The Last Dark Place: An Abe Lieberman Mystery - Hardcover
Buch 8 von 10: The Abe Lieberman Mysteries
Inhaltsangabe
One of Stuart M. Kaminsky's most memorable characters, Abe Lieberman is a veteran detective who uses his head and heart more than his gun. Lieberman loves what he does and this takes a toll as his commitment to what is right is sorely tested every day on the mean streets of Chicago. As a moral man, he is sometimes faced with uncomfortable ethical choices in order to see that justice--rather than the letter of the law-is meted out.
With The Last Dark Place, Lieberman and his Irish partner Bill Hanrahan, known on the streets as the Rabbi and the Priest, have their hands full with dark matters both professional and personal.
Lieberman goes to Arizona on an extradition case to pick up a mob enforcer that goes horribly awry when the man he is slated to bring back is gunned down at the airport. He comes back from this disaster determined to find out who arranged the hit, and explain to his superiors just how he could have let this happen on his watch.
And there's the little matter of pulling off Lieberman's grandson's bar mitzvah, which threatens to bankrupt him.
While Lieberman is away, Hanrahan has his hands full. Coupled with a temporary partner who is racist, sexist and a general bane of human existence, Hanrahan has to deal with a rape case involving the young wife of a fellow police officer. Hanrahan must race to find the culprits because he knows homicidal rage when he sees it and knows that it is only a matter of time before the officer takes the law into his own hands.
And then there's a young man who dreams of being a star...or killing one to get the notoriety.
With The Last Dark Place, Lieberman and his Irish partner Bill Hanrahan, known on the streets as the Rabbi and the Priest, have their hands full with dark matters both professional and personal.
Lieberman goes to Arizona on an extradition case to pick up a mob enforcer that goes horribly awry when the man he is slated to bring back is gunned down at the airport. He comes back from this disaster determined to find out who arranged the hit, and explain to his superiors just how he could have let this happen on his watch.
And there's the little matter of pulling off Lieberman's grandson's bar mitzvah, which threatens to bankrupt him.
While Lieberman is away, Hanrahan has his hands full. Coupled with a temporary partner who is racist, sexist and a general bane of human existence, Hanrahan has to deal with a rape case involving the young wife of a fellow police officer. Hanrahan must race to find the culprits because he knows homicidal rage when he sees it and knows that it is only a matter of time before the officer takes the law into his own hands.
And then there's a young man who dreams of being a star...or killing one to get the notoriety.
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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor
Stuart M. Kaminsky is the Edgar Award-winning author of the critically acclaimed Lew Fonesca, Inspector Rostnikov, and Abe Lieberman mystery series. He lives with his family in Sarasota, Florida.
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The Last Dark Place
An Abe Lieberman MysteryBy Kaminsky, Stuart M.Forge Books
Copyright © 2004 Kaminsky, Stuart M.All right reserved.
ISBN: 0765304635
Chapter One
July 16, 1969
The little old man was nodding his head and mumbling to himself as he walked down the gray corridor of the synagogue. It was not an unusual sight, but this particular old man was unfamiliar to Morrie Greenblatt, who approached him.
Morrie towered over the old man, who wore a black yarmulke atop his freckled, nearly bald head and a white-fringed tallis over his shoulders. Under his arm the old man was carrying a black prayer book.
From the main sanctuary, the sound of voices, a man and a woman, went back and forth nervously.
“Excuse me,” said Morrie.
The old man stopped and looked up at the tall slope-shouldered man who had stopped him.
“We need you,” Morrie said, glancing at his watch.
“Me?” asked the old man in a voice that sounded raspy from too many hours of prayer.
“We need one more for the morning minyan,” Morrie said. “A tenth man.”
“But I...” the old man began looking toward the main sanctuary.
“It won’t take long. I promise. Prayers and then if you have time we have bagels and coffee. We need you. Sid Applebaum was supposed to be here but he has a stomach something and with the rain...”
“You need me?” the old man said.
“Yes.”
The old man shrugged and said, “Then I’ll come.”
Ten Jewish men who had been bar mitzvahed at the age of thirteen were required to meet the minimum number set forth in the Holy Bible for morning prayers. Morrie, who owned a bath and tile store on Lawrence Avenue, was the congregation’s unofficial gabai, the one who saw to it that things got done.
No one, not even Morrie, was sure whether Morrie had volunteered for this job or it had simply evolved. Morrie, now almost fifty, accepted the responsibility, the principle task of which was to see to it that there was a minyan for each morning’s prayers.
The regulars, if they were healthy, were no problem. He could always count on Rabbi Wass and his son, Cal Schwartz, Marvin Stein, Hyman Lieberman, Joshua Kornpelt, Sid Applebaum, and himself. He would check the night before with phone calls and if it looked as if they would be short, Morrie would ask Marv Stein to bring his brother or Hy Lieberman to bring his sons. Some days they had as many as sixteen or more. Some days they had walk-ins who were from out of town or regular congregation members there to observe yartzeit, the anniversary of a loved one’s death.
When he had counted this morning, Morrie had been sweating. Both of Lieberman’s sons had come looking none-too-happy to be there. Maish Lieberman explained that their father Hyman wasn’t feeling well. Maish was thirty-six and by this time in the early morning was usually at the T&L, the new deli he had opened with a loan from his father and Sid Applebaum. Abe, at thirty, was the puzzle of the lot. Short and lean like his father with the same dark curly hair, Abe was a policeman who came to services only when his father pressured him into doing so. Only last week Abe had been promoted to detective and an unimposing detective he was, a shrimp beanstalk with a sad face too old for his years. A few minutes ago, Maish, his yarmulke perched precariously atop his head, had nodded and talked about the price of eggs and the courage of astronauts. Abe in a sport jacket and tie looking like a shoe salesman had politely asked Morrie, “You want me to call Alex?”
“I’ll find someone,” Morrie had answered. It was a matter of pride, but time was against him.
“Alex can be here in ten minutes,” said Abe.
“I’ll find,” Morrie had repeated.
“Morrie, this is my third day on the job. I’ve got to be downtown in an hour and a half.”
“You’ll be there,” Morrie assured him. “The bad guys’ll wait.”
“Bad guys don’t wait,” Abe said. “Let me call Alex.”
“I’ll find,” Morrie repeated. “With God’s help, I’ll find.”
Abe Lieberman had shrugged and moved over to talk to Rabbi Wass’s son, who at the age of thirteen was almost as tall as the policeman. The boy wore thin glasses that kept creeping down his nose. A sudden jab and they were back up again ready to start slipping.
Now, less than five minutes after he had left, Morrie entered the small chapel across from the central sanctuary and announced,
“We have a minyan.”
As Morrie ushered his treasured old man in, Marv Stein let out a loud sigh of relief. Marv was reliable, but he was also retired and Marv had a tee-off time in a little over an hour. God willing the rain would stop. “This is Mr...” Morrie began.
“Green,” the old man said, taking Marvin’s outstretched hand.
“Nice to meet you, Green,” Marv said, and then added, “Let’s get started.”
The rabbi moved to the front of the small room, lectern before him, son at his side. The eight men and the rabbi’s son sat in the chairs facing Rabbi Wass, a somber man with well-trimmed white hair, clean-shaven. To Abe, Wass looked like Lee J. Cobb with a stomachache.
Morrie smiled in relief, ready to lose himself in the comfort of daily prayer, looking forward to a poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and arguing with Josh Kornpelt on some point about the U.S. role in Vietnam and God’s role in JFK’s murder or why none of the astronauts were Jewish. They would move on to the Cubs’ hope for a pennant next.
Green, the old man from the corridor, stood next to Morrie, who smiled at him. The Lieberman boys stood on the other side of the old man. Green gave a tentative smile back and the services began.
They didn’t last long. Maybe five minutes. Maybe ten.
They were stopped by a loud, high-pitched raspy voice behind them. Not a shout but a high-pitched insistent demand.
“Hold it,” the man said.
Rabbi Wass stopped and looked up through the narrow aisle that separated the cluster of ten men.
All heads turned to the man who had entered. They saw a tall young man in dark pants and a black T-shirt. He was about twenty with long uncombed dark hair and bad teeth. He was carrying a gun.
He didn’t look like an Arab. Morrie concluded that he was a drugged-out wanderer who was there to rob them. Just so he wasn’t an Arab terrorist.
“We are at prayer,” said Rabbi Wass guiding his son, who had run to his side, behind him.
“You think I’m fucking blind,” said the man, pointing his gun at the rabbi. “I can see what you’re doing. I know where I’m at. I didn’t think I was at the damned Dominick’s supermarket or some shit.”
The gunman shook his head and looked around at the men who had turned to face him. There was no doubt that the intruder was drunk, on drugs or insane, possibly all three.
“You can have our money,” Rabbi Wass said calmly.
“I know I can have your money,” the tall man said, closing the door behind him. “I can have your money, your shirts, your shoes. I can have your goddamn...
July 16, 1969
The little old man was nodding his head and mumbling to himself as he walked down the gray corridor of the synagogue. It was not an unusual sight, but this particular old man was unfamiliar to Morrie Greenblatt, who approached him.
Morrie towered over the old man, who wore a black yarmulke atop his freckled, nearly bald head and a white-fringed tallis over his shoulders. Under his arm the old man was carrying a black prayer book.
From the main sanctuary, the sound of voices, a man and a woman, went back and forth nervously.
“Excuse me,” said Morrie.
The old man stopped and looked up at the tall slope-shouldered man who had stopped him.
“We need you,” Morrie said, glancing at his watch.
“Me?” asked the old man in a voice that sounded raspy from too many hours of prayer.
“We need one more for the morning minyan,” Morrie said. “A tenth man.”
“But I...” the old man began looking toward the main sanctuary.
“It won’t take long. I promise. Prayers and then if you have time we have bagels and coffee. We need you. Sid Applebaum was supposed to be here but he has a stomach something and with the rain...”
“You need me?” the old man said.
“Yes.”
The old man shrugged and said, “Then I’ll come.”
Ten Jewish men who had been bar mitzvahed at the age of thirteen were required to meet the minimum number set forth in the Holy Bible for morning prayers. Morrie, who owned a bath and tile store on Lawrence Avenue, was the congregation’s unofficial gabai, the one who saw to it that things got done.
No one, not even Morrie, was sure whether Morrie had volunteered for this job or it had simply evolved. Morrie, now almost fifty, accepted the responsibility, the principle task of which was to see to it that there was a minyan for each morning’s prayers.
The regulars, if they were healthy, were no problem. He could always count on Rabbi Wass and his son, Cal Schwartz, Marvin Stein, Hyman Lieberman, Joshua Kornpelt, Sid Applebaum, and himself. He would check the night before with phone calls and if it looked as if they would be short, Morrie would ask Marv Stein to bring his brother or Hy Lieberman to bring his sons. Some days they had as many as sixteen or more. Some days they had walk-ins who were from out of town or regular congregation members there to observe yartzeit, the anniversary of a loved one’s death.
When he had counted this morning, Morrie had been sweating. Both of Lieberman’s sons had come looking none-too-happy to be there. Maish Lieberman explained that their father Hyman wasn’t feeling well. Maish was thirty-six and by this time in the early morning was usually at the T&L, the new deli he had opened with a loan from his father and Sid Applebaum. Abe, at thirty, was the puzzle of the lot. Short and lean like his father with the same dark curly hair, Abe was a policeman who came to services only when his father pressured him into doing so. Only last week Abe had been promoted to detective and an unimposing detective he was, a shrimp beanstalk with a sad face too old for his years. A few minutes ago, Maish, his yarmulke perched precariously atop his head, had nodded and talked about the price of eggs and the courage of astronauts. Abe in a sport jacket and tie looking like a shoe salesman had politely asked Morrie, “You want me to call Alex?”
“I’ll find someone,” Morrie had answered. It was a matter of pride, but time was against him.
“Alex can be here in ten minutes,” said Abe.
“I’ll find,” Morrie had repeated.
“Morrie, this is my third day on the job. I’ve got to be downtown in an hour and a half.”
“You’ll be there,” Morrie assured him. “The bad guys’ll wait.”
“Bad guys don’t wait,” Abe said. “Let me call Alex.”
“I’ll find,” Morrie repeated. “With God’s help, I’ll find.”
Abe Lieberman had shrugged and moved over to talk to Rabbi Wass’s son, who at the age of thirteen was almost as tall as the policeman. The boy wore thin glasses that kept creeping down his nose. A sudden jab and they were back up again ready to start slipping.
Now, less than five minutes after he had left, Morrie entered the small chapel across from the central sanctuary and announced,
“We have a minyan.”
As Morrie ushered his treasured old man in, Marv Stein let out a loud sigh of relief. Marv was reliable, but he was also retired and Marv had a tee-off time in a little over an hour. God willing the rain would stop. “This is Mr...” Morrie began.
“Green,” the old man said, taking Marvin’s outstretched hand.
“Nice to meet you, Green,” Marv said, and then added, “Let’s get started.”
The rabbi moved to the front of the small room, lectern before him, son at his side. The eight men and the rabbi’s son sat in the chairs facing Rabbi Wass, a somber man with well-trimmed white hair, clean-shaven. To Abe, Wass looked like Lee J. Cobb with a stomachache.
Morrie smiled in relief, ready to lose himself in the comfort of daily prayer, looking forward to a poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and arguing with Josh Kornpelt on some point about the U.S. role in Vietnam and God’s role in JFK’s murder or why none of the astronauts were Jewish. They would move on to the Cubs’ hope for a pennant next.
Green, the old man from the corridor, stood next to Morrie, who smiled at him. The Lieberman boys stood on the other side of the old man. Green gave a tentative smile back and the services began.
They didn’t last long. Maybe five minutes. Maybe ten.
They were stopped by a loud, high-pitched raspy voice behind them. Not a shout but a high-pitched insistent demand.
“Hold it,” the man said.
Rabbi Wass stopped and looked up through the narrow aisle that separated the cluster of ten men.
All heads turned to the man who had entered. They saw a tall young man in dark pants and a black T-shirt. He was about twenty with long uncombed dark hair and bad teeth. He was carrying a gun.
He didn’t look like an Arab. Morrie concluded that he was a drugged-out wanderer who was there to rob them. Just so he wasn’t an Arab terrorist.
“We are at prayer,” said Rabbi Wass guiding his son, who had run to his side, behind him.
“You think I’m fucking blind,” said the man, pointing his gun at the rabbi. “I can see what you’re doing. I know where I’m at. I didn’t think I was at the damned Dominick’s supermarket or some shit.”
The gunman shook his head and looked around at the men who had turned to face him. There was no doubt that the intruder was drunk, on drugs or insane, possibly all three.
“You can have our money,” Rabbi Wass said calmly.
“I know I can have your money,” the tall man said, closing the door behind him. “I can have your money, your shirts, your shoes. I can have your goddamn...
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