Little Deaths(74)

Pete dropped his cigarette and broke into a run, skidding to a halt in front of the guy with the briefcase. He merely raised a curious eyebrow, as though Pete were something interesting that he’d come across in a book.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m . . . My name’s Peter Wonicke. Are you representing Mrs. Malone?”

He said, not unkindly, “Well now, son, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to talk about my clients.”

“No, of course.”

“Then . . .”

“It’s just . . . I know her. I might have information that could help.”

He raised his eyebrow again and studied Pete for a long moment.

“I’m not in the habit of falling into conversations about my clients on the street either. But I am in the habit of making snap judgments about people. Have to be, in my line of work.”

He fell silent again and looked at Pete.

“I’m a little busy today, as you can imagine. But why don’t we meet tomorrow? Somewhere quieter. Have a cup of coffee together, and you can tell me . . . well, whatever it is you want to tell me. I’m Henry Scott, by the way.”

He gave Pete an address, and they agreed on a time the following afternoon.

The address turned out to be an old-fashioned café, the kind of place frequented by women having morning coffee or treating grandchildren.

Scott was there before him, stood when Pete arrived, shook his hand. They ordered, and Scott asked the waitress if they had any walnut loaf. When she said they did, he beamed like the small boy at the next table who had just been served a slice of pie and a mound of whipped cream.

When she’d gone, he looked after her, still smiling.

“This place used to serve a wonderful walnut loaf. My mother used to bring me here when we had to come into the city to buy me new shoes for school. Of course, the frequency of our visits and that ritual declined at the same rate as the growth of my feet. A strange link, don’t you think, Mr. Wonicke?”

His smile broadened, and Pete smiled back uncertainly.

“However, we’re not here to talk about walnut loaf or, indeed, my feet. Is there something you’d like to tell me? Something about Mrs. Malone?”

“Yes sir. It’s not . . . I don’t really know where to begin.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me how long you’ve known Mrs. Malone.”

“I met her after her children were killed.”

“And how would you define your relationship with her?”

“I know her pretty well. We’re . . . close.”

“All right. How did you get to know her?”

“Well, I was a reporter.”

Scott’s face twitched then and his manner became more formal.

“I see. In that case, Mr. Wonicke, I’m going to have to ask you . . .”

“No! No, please. I’m not a reporter anymore. And I’m not here because of that. I’m just telling you how I met her.”

Scott nodded, but his manner was guarded.

“So you met her. You interviewed her?”

“Yes. Her and some of her neighbors. And her mother.”

Their coffee arrived, together with a slice of walnut cake that would have defeated even a hungry schoolboy. Scott picked up his cup and eyed Pete over the rim.

“So far, you haven’t told me anything that sets you apart from the rest of your profession, Mr. Wonicke.”

“I guess . . . well, I believe her. I think she’s innocent.”

Scott put his cup down, folded his hands on the table.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think she’s capable of murder. Especially the murder of her children.”

“Based on?”

“Excuse me?”

“Have you met many murderers? I met a woman a few years ago who drowned her grandson because she believed he was possessed by Satan. I assure you, she was far more personable and charming than most people in this room.”

Scott’s smile never faltered and his eyes continued to twinkle at Pete above his coffee cup.

“So what makes you so sure that Mrs. Malone is innocent?”

Pete flushed, realized he was clenching his jaw. Maybe Scott intended to needle him, to get something out of him. If so, it was working. He tried to stay calm. To focus on Ruth.

“Okay, I see your point, Mr. Scott. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that I don’t think she’s guilty based on the evidence the police seem to have on her.”

Scott put down his cup and nodded.

“Now you’ve got me interested, Mr. Wonicke. Because now you may be offering me something I don’t currently know. I assume you got this information in a way that’s completely legal and aboveboard?”

“Some of it I got through interviews. Some of it I overheard.”

“Hearsay, I’m afraid. But potentially useful, depending on what was said.”

Pete gave him the gist of the conversations he’d had with Quinn and with Devlin, their view of Ruth. Scott ate a forkful of cake and listened in silence.

“Mr. Scott, I think they’re going to attack her morals on the stand. Make her out to be a . . . to be the kind of woman who’s capable of killing her kids.”

Scott nodded. “So I would assume.”