of the murder, at the Toddle House on Howard Street. A call to the night manager, who had to be awakened by his wife, confirmed that Borchers had been working with the manager and another worker all night, no time away from the restaurant from eight at night till four the next morning. That left George Patniks, who was proving to be a promising prospect.
"You want to know why I'm here?" Lieberman asked as they got into the car parked in front of the house.
"Sure," said George with a shrug.
"You seemed curiously uncurious," said Lieberman. "You want a coffee?"
George shrugged again. Lieberman reached down, removed two Dunkin' Donuts coffees from a bag, and handed one to George.
"Thanks," he said.
The coffee was warm but no longer hot. The two men drank and watched the thin rain that had returned in the last few seconds. Across the street someone peeked through first-floor curtains. All of the houses on the block were small, wooden, and old with little front yards enclosed by low fences.