Lieberman's Choice Read Free Page A

home. The only family Nestor had was an ancient one-eyed cat that Nestor called Sy Klops. Lieberman gave Briggs what he had and told him to track down Kearney.
    When Lieberman hung up the phone, Lisa asked, “You think a little cream cheese with chives would be bad for me?”
    â€œYou’re a biochemist,” he said. “If you don’t know …?”
    â€œAbe,” she said, for she always used his first name when she was about to point out one of his many failings as a father, “do you know what I do? I mean what I do when I work?”
    â€œPrecisely?”
    â€œApproximately.”
    â€œNo,” he admitted. “Enzymes elude me. I respect them and you, but their function is an enigma. I’ve got to go.”
    She put the bag of bagels and the white carton of cream cheese and chives on the kitchen table.
    â€œGo,” she said, pulling a knife from the dish drainer on the sink. “You need the Times puzzles?”
    He dropped the book on the kitchen table and placed the pen on top of it.
    â€œYou can finish that one and do the next. That’s it. You going to be all right?” he asked.
    She sat, surveyed the snack, and shrugged.
    â€œNo. Maybe.”
    Lieberman walked to his daughter and leaned over to kiss the top of her head.
    â€œYou wanna talk later?” he asked.
    â€œI’ll talk to Mom. Go rid the streets of crime.”
    â€œI’ll try to get back in time to take Barry and Melisa to lunch at Maish’s,” he said softly as he opened the door. His grandchildren were both asleep in the living room beyond. Barry, almost thirteen, was in his sleeping bag on the floor. Melisa, eight, slept in the pullout bed that had been a gift from Bess’s father more than thirty years ago.
    â€œIt’s a school day, Abe,” Lisa whispered with a sigh, slicing a poppy seed bagel.
    â€œI’ll take them for ice cream tonight.”
    â€œSounds fine,” Lisa said, lifting the top off the cream cheese carton.
    Fifteen minutes later, shaved, holster in place, Lieberman tiptoed past the closed kitchen door, through the living room, careful to avoid Barry on the floor, and out the door.
    The night was warm but not really hot. Lieberman needed a coffee. Normally, he ground beans when he got up, but since Lisa and the kids had come, he had not only stopped grinding in the morning to keep from waking them up, but he had also avoided turning on the microwave to heat leftover Bavarian Creme because the microwave hummed and rang.
    There was an all-night 7-Eleven run by Howie Chen’s cousin or uncle next to a Sari shop near Western, and it was on the way to the Shoreham. Howie was the only non-Jew in the Alter Cockers who hung out at Maish’s T&L on Devon. It was generally and incorrectly agreed among the Alter Cockers that every Chinese businessman in Rogers Park was related to or knew Howie and owed each of the Alter Cockers a discount.
    Lieberman took a less direct route to the Shoreham down Broadway so he could stop at the White Hen Pantry near Argyle. There was no one in the parking lot of the White Hen when he pulled in. And there was no one inside but the morning shift clerk, a puffy-faced young woman in a white smock.
    â€œPoli around?” Lieberman asked, going to the pots of coffee and pouring two into plastic cups.
    â€œYou kiddin’?” asked the young woman, who folded her arms and watched him put the lids on the cups. “He doesn’t come in till eleven.”
    Lieberman brought his two cups of coffee to the counter.
    Up close the woman had the pale waxen look of a tracker. The white jacket had long sleeves. He looked at her arms anyway long enough to be sure she was watching him. She didn’t reach for her arms or hug herself or find something to do, which led Lieberman to the conclusion that she was probably clean.
    â€œKraylaw,” he said, fishing out two dollars. “He still working