Little Deaths(47)

“That cover it?”

The driver nodded, tapped a finger to his forehead, and pulled away.

When Pete turned to Gina, she was still rummaging in her purse. Came up with a cigarette and a lighter that she clicked uselessly. He gave her a light and finally she looked up and met his eyes. Her skin was dry and her lips chapped.

“What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you.”

She shook her head, backed away. “Uh-uh. I seen the things you wrote. The way you talked about her. I got nothing to say to you.”

“Wait. Listen.”

She kept walking.

“Please. I’m sorry.”

She stopped.

“I’m sorry.”

She turned and stared at him. “What about?”

He took a step toward her. Then a second. She didn’t move.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and . . .” He didn’t know how to keep going.

She just stood there, weight on one hip, blowing smoke at him.

“Maybe I was wrong.”

“About?”

“About Mrs. Malone. About everything.”

She almost spat her words out. “You got that right. You were wrong. You are wrong. About everything.”

“I need your help to fix it.”

She frowned. “Why should I help you?”

“I guess . . . I’m all you’ve got right now. I’m all Mrs. Malone’s got.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

He nodded toward the nearest building, asked her, “Mind if we sit a while?”

She shrugged and they made their way over, sat on the stoop. The weak sun felt good on his skin. It felt good to take a moment. One of the reporters approached the police car, engaged the cops in conversation. Pete guessed he was looking for a new angle, something to fill a column on page five. Two women walked past, slowed as they went by the Malone building. They drew closer together, as if the weather had suddenly turned colder, and then they were out of the building’s shadow and everything was bright again.

A woman came into view, walking stiffly, as though her joints were painful. She was plump, with dyed red hair and lipstick that didn’t quite fit the shape of her mouth. She wore a shapeless flowered dress and low heels, her feet spilling over the sides. She looked familiar.

Pete nodded toward her and asked Gina, “Who’s that?”

“Huh? Oh, that’s Mrs. Gobek. She’s an odd one.”

“Odd, how?”

“Oh, you know. She’s just a lonely old lady. She makes up stories. Likes to be the center of attention, I guess.”

Then a man appeared, walking with his head down, gaze averted. There was something off about him: he was tall and walked with a shambling gait as though he wasn’t used to his long legs.

“That another Looney Tunes?”

“That’s Gus Frederickson. He lives over there.” She jerked her head toward the next building.

Pete kept watching him and Gina sighed. “Jesus. You’re just like the cops. They hauled him in for two days before they found Frankie. Questioned him till he damn near fell apart. He’s a weird guy, sure, but he ain’t no killer.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s . . . there’s something wrong with him. He had an accident when he was a little kid. Something went wrong inside his head after that. He lived with his mom till she died. He’s gentle as a kitten. He likes kids . . . no, not like that—he likes to play with them, little kids, because he’s like a kid himself. I’ve known him for years and he’s not . . . he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Frederickson shuffled out of view and Gina took a last drag on her cigarette, flicked it onto the sidewalk below them, then wrapped her coat tighter around herself, stuck her hands deep in the pockets.

He saw she was looking at the cop car, the press men, and he said softly, “They think she’s guilty.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think she don’t know that?”

He nodded, watching her face. “I don’t know what happened that night. But if she didn’t do it . . .”

“She didn’t.”

“Well, then she needs to build a defense. The cops need another suspect. They need to be asking questions instead of just focusing on her.”

He could see her thinking about it, and he pressed on.

“She needs to start fighting back.”

Gina looked down, rubbed her hands over her face as though she was washing it. When she looked up again, her skin and her eyes were red. She sighed. Then she raised her chin defiantly.

“I want to show you something. Come on.”

The cops and the guys by the car fell silent as they approached her building and four pairs of eyes watched them climb the steps. Watched Gina fumble with her key, watched Pete take it from her and unlock the door, watched him push her gently into the hallway and shut out their hostile stares.

She ran a hand through her hair.

“Jesus Christ. I hate this. I hate it. It’s been months. When are they going to stop?”

“They’re still hungry. They need a break.”

She looked at him almost fearfully, and for a moment he thought she was going to change her mind. But she nodded toward a white door across the hallway. Pete stared at a polished brass number plate, at scuff marks on the paintwork made by small feet.