Free Lieberman's Choice by Stuart M. Kaminsky

clunk of ice cubes.
    â€œMineral water,” she said, hurrying back into the room.
    â€œThanks.”
    He took the glass and sipped; she went back to her chair and watched him as if his opinion of her water were of great importance.
    The water was carbonated. Hanrahan hated carbonated water.
    â€œVery good,” he said with a smile.
    â€œI loved him,” she said. “Does it embarrass you for me to say that?”
    â€œNo,” he said.
    â€œHe wasn’t a bad man,” she said.
    â€œHe was a fine police officer,” said Hanrahan, forcing himself to take another drink.
    A key scratched in the front door and Hanrahan stood up and faced it. The door opened and a woman about the same size and build as Connie entered the house. She looked at Hanrahan and then at Connie Beeton, who rushed to her arms.
    Hanrahan looked into the eyes of the dark mother as she hugged her sobbing daughter, and he recognized her face. He turned back to the painting of the Navahos on the desert and knew that he was right.
    â€œI’ll be going,” he said.
    The dark mother nodded and closed her eyes, and without knowing why he felt better than he had in a long time.
    It was now officially labeled Operation Seven. The name had been chosen by Chief of Police Hartz after much thought and concentration. He had first considered giving the operation a color, Operation Red. No, red suggested blood. Blue, yellow? Certainly not yellow. Every color had a connotation. Names were no better. Operation Tower? Gave it too much importance. Operation Rogue? Shepard? Use the name of the street? Hartz settled on a number which, he hoped, had no meaning. Operation Seven.
    The apartment of Jason Belding, DDS, which was now the operational command post of Operation Seven, had been transformed into an efficient, if somewhat messy, headquarters. “Somewhat messy” was a relative description. The furniture had been moved out of the way, used as convenient places to dump and pile. The kitchen was a place to stack half-finished cartons of coffee, Big Gulps of Coke, and Burger King bags.
    At the moment, in what had a few hours ago been a living room, two men were checking their pampered portable television camera and sound equipment on the white living room carpet while Janice Giles memorized a list of questions in her notebook. Kevorkian had told her to get up there, get her questions asked, and get back downstairs on the remote. They had considered a live news break-in but decided against it. It would look too much like they were risking Janice’s life. After the fact, when she was safe, that was a different story.
    She could push it a little but not much. There just wasn’t enough time if they were going to make the noon news. Kevorkian had also held out the possibility that the network might want to take the feed if it turned out to be good. Janice Giles intended to make it good.
    When Alan Kearney came through the door, she moved toward him quickly.
    â€œCaptain Kearney,” she said, holding out her hand.
    â€œMiss Giles,” Kearney said, taking it.
    â€œCan we interview you on the street rather than in here before we go talk to Shepard?” she said.
    Kearney released her hand and shook his head.
    â€œYou’re giving me a choice,” he said, walking past the cameraman and the sound man, who were up and ready. “I like that. You don’t give me the option of saying no. Good bargaining technique. We use it a lot.”
    â€œOkay,” Janice Giles said with her most winning you-caught-me smile, “will you talk to me on camera?”
    â€œNo,” said Kearney, walking to the window and looking up at the tower.
    â€œChief Hartz …” she began.
    â€œâ€¦ isn’t here,” said Kearney, still looking out of the window. “The man you’re planning to talk to up there blew away his wife and a fellow officer a few hours ago. He has the gun he used and, we think, some