Free Lieberman's Folly by Stuart M. Kaminsky

room and walked carefully over the debris toward the balcony. Behind him Officer Witten went on, “So, I was saying, what’s the point in going another winter. A man has to take a chance and what’ve I got to lose by taking a few vacation days in Florida, applying.”
    In front of him, Lieberman heard the voice of Captain Dale Hughes saying, “You sober enough now to get something done on this?”
    â€œI wasn’t drunk,” Hanrahan said quietly.
    â€œYou weren’t …” Hughes said and stopped to laugh and look away into the night.
    Hughes was a big black man, bigger than Hanrahan, but without the growing gut. Lieberman had known Hughes for almost thirty years. They’d started even but Hughes was more ambitious and the better politician. He was also, Lieberman admitted, a good cop. Hughes was reported to work out for an hour with weights every morning before seven. Lieberman wasn’t sure where he had heard this, but he believed it was true. Hughes never looked as if he needed a shave and he always wore a neatly pressed jacket and clean tie. Dale Hughes was ready for any superior, politician, or channels 2 through 32.
    â€œLieberman,” Hughes barked out. “What the fuck is going on here?”
    Hanrahan turned to Lieberman and held up his hands out of Hughes’s line of vision.
    â€œWoman’s dead,” said Lieberman stepping out on the balcony.
    â€œThat I know,” said Hughes. “Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me why I didn’t know you two were staking out this building. Tell me who gave you an OK to give protection to a known prostitute. Tell me how she could get killed and the murderer walk away in front of your partner’s face. Tell me how I answer Golluber and the TV people’s questions on this one? I don’t know what’s going on and my men fucked up.”
    â€œIt’s a great load to bear,” Lieberman said seriously.
    â€œWhat’s that? Hassidic humor?” Hughes said, straightening his tie. “Don’t play games with me, Abe. You know who lives in this goddamn building?”
    â€œOne less person than an hour ago,” said Lieberman looking back into the room where Estralda Valdez had died.
    â€œI live in this building,” said Hughes. “My wife and I live here. Two of my men are carrying on a surveillance in the building where I live and I don’t even know about it.”
    He took two paces, shook his head, and glared at Lieberman.
    â€œWe were doing it off duty,” Lieberman said. “On our own time. Estralda Valdez was an informant. She was leaving town tomorrow, wanted us to keep an eye on her in case a violent customer gave her a hard time.”
    â€œAh,” said Hughes looking at both of his men, “now I get it. We’re providing off-duty free protection for prostitutes. You know what the papers are going to say? You know what that little landsman of yours, Rosenberg on channel two, is going to say? He’s going to say he wonders if Estralda Valdez was paying you off for protection.”
    â€œNo, he won’t,” said Lieberman. He moved next to Hanrahan on the balcony and looked down. He saw Sol Worth’s parked lawn truck among the cars below and thought the green tarp was moving.
    â€œHe won’t,” Hughes repeated.
    â€œI’ve known Walter Rosenberg’s family since he was six,” said Lieberman. “We went to his bar mitzvah. My daughter Lisa dated him for a while. He won’t think I took money. He’s a good kid. Now Allen at channel seven. Him I’m not sure of.”
    Larry Allen, who was black, was editorial director at channel 7. Larry Allen did not like the mayor, the fire chief, the chief of police, any alderman or women, and, most especially, Captain Dale Hughes, who had once mistakenly arrested Allen’s brother as a rape suspect.
    â€œWe can count on what Allen will do,” Hughes