"You know a man named Rozier?" Lieberman asked.
"No," George answered, looking straight out the window at nothing and shaking his head. "Knew a con named Rozell. That be the guy?"
"No," said Lieberman, pausing to take a sip of tepid coffee. "Your entire life you're sure you've never run into someone named Rozier?"
"Not that I recall. You meet a lot of people."
"You want to know why I'm asking?"
George shrugged to show that he didn't care.
"Your mother says you're planning a trip to Seattle."
"Thinkin' about it."
"What's in Seattle?"
"Art fair. Chance to sell some of my paintings. I do pretty good at paintings. Learned it inside."
Lieberman looked over at the person watching them through the parted curtains across the street.
"Everyone here know you're a con?"
"Most everybody. We've got no neighborhood newspaper. Lot of people couldn't read it if we did," said George.
"What's the name of this fair in Seattle?" asked Lieberman. "My wife's an art lover. Maybe we can fly up for a day or two, see the sights, taste the wares, go to an art show."
A young woman holding a coat over her head with one hand and the hand of a small white-haired boy with the other came out of the house next door. The rain was a little harder now, more than a drizzle. The woman hurried, dragging the boy along and across the street in front of Lieberman's car. The boy's eyes met the detective's. Then mother and child were gone.
"Cute kid," said Lieberman.
"Peter, Peter Wascaboinik," said George, resisting the urge to rub his hands together or play with his ring.
"The art fair, George. We were talking about an art fair in Seattle," said Lieberman. "You were going to give me the name of the fair and maybe a name and number of someone running it."
"Off the top?" George asked, still not meeting Lieberman's eyes. "Who remembers?"
"You got it written down. We can go look," Lieberman said reasonably.
George laughed, afraid his voice would break and give him away.
"What is all this?" he said, finally turning to meet the detective's waiting eyes. "OK, there is no art fair in Seattle. I just want to get away from here for a week or so, pick up a woman. I've got a little saved. Seattle, that's just something I told my mother. And what difference it make if I shack up with a whore in the Loop or go to Seattle? What's it prove one way or the other? What you want from me?"
All said with a combination of pain, indignation, and self-righteousness.
Lieberman kept looking at George Patniks and drinking his coffee.
George blinked first, turned his head forward, hit the dashboard and said, "Damn."
"Woman was found dead night before last," said Lieberman. "Murdered. Mutilated. Good-looking lady before it happened."
"Sorry to hear it," George said, sounding genuinely sorry.
"Her husband said a man came around early part of last week looking for handyman jobs. Man fits your description. You a handyman now, George?"
"No," he said.
"You mind being in a lineup?"
"I never went to no one's house saying I was a handyman. This is nuts."
"Then you won't mind a lineup."
George shrugged and said, "I'm busy."
"An hour. No more. Maybe a little less. You know I can get the papers and have you uptown by this afternoon. You have something to be afraid of, George?"
"Oh, Jesus," George groaned.
"I beg your pardon," said Lieberman. "I'm not asking you to confess to murder, George. I'm just asking you to stand in a lineup. You've done it before. Lots of times."
"When you want to do it?"
"Now's not bad. Maybe an hour or so from now so I can call our witness," said Lieberman.
"I never met this guy Rozier," George said. "Honest to God. Hand to my heart."
"Rozier? Who said the husband's name is Rozier?"
"Come on, Liebowitz-"
"Lieberman."
"Come on, Lieberman," George said wearily. "You ask me do I know a guy named Rozier. Then you tell me there's a dead woman and her husband talked to a handyman who maybe looked a little like me."
"Seems logical," Lieberman said, pursing his lips. "Shall we proceed to the lineup?"
"I gotta tell Ma," George said.
Cool rainy spring morning. George Patniks was sweating. Lieberman decided to make him sweat a little more.
"Good," he said, opening the door. "We can take a few minutes and look at some of your paintings."
"You've got no warrant," said George as Lieberman got out.
"Patrons of the arts don't need warrants, George. They get invited in by starving middle-aged painters. You got something in your room you don't want me to see?"
"No," said George with mustered indignity.
"A quick look," Lieberman said softly, getting out of the car. "What can it hurt?"
"Nothing," said George, letting himself be guided back to the house by the policeman.
They went back into the house to the cry of Wanda Skutnik calling, 'Take the shoes off or wipe the feet good."
Both George and Abe Lieberman wiped their feet on the little runner in the hall.
"Gonna show Mr. Lieberman some of my work. Then we got to go out for awhile."
Wanda turned to watch the two men as they headed for the door beyond which was the stairway leading to George's room.
"What have you done this time, Gregor?"
"Nothing, Ma. Nothing. Watch your show."
"Montel has a stupid show today," she answered. "Policeman, what did my son do this time? Who did he rob?"
"I'll have him back in less than three hours," answered Lieberman, following George through the door.
"That's an answer to my question?" she shouted. 'Trapped in my own house. No one tells me anything. Are you hungry? You want some roast beef and potato salad?"
Lieberman followed Patniks down the narrow wooden steps.
George's room was a mess. Paints and paintings, palettes and newspapers, an unmade bed, piles of magazines. Lieberman wondered what George had been moving when he heard him through the floor less than ten minutes earlier.
"Nice work," said Lieberman, holding up a painting of a woman behind what looked like the counter of an all-night diner. The woman looked sad. There were no customers for whatever she was selling.
"Thanks," George said.
"What are you working on now? Don't artists have easels, something?"
"I'm not working on anything now."
"Then how'd you get covered with paint?"
"Mixing, looking for colors," explained George weakly. "I'm in the sketch stage. Pencil. Here, I'll show you."
George found a pad and opened it, flapping through pages of dark men and darker shadows.
"Illuminating," said Lieberman.
"Thanks," said George. "Can we go now?"
Lieberman looked around the room and nodded. Above them the television cackled.
"Let's go out the back," George said.
On the way across town to the station, Lieberman called Harvey Rozier and asked him to come to the station, said it was definitely important, that he had a possible line on the so-called handyman.
"Ken and I will be right there, and Lieberman, I think it only right that I tell you I've issued an official protest about the conduct of your partner who came to my house last night and treated me as if I were the prime suspect in my wife's murder."
"He is willful," said Lieberman.
"Is that sarcasm, Officer?" the quivering voice of Ken Franklin said, obviously from an extension.
"The truth," said Lieberman. "I'll see you at the station in an hour. Mr. Rozier knows the way."
When he hung up, Lieberman turned to George Patniks. There was no doubt that the man at his side was perspiring like a kid with a bad case of pneumonia. ›. _ Ken Franklin turned to Harvey Rozier and said, "They're more than a bit high-handed, these policemen, but they do seem to be giving full attention to the case. Are you all right, Harv?"