Mrs. Hee came out when he had parked and waved at him as she dropped a plastic bag of garbage into one of the containers chained to the wall. Jacob waved back.
A distant el train rumbled as he came through the alley and headed toward his office. Cars already lined the street, some of them belonging to people who lived nearby, others belonging to early customers or the people who worked in and owned the shops. A shiny maroon Pontiac Grand Prix idled across the street. There seemed to be no one in the car.
Jacob unlocked the downstairs door, flipped on the hall lights, went up the stairs, and opened his office. When he nit the switch he knew that all was well. Everything was where it should be.
He moved into the office examining room, opened his briefcase, and put his gun in his desk, leaving the drawer just slightly open.
He checked his watch. Nine. He had an appointment at nine and another at ten, both police physicals. Jacob went to the window and pulled up the shade, just a little, enough to let in a dusty stream of gray light but not enough to allow anyone to look in from the el platform or a passing train.
His nine o'clock was late. He heard someone try the front door. As usual, Jacob had locked it. Someone knocked.
"Coming," he called, adjusting his starched lab coat.
Jacob was sure it was his nine o'clock physical. He never considered any other possibility as he opened the door and saw the three young men in front of him. They had come. The ones who had looked through the window. Jacob Berry's knees started to buckle.
One of the three, a little one with a twisted face, held a gun to Jacob's belly. A second one, short and solid, held a knife in his hand. The third, tall with a dark, angry scar through his eyebrow said, "Back in."
The little one pushed Jacob back with the barrel of his gun and the one with the scar closed the door behind him.
"Now," said the big one with the scar. "You go fill a bag with money, drugs, everything you got, and fast, or we operate on you, and believe me, motherfucker, we don't know shit about surgery."
Jacob couldn't speak. His legs carried him backward but threatened to buckle.
"I've only got a few drugs and the money in my wallet, about forty dollars," he said, reaching for his wallet.
The heavy-set one with the knife wrenched the wallet from his hand and shoved it in his pocket.
"You lyin'," the tall one said. "Find somethin', and fast. We got no time to spend here."
"But I don't…"
"Find it or you're dog food," said the little one with the gun.
"OK, all right," Jacob said, backing up. "I've got something."
The one with the knife grinned and Jacob eased around the desk to the partly open drawer.
"Move your ass," cried the one with the gun.
And then all hell broke loose. The nine o'clock appointment, a patrolman named Matthews, who also happened to be black, came through the unlocked outer door, noticed by no one in the office and noticing nothing unusual. Matthews had a fear of needles. He just wanted to get the physical over with.
When he stepped into the door of the inner office, he saw the three young men, saw the gun and knife, and met the frightened eyes of Dr. Berry behind the desk.
Matthews went for his gun. lago Simms turned and fired. Jacob Berry groped for the weapon in his desk, pulled it out, aimed in the general direction of the three hold-up men, and began pulling the trigger. Someone screamed.
Panic in the Streets
Lieberman and Hanrahan had just moved to their desks, which faced each other next to the heating duct. Today was just cold enough for the automatic thermostat to kick on the heat. Hot air baked the right side of Lieberman's face. His phone was ringing.
"Lieberman," he said, answering the call.
"Nervous guy on the phone says he's got to talk to you," said Nestor Briggs. "Says he's a rabbi. Says it's important."
"Put him through," Lieberman said, looking across at his partner with a shake of his head.
"Lieberman," Abe said again.
"Lieberman?" asked Rabbi Nathanson.
"Yes, what can I do for you, Rabbi? I haven't had a chance to call my lawyer or discuss this further with my wife, but-"
"I've made a list," Nathanson said, and Lieberman imagined the langa-loksch, the long noodle of a man, with an unfurling parchment scroll before him.
"A list?"
"Problems which must be remedied, alterations which must be made before we can move into the house."
"Alterations?"
"And some necessary remodeling," confirmed Rabbi Nathanson. "All wallpaper removed and replaced with paint conforming to my specifications. Carpets out and wooden floors sanded and treated. Complete reslating of the roof and new electrical outlets throughout."
"You want me to pay for this?" asked Lieberman.
"It is your responsibility," said Rabbi Nathanson.
"I thought you loved the house just the way it is."
"I do, but it requires some maintenance to make it livable," said the rabbi.
"I don't think we can do business, Rabbi," Lieberman said.
"We have a good faith contract," Nathanson said sternly. "I gave you a check. There were witnesses."
"Your check is going back to you in the mail tonight. No, better yet, my wife is dropping it off at B'nai Shalom this afternoon."
"That is not acceptable, Lieberman. This is a breach of contract-no, it is a breach of faith," said Nathanson.
"Breaking a commandment is a breach of faith," said Lieberman calmly. "Giving your check back is common sense."
"I have a lawyer," said Nathanson. "Two lawyers, Greenblatt and Greenblatt."
"Send in the Greenblatts," said Lieberman. "Now, I've got to go find a murderer. Someone cut up a woman. That's a little more important right now."
"Dana Rozier," said Nathanson. "I saw on the news. Are the Roziers Jewish?"
"I don't think so, Rabbi," said Lieberman.
"Thank God," said Nathanson.
"My wife's returning the check. Your lawyer and my lawyer can get together and bill us so we can both be sure of losing money on this deal. Good-bye, Rabbi."
"It would be easier to be reasonable," Rabbi Nathanson tried with great self-assurance.
"We agree on that," said Lieberman and hung up the phone.
"What was that?" asked Hanrahan.
Lieberman tapped his finger on the phone and changed the subject.
"Let's switch. I play nice guy with Rozier. You play bad guy with Patniks."
"You think we could be wrong on this one, Rabbi?" asked Hanrahan.
"On Rozier? No, Father Murphy, he's at the top of the short list Patniks, I'd say he didn't kill her, but he knows something. Maybe Rozier paid him and he backed out at the last second. And our Harvey has a hell of an alibi. Clean."
"Then who killed Dana Rozier?" Hanrahan asked.
Lieberman shrugged. His phone was ringing again. He picked it up and heard Bess say, "Abraham, Rabbi Nathanson just called me demanding about ten thousand dollars in changes to the house."
"You know where the check is?"
"In my hand. I'd like to tear it into little pieces."
"Put it in an envelope and drop it off at B'nai Shalom."
"I'm Federal Expressing it with a return receipt requested," Bess said.
"Better yet," said Lieberman. "I gotta go."
"Lisa wants to talk to you."
"Bess…"
"Dad." Lisa's voice, as calm and resolute as that of the mad rabbi.
"Lisa," he said, looking at Hanrahan, who got up and moved toward the coffee across the room.
"We've got to talk, today."