'Yes,' said George.
'Can I come in?' asked Lieberman.
'My mother's watching TV. She gets upset cops come around. You know?'
'We can get in my car, go for a coffee,' offered Lieberman reasonably.
'OK, sure,' Patniks said. 'Let me just tell my mother.'
Lieberman nodded and stepped into the house.
'I hear you're a painter,' Lieberman said.
'Yeah.'
'I like painting. Things that look real. Is that the way you paint or do you do things that don't look like anything?'
'My paintings look like things,' George said nervously.
'I'd like to see them,' said Lieberman.
This was a nightmare. Not the one George had anticipated, but a nightmare. You go on a job and suddenly a man is murdering his wife. You hear the doorbell ring and there's a cop wanting to look at the painting you did of the guy who killed his wife. Nightmare. George's legs went weak.
'Maybe sometime. I'll tell my mother,' he said.
From the hallway Lieberman watched the man move to a heavy woman planted in front of a Sony television set.
George leaned over and said, 'I'm going out for a half hour or so. This man wants to talk to me.'
Wanda Skutnik turned heavily in her chair without turning her neck. The chair creaked. Jenny Jones was shouting, 'Wait a minute. Wait a minute.'
'OK if I change my shirt, pants-just take a minute?' George asked.
Lieberman nodded and George hurried for the door that led down to his room.
'You're a police,' Wanda said.
'Yes.'
'You are old for police,' she observed.
'I just look old,' Lieberman said. 'The job does it to you.'
'Mrs. Maniaks's nephew, Stan. He was a policeman. You knew him?'
'Don't think so,' said Lieberman.
'He took money from the stores on Division. And then he wasn't a policeman.'
The woman nodded and Lieberman asked, 'Is there a way to the street from George's room?'
'Door,' she said. 'Stand by the window over there and you can see it, but George isn't going to run away.'
Lieberman moved to the window and looked out.
A commercial came on. A woman was wild with enthusiasm for the Home Shopping Network.
'You can get some good buys on Home Shopping,' Wanda said. '1 got a clock that looks like a soldier, alarm clock. Screams at you, 'Get up. Rise and shine.' '
'Sounds cute,' said Lieberman.
'What?'
'Sounds cute,' Lieberman repeated loudly.
'Gave it to one of my sons, Tommy, for last Christmas. You think they have Home Shopping in Seattle?'
'Probably,' said Lieberman.
The woman sighed deeply.
'I don't think I want to go to Seattle,'' she said. 'My legs, it's far. Who needs travel at my age?'
'You've been thinking about visiting Seattle?' he said.
'Gregor, he's got this vishmite, this thing about going to an art show, fair, something in Seattle. Gregor is an artist, a painter. He had ribbons and one time…'
Her voice trailed off and then she sighed and asked, 'What did Gregor do this time?'
Below him through the thin floor, Lieberman could hear George Patniks shuffling around, moving things. What could he be moving?
'I don't know that he did anything,' Lieberman said. 'I just need some information from him. Night before last. You remember if he was home?'
'Night before…' Wanda Skutnik turned to the television set for inspiration. 'Not last night, but… He was home. All night.'
'Good,' Lieberman said with a smile.
With George Patniks having his own entrance and a hard-of-hearing mother, the woman's information didn't mean much. Lieberman checked his watch. Almost two minutes. He was about to go after Patniks when he heard the sound of footsteps coming up from below. George, now wearing jeans and a neatly ironed white shirt, came through the door. There were still dabs of paint on his forehead and hands.
'Wear a jacket,' Wanda said as George moved toward Lieberman.
'I will, Ma,' he said, opening a closet and pulling out a zippered blue jacket. 'I'll be right back.'
'Pleasure to meet you, ma'am,' Lieberman said.
Of the five men whom Harvey Rozier had asked about as he looked through the tapes and books of mug shots, one was dead, one was in the Federal Security Prison in Marion, another had moved to a farm in Tennessee. Lieberman had found one of the two remaining men, Sandoval 'Sandy' Borchers, in his apartment on Claremont. Borchers, a born-again Christian, told Lieberman that he worked nights, including the night of the murder, at the Toddle House on Howard Street. A call to the night manager, who had to be awakened by his wife, confirmed that Borchers had been working with the manager and another worker all night, no time away from the restaurant from eight at night till four the next morning. That left George Patniks, who was proving to be a promising prospect.
'You want to know why I'm here?' Lieberman asked as they got into the car parked in front of the house.
'Sure,' said George with a shrug.
'You seemed curiously uncurious,' said Lieberman. 'You want a coffee?'
George shrugged again. Lieberman reached down, removed two Dunkin' Donuts coffees from a bag, and handed one to George.
'Thanks,' he said.
The coffee was warm but no longer hot. The two men drank and watched the thin rain that had returned in the last few seconds. Across the street someone peeked through first-floor curtains. All of the houses on the block were small, wooden, and old with little front yards enclosed by low fences.
'You know a man named Rozier?' Lieberman asked.
'No,' George answered, looking straight out the window at nothing and shaking his head. 'Knew a con named Rozell. That be the guy?'
'No,' said Lieberman, pausing to take a sip of tepid coffee. 'Your entire life you're sure you've never run into someone named Rozier?'
'Not that I recall. You meet a lot of people.'
'You want to know why I'm asking?'
George shrugged to show that he didn't care.
'Your mother says you're planning a trip to Seattle.'
'Thinkin' about it.'
'What's in Seattle?'
'Art fair. Chance to sell some of my paintings. I do pretty good at paintings. Learned it inside.'
Lieberman looked over at the person watching them through the parted curtains across the street.
'Everyone here know you're a con?'
'Most everybody. We've got no neighborhood newspaper. Lot of people couldn't read it if we did,' said George.
'What's the name of this fair in Seattle?' asked Lieberman. 'My wife's an art lover. Maybe we can fly up for a day or two, see the sights, taste the wares, go to an art show.'
A young woman holding a coat over her head with one hand and the hand of a small white-haired boy with
