Free Lieberman's Law by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

Grits. The phone rang when he was no more than three feet from it. While he was on the phone, out of sight of the trash can, he was sure someone who worked for Mr. Grits was already picking up the torn note.
    â€œAre you ready to talk seriously?” Mr. Grits said, as if this were the most beautiful day the world had yet experienced. “Or do I hang up and hope you make good use of the money you have been blessed with?”
    â€œWe talk.”
    â€œGood,” said Mr. Grits. “There is a booth at the Burger King half a block away. Go there. Go to the toilet. Take your pants down. Lock the door. When no one else is in the room, we’ll talk. If you try to see me, perhaps even succeed in seeing me, you’ll never hear from me again. There will, however, come a time soon, when you will have accepted so much money from us that the option of ceasing our negotiations will be void.”
    Mr. Grits hung up. Berk went to the toilet in the Burger King and talked to Mr. Grits in person though all he could see of the man were his neatly pressed tan slacks, brown socks, and expensive brown walking shoes.
    The plan was a bit complex, but Berk understood. He would follow the plan and, in return, would receive a great deal of money and a substantial bonus when the job was done.
    â€œAfter all, Mr. Grits said with a slight laugh, we don’t expect you to plan the details of and execute the murder of perhaps several dozen people without reasonable compensation.”
    And the money had come. Berk had planned and rethought his life. When he finished exercising that morning, Berk would practice the speech he planned to deliver that night to his followers. They would think he was making it up standing right up there at the front of the room, but he wrote it out longhand and memorized it, practiced in front of his mirror like Hitler, checked the time so he would not lose the real dummies who would be sitting there.
    Berk thought he heard rain. That was fine with him. He would do his sit-ups and run another mile in the rain, feeling his T-shirt cling to and slap against his body. He’d laugh as he ran and people would get out of his way or cross the street if they saw him. He would run till he was exhausted and then go to Fran’s apartment, wake her up, and screw her dripping wet, a little cold, tired. Fran’s roommates would mind their business.
    It would be a perfect morning.
    Less than a year earlier, Alan Kearney looked like a young man. Dark groomed hair, strong chin, straight nose, Irish green eyes. Youth had left him fast after his ex-partner had been killed. Shepard had died cursing Kearney for seducing his wife.
    Kearney, who had been headed for the top, including a well-placed society wife and a long-term move up to Commissioner, had gone empty. He was still Captain of Detectives and head of the brown brick police station on North Broadway. He did his job, put in the hours, praised, complained, pushed, and assigned, but Lieberman knew the ambition, the real fire, was out. Kearney might even marry yet. Every Irish cop, including Bill Hanrahan, had a woman for him, a cousin, a friend, a sister. Once in a while Kearney tried, but all the women reported that his idea of a good time was going to a bar, looking at his glass, and listening without saying much. It was even rumored that Kearney had made it to bed with Michael Horrigan’s sister, Eva. The rumor was never confirmed and their single date never repeated.
    At Bess’s urging, Lieberman had once invited Kearney to the house for a Shabbat dinner. To his surprise, Kearney had accepted. That was when Lisa was home, separated from her husband. There had been no thought of matchmaking, at least on Lieberman’s part, but Bess had been disappointed that Lisa and Kearney had little to say to each other and had left shortly after dinner. They paused only to say goodnight to Melisa and Barry, who had decided that Alan Kearney, their