Little Deaths(34)

9


Pete’s thoughts kept turning back to what Friedmann had said about every story needing a villain. It seemed to him that the police weren’t looking at other suspects. He wondered if they’d even asked Ruth Malone who she thought had done it.

He needed to speak to her.

He told Friedmann he had a lead, and spent a couple of days sitting outside her building, waiting.

And finally she emerged.

She walked to her car, head bent, and didn’t notice him.

“Mrs. Malone?”

Her face was drawn and tired beneath the makeup. Her lips were chapped, dry. She didn’t smile or ask him what he wanted. Just waited for him to speak.

“Mrs. Malone, I’m Pete Wonicke from the Herald. Can I have a few moments of your time?”

“What . . .” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “What do you want?”

“Well, I want to hear your side of things. I wondered if you had . . .”

She didn’t raise her voice, or bluster, or avoid his eyes. She simply stood on the sidewalk and said, “No.”

“It’s important . . .”

“I’m not interested.” And then, like a child, “I don’t want to.”

“Mrs. Malone, this could be your only chance to tell your side of things.”

And now she smiled, but it was a smile without warmth or humor.

“I sincerely doubt that. You people”—and here her lip curled—“you people are always bothering me.”

She took a pair of sunglasses from her bag and slipped them on.

“I just want to be left alone, Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is. Just leave me alone.”

There was a tiny catch in her voice and she pressed her hand to her lips. Then she got in her car and drove away.

He kept watching her, waiting for another opportunity. She didn’t go out much during the day. She shopped for food. Looked listlessly in store windows. Once she went to the beauty parlor and had her hair set.

Nights were different. She was out every night: at Callaghan’s, at Santini’s. Mostly with the same guy: short, thickset, with sallow skin and oiled black hair, expensive suits, cigars. Sometimes she went out with girlfriends and once or twice with other men. She drank too much, laughed too loudly, complained it was early when the others wanted to call it a night.

The cops were trailing her too. There were four of them, working in shifts. Pete would stroll over to their cars, offer around cigarettes, sticks of gum. Then he would stand and smoke with them, lead the conversation to why they were all there. He would ask how the case was going, if they had anything he could run with yet. They talked a lot about Ruth Malone, mostly dirty jokes, but their answers about the case were always the same.

“It won’t be long now before we have enough to charge her.”

“You’ll be the first to know when we do, Wonicke.”

“We’re bringing her in again tomorrow. She’s gonna crack sometime. They always do.”

More than once, someone mentioned Devlin’s obsession with the case. With Ruth. Pete learned that Devlin had photos of her pinned on the wall over his desk: dozens of them.

“He’s like my kid sister with her pictures of the Beatles.” This was a skinny Irish cop called O’Shea. “Maybe he just wants to screw her.”

They all laughed, and then one of the others, an older guy, shook his head. “Naw. She ain’t his type. He wants her put away for this. I heard he got called in to see the chief about the overtime bill. And that he said he’d work late for no pay.”

He looked at the others, shrugged. “That’s what I heard, anyway. You seen him: he’s like a dog worrying at a bone. He ain’t gonna give up until she’s behind bars.”


Every place she went, Ruth was at the center of the room. At first he thought it was because of who she was, because of what had happened to her. Then he realized it was because of who she’d always been. It was how she looked. How she carried herself. In those bars, next to the suburban moms and the tired divorcees heading for forty, she glowed. There was something about her that made it impossible to look away.

When she danced, she moved and stretched and rippled in a way that showed off her body, keeping her eyes on the men in the crowd, making sure their eyes stayed on her.

Friedmann kept telling him: add just enough color to make the story memorable. Ruth had enough color for neon and stained glass and Christmas. Pete didn’t need to make her up, all he had to do was follow her and take a picture with his pen and pad and his memory, and there she was: Kodak-bright on the page.

When she had danced enough to sweat out the alcohol, and the flashing lights were showing her strained face and dead eyes, she pushed her way to the bar or waved to a passing waitress and ordered another round of drinks, and another. It was as if she couldn’t bear to be sober, even for a moment.

And as it grew late, she chose one guy and fixed all her attention on him so that she didn’t have to go home alone.

Same thing the next night. She was never alone.

The hostess at Callaghan’s told Pete she’d known Ruth for years, since it was still the Four Seasons, since Kennedy was alive. She was short, heavy, with platinum curls and disappointed lines running from each corner of her mouth. Her eyes flickered from the door to the bar to the register.