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date, with a new instructor, from Yale.”
    â€œA woman?”
    â€œOf course a woman,” said Todd.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Lieberman, resisting a new urge to fill his cheeks with ruggalah and make an insane face at his son-in-law.
    â€œI don’t even know what I did wrong. I don’t even know what to do. I’m a domestic creature, Abe.”
    The phone rang.
    â€œI’ll talk to her again,” Lieberman promised, moving to the phone.
    â€œâ€˜A man shall be commended according to his wisdom,’” said Todd. “‘But he that is of a perverse heart shall be despised.’”
    â€œTodd …,” Lieberman began warningly.
    â€œThat’s not Greek. It’s the Old Testament. Proverbs twelve, verse eight. You don’t want me to quote the Bible?”
    â€œI don’t want you to quote anything,” said Lieberman. “God and Rabbi Wass forgive me. I’ll talk to her.”
    Lieberman picked up the phone and said, “Lieberman.”
    â€œNestor, Abe,” Briggs said. “You are a popular man today. First, Bernie Shepard wants you on the case, now Hal Querez at the North says he needs you fast.”
    â€œHe say why?” asked Lieberman, looking at Todd whose eyes searched his father-in-law’s face for reassurance.
    â€œI think it’s El Perro,” said Briggs. “But don’t quote me on that. Hal wants you at the North fast.”
    â€œCall Bill Hanrahan. Tell him I had an emergency. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”
    Lieberman hung up the phone and looked at Todd.
    â€œYou won’t give up?” asked Todd.
    Lieberman rose and motioned to Todd to get up too. Todd did so wearily.
    â€œI don’t sleep much,” said Todd.
    â€œI don’t either,” said Lieberman.
    â€œI watch television most of the night,” Todd confessed. “Old movies, reruns of ‘Andy of Mayberry,’ anything to keep from being alone. And I eat, anything, everything. This will kill me, Abe.”
    Lieberman led his son-in-law out the kitchen and to the front door.
    â€œIt won’t kill you, Todd. It may make you tired and fat, but it won’t kill you.”
    â€œI trust you, Abe.”
    â€œI’m honored,” said Abe, opening the front door.
    â€œYou’re joking,” said Todd. “I’m sincere.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Abe. “People are murdering people and I’ve got to get an hour or two of sleep. I’ll be my usual cheerful self tomorrow.”
    Todd started down the steps.
    â€œFill yourself with V-Eight,” Lieberman said. “Few calories, some vitamins. Fills your stomach.”
    Todd stopped and looked back at him.
    â€œThat’s your advice?”
    â€œThat and don’t wear brown shoes with the navy slacks and sweater.”
    Lieberman closed the door and headed straight for the bedroom.
    Cops owned houses. Even if they couldn’t afford it, they owned houses. Even if the houses were two rooms and a crawl space, they owned. Success was owning a house. Owning a house was stability, a small piece of the American dream.
    The house he parked in front of on Nordica just south of Foster, in the far northwest corner of the city a few miles from O’Hare airport, was brick, modest, and tiny. The lawn was neat and white concrete steps clean.
    Hanrahan had done this before, at least forty times, once for another cop whose name he couldn’t remember. That had been early in his drinking days. A double J&B and a pack of spearmint would carry him, but he knocked on this door with just the memory of the Molson beer from Shepard’s refrigerator and the hint of a Velamint on his tongue.
    She answered on the fourth knock and he knew that she knew.
    â€œMrs. Beeton?” he asked.
    She was a big woman, blond, round pretty face, far too much makeup, looked around thirty. Her hair was short, brushed back. She was wearing a