Little Deaths(73)

Then she heard a car door slam, footsteps behind her.

As she started her engine and reached out to close the door, a car appeared from nowhere to block her in. A hand appeared on top of her door. She looked up but the sun had turned the figure into a silhouette with no face. She focused on the hand. Clean clipped nails, a short thumb, a white scar on the forefinger. It was a very ordinary hand. It could have belonged to anyone.

“What do you want?”

“You have to come with us,” said Devlin.

“I don’t have to do a damn thing.”

“You have to come with us, Mrs. Malone. The grand jury has indicted you. You’re under arrest for the murder of your son and the manslaughter of your daughter.”

“I don’t believe this. I don’t believe it.”

“Mrs. Malone . . .”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Hands on the steering wheel. Tight.

“I suggest you don’t make a fuss, Mrs. Malone. People are watching.”

She let out her breath and then got out of the car, made to hand her keys to Quinn, who stood stolidly next to Devlin like a dummy. She dropped them and looked at him scrabbling in the road. It was all she had.

Ruth sat in the backseat of Devlin’s car, stared straight ahead at the morning going on without her.

Devlin shifted in his seat, making the car rock. She lifted her eyes to the mirror, saw him watching her.

“What?”

“You know, it would have gone much easier for you if you’d only told the truth from the beginning.”

She raised her head. Looked him in the eye and then let her gaze drift past him. She would not give him anything.

They didn’t speak again until they reached the precinct. Ruth stepped out and through the glass doors ahead of her she saw that the lobby was full. Cops in uniform, men in suits, secretaries: they all turned to watch her approach. They were all waiting for her.

She stopped. Took a long breath. Turned to Devlin.

“I want my phone call.”

He shrugged. “Sure. There’s no one who can help you, but why not?”


“Frank, it’s me.”

“Huh? Ruth? What time is it?”

“I’ve . . . I’m at the precinct. They’ve arrested me.”

A pause. “What? What for? What the fuck’s going on?”

“Yeah, I know. Christ, Frank. That bastard was waiting for me outside the apartment this morning. Brought me in with everyone staring.”

“Jesus . . . Ruthie. I don’t . . . Are you okay?”

“Listen, I don’t have much time. You need to call Scott for me. Tell him what happened.”

“Sure. Scott. Okay.”

“You got his number? You got it, Frank?”

“Yeah, I got it. Okay, I’ll call him now. I’ll meet him outside the precinct.”

“Okay.”

“You need anything?”

“No. Just Scott.”

“Okay. Hang in there. I love you, baby. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay.”


Pete was standing in line at Mario’s, waiting to order breakfast before work. A bulletin came over the radio. Ruth Malone has been indicted and arrested for the murder of her son and the manslaughter of her daughter.

He dropped his newspaper and just stared at the radio until the guy behind him nudged him and nodded toward the girl at the counter, who was looking at him with raised eyebrows, tapping her pen on her pad.

“Sorry,” he said. “Changed my mind.”

He pushed his way out the door. Disbelieving. It had taken over four months, but Devlin must finally have what he’d been looking for. He’d mentioned a letter. Whatever had been in that letter was enough to charge her.

Pete drove to the station house. The lobby was crammed with reporters. Two hookers were leaning against the desk while a sergeant booked them. They kept yelling at the photographers, “How d’ya want me, honey?” and “Ten bucks for a close-up!” and then collapsing into laughter.

He stared around wildly, desperate for a familiar face, for some idea of what to do. The sergeant behind the desk was shouting, trying to bring some order to the chaos, but Pete could hardly hear him above the clamor of voices.

A door opened and Devlin’s bulky figure emerged. He raised a hand and the room fell silent. Just like that.

“Gentlemen. I know why you’re here, but we got nothing more for you today. She’s been arrested, she’ll probably get bail, we don’t have a date for the hearing yet. That’s it.”

He turned and went back inside and the noise broke out again, louder still. Reporters pushed toward the door.

Pete wandered outside, stupid with confusion. What had happened? What had changed between yesterday and today to make the cops feel confident enough to go ahead and bring her in?

The parking lot was deserted: everyone had a lead to follow. He could hear Friedmann in his head: Stick close to the cops, get the reaction in her neighborhood.

He stopped to light a cigarette, noticed a guy leaving the station house with a leather briefcase. He had silver hair, a well-cut suit, an air of money. He looked like Pete’s idea of a lawyer and, judging by his suit and his shoes, he was a good one. There was surely only one person in the station who needed an expensive lawyer today.