Little Deaths(61)

“You really think it’s him, don’t you?”

She nodded slowly.

“You said anything about this to Ruth?”

“Christ, no! You’ve seen her, the way she is now. Imagine what it would do to her if I told her that I thought her boyfriend killed her kids. It would finish her.”

She took another drag on her cigarette.

“And she’d tell him. I ain’t under no illusion—she’d tell him right away. She’d want him to laugh and reassure her, tell her it’s garbage. Or she’d want to warn him. She wouldn’t believe it, but she might think the cops would.”

“You’ve thought this through.”

“Yeah, I have.”

“What do you think Lou would do if she warned him?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Pete waited. Saw how her eyes flickered. How she licked her dry lips.

“You’re afraid of him.”

She nodded again. “Think I’d be dumb not to be.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You said the cops needed another suspect.”

“They do. I thought you were telling me you suspected Salcito.”

“Christ, no. It wasn’t Johnny. He’s a drunk, and he’s a little crazy, but he worships Ruth.”

“So you want me to take Lou to the cops as a suspect? Why didn’t you go to Devlin yourself? Tell him what you’re afraid of?”

“You think I didn’t try? I’d walk barefoot to Jersey if I thought it would put the guy who killed Frankie and Cin away. I was at the station house two days after Cin—after they went missing. He didn’t want to know.”

“What did he say?”

“Told me I’d been watching too many movies. Told me to go back to Ruth and tell her to send someone more . . . credible next time she wanted to give the police an alternative suspect. Told me I wasn’t so dumb I gotta be doing her dirty work for her. I tried to explain and he told me to get out or he’d arrest me for wasting police time.”

She swallowed the last of her drink.

“You’re the someone credible, Pete.”





14


Pete called Lou Gallagher’s office and again the polite, neutral-voiced secretary told him that Mr. Gallagher wasn’t available, that she couldn’t say when he’d be free. So he took a chance and headed to Santini’s. It took four nights before his efforts and his dollars paid off, and one of the waiters told him that yes, tonight Mr. Gallagher was in a booth in back. Pete found him with two girls and two bottles, took a breath, and, before he could lose his nerve, slipped into the seat opposite them.

Gallagher looked over at him with an air of inquiry. Not the irritation or the open hostility that Pete had expected. He was no threat, just a curiosity. And if he became a problem, there was presumably someone nearby who would find a solution.

“Good evening, Mr. Gallagher. My name’s Pete Wonicke. I’m a reporter.”

His hair was slick and shone dark against his scalp. Pete could smell his hair oil. His cologne. Gina was right—he did look like he had money. He looked well-fed. He looked satisfied with life.

Pete felt his inexperience seeping from every pore, dampening his armpits, beading his forehead.

Gallagher’s voice was low and rich.

“If you’d like to talk to me about my business, Mr. Wonicke, you can make an appointment with my secretary. We’re in the book.”

He gave a wide, white smile, relaxed into his seat.

He reminded Pete a little of a mallard duck he’d seen while fishing with his father. It had spent hours gliding between banks, sleek and complacent in the small pond. The gleaming emerald and sapphire feathers were oiled and slippery, the water sliding off it as it squatted low in the murky water.

“It’s not about your business, Mr. Gallagher.”

The wide smile returned.

“Then how can I help you?”

“I’m covering the Malone case.”

One eyebrow went up. “I don’t believe you mentioned which paper you work for.”

A moment went by, and then: “I’m not sure how you believe I might have any involvement with that . . . tragedy. It was some time ago now.”

“Four months. And your name came up, Mr. Gallagher.”

The eyebrow crept higher. “How interesting. Then I think perhaps I should refer you to my lawyer. Martin Sherman at Kasen, Sherman, and Bower. They’re also in the book.”

The girls either side of him took their cue and giggled.

Gallagher stood, reached out a hand. His skin was soft and supple, his knuckles dimpled like those of a baby.

“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Wonicke. Have a drink before you leave. On me. James will take care of you.”

And before he could reply, Pete felt a firm arm around his shoulders and was taken to the bar area. He guessed he’d been about to become a problem.

As he nursed a double Scotch—a good single malt, since it was on Gallagher’s tab—and thought about his next move, Pete became aware of a commotion at the entrance. The doorman was struggling with a woman who was trying to get inside. He watched for a moment, and then heard her say Gallagher’s name.

He threw back the last of his drink, went to the door, and took the woman’s arm. Nodded to the frowning doorman, led her away. She was drunk, or partway there, stumbling and reaching back to try and get inside.