Little Deaths(41)

Pete uncapped his pen. Waited.

“Mrs. Malone is looking for a new job.”

Devlin unwrapped the toothpick and dug around in his back teeth, his voice wet and distorted by his stretched lips.

“Whaddya think of that? Not six weeks since her kids were murdered.”

He dropped the toothpick on the table. Pete tried not to look at it.

“She ain’t even applying for waitressing jobs. She wants to be a secretary. Receptionist. Some fancy job like that. She thinks she’s moving up in the world, now she ain’t got no kids holding her back.”

He grinned. “She ain’t going nowhere.”

Pete looked at him, at his satisfaction, his sense of righteousness.

“What do you mean?”

His grin broadened. “Every time she gets an offer—of an interview, or a job—her new employer’s gonna get a call, or maybe a visit. Make sure they know the truth about the trash they’re taking in.”


At the end of August, Ruth applied for a job as an executive secretary at an advertising agency in Long Island City. Pete trailed her out there one morning, noting the way she hung her head as she walked from her car. He sat in the parking lot and watched her go in. Later, she came out and lit a cigarette and drove away.

Then he went inside. Just to see.

It was a nice office: light, flowers in the reception area. He went in to ask for directions, pretended he was lost. Looked around, played the dumb tourist, asked what they did there. A guy came out to give the girl some typing: she said, “Here’s Mr. Beckman, ask him yourself,” and they exchanged a smile. Friendly. The man shook Pete’s hand and introduced himself as Paul Beckman. He told Pete about some of the products they worked on, joked about a slogan he was writing for a new toothpaste brand, then pointed him back to the highway. He seemed like a nice guy.

As Pete got back in his car, he saw the cops pull in. Quinn was driving, Devlin sitting in the passenger seat, his elbow on the sill of the open window, his jaw set.

When Pete got to McGuire’s that night, Devlin’s encounter with Beckman had already become a story. Quinn was holding court in a booth, telling it to a skinny redheaded guy named Henriksen and a cop with blond hair and acne whose name Pete didn’t know. They nodded at Pete as he sat down.

“So we walked right in, just like we always do. The guy was real polite, offered us coffee. And the sergeant gave him the usual speech: you had a girl in for an interview today, right?”

“Guy says, sure I did. And now he’s starting to look puzzled. Devlin says, ‘Were you planning on offering her the job?’ The guy frowns. Pours himself a fresh cup of coffee. Takes his time. And he says, ‘Can I ask what business this is of yours?’ Can you believe it? I mean, seriously?”

Henriksen laughed, a high laugh like a girl’s. “What’d the boss say to that?”

“What did he say? Well, he didn’t know what to say. Bet no one talked to him like that in a while.”

“He gave the guy a minute, waited to see if he’d answer. Nothing. So he said, ‘She probably told you her name is Ruth Kelly. That was her name before she was married. Her married name, her real name, is Ruth Malone.’

“The guy is absolutely silent. So we wait another minute and then I say to him, ‘That name sound familiar? Maybe you heard of her.’ Still nothing. The guy just sat there, sipping his coffee. Like he was waiting for us to get to the point.

“So then the boss kinda sighs and sits up—you know, like, ‘Okay, I gotta spell this out for you,’ and he looks the guy in the face and he says, ‘Sir, the woman you met this morning is under suspicion of killing her children.’ And the guy just fucking sat there! Like we just told him it was raining outside.

“Finally—finally—he spoke. You know what he said? He said, ‘Why are you telling me this?’ ”

Henriksen looked around the booth, eyes wide. “Can you fucking believe that?”

The blond cop shook his head. “The thing about people—they never behave the way you think a sane person would.”

He turned to Henriksen. “Like that crazy broad in Forest Hills last month, right?”

Henriksen nodded, grinned. “Ain’t gonna forget that one in a hurry.”

He turned to Quinn. “We got a call about a domestic disturbance. Neighbor could hear a woman screaming, furniture smashing against the wall, all that. So we head down there, we bang on the door—no one in there gonna hear shit, so we break it down. The place was a mess—blood everywhere, broken glass, chairs all smashed up. Turns out the guy came home from ’Nam, heard a rumor his wife was fucking around when he was away, decided to teach her a lesson. He punched out two of her teeth and I think he broke her arm—I had to pull him off her, and then the bastard takes a swing at me.”

The blond took up the story. “So we cuff him and the wife’s hollering at me, What ya doing, what ya doing, don’t take him in! I tell her he ain’t going in the wagon for what he did to her—this is just a domestic, no witnesses—he’s going in for what he did to Henriksen. Crazy bitch jumped me and when I tried to push her off, she fucking bit me!”

A swell of laughter. The blond rolled up his shirtsleeve, Pete craned his neck, saw a circular purple mark on his forearm.

“Had to have a goddamn rabies shot—the doc told me human bites are worse than any animal ones. So the guy gets a fine for taking a swing, and she goes down on a six-month stretch. And I hope he finds another piece of ass by the time she comes home. Teach her a real lesson for what she done to me—and to him!”