The Unknown Beloved(100)

“He was at the gala?” Malone asked, stunned.

“Yeah. He was at the table right next to Sweeney and his wife. A table full of distinguished alumni.” Ness’s voice was wry. “He blended right in.”

“When did he live in that apartment?” Malone shot his thumb toward Peterka’s clinic.

“In 1934, when his wife booted him.”

“That lines up with Emil Fronek’s story.”

“Yep. A few weeks ago, an inquest over Francis Sweeney’s lunacy was brought forward by another doctor. A concerned family friend. It was immediately quashed.”

“And you’ve ignored all this because he’s a Sweeney, and you know you’re going to get torn up by the press.”

“I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

“You also know the money men funding your special investigation aren’t going to like it. That’s why the description of the car that took down Peter Kostura bothered you so much. A politician’s car. You don’t know who to trust. This isn’t Al Capone, public enemy number one. This isn’t the T-men versus the gangsters. This guy’s inconvenient for them.”

“I’ve got nothing on Sweeney, Malone, except my gut and what I just told you. And I can’t decide if the thing that’s holding me back is my own neck. ’Cause that would be like taking a bribe.”

“Are you asking whether I think you should pull him in?” Malone asked, grim.

“Yeah. That’s what I’m asking.”

“You have to, Ness. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

Eliot’s shoulders sagged, and he rested his head on the steering wheel for as long as it took him to breathe deeply and let it out. Then he turned and looked at Malone, his burden visibly lightened.

“Well, I’m glad you think so. Because right now, I’ve got Dr. Francis Sweeney in a suite at the Hotel Cleveland. He drank himself into a stupor at a bar in the Third on Tuesday night. I’ve had a man on him since the gala. We scooped him up, carried the son of a bitch right out of that bar early yesterday morning, and he’s still sleeping it off.”

Malone felt his jaw drop.

Ness reached over and closed it.

“I have his suitcoat in my trunk. I need Dani to have a look-see. If Sweeney’s the Butcher, I need to know. If he isn’t . . . I need to get him out of the Cleveland before all hell breaks loose.”



Malone ended up going back inside alone and waiting for Dani to finish with a customer. She’d changed her stockings and buttoned her dress, but the flush in her cheeks deepened the moment she saw him.

The aunts were squabbling in the sewing room, Margaret would be upstairs, and he didn’t want to bring the coat into his room or even into the house. The moment the customer left, he turned the lock on the door and flipped the sign in the window to Closed. Dani’s eyes widened and she bit her lip.

He scowled even as his stomach dipped. “I’m not going to ravage you in the shop, Dani.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

“Eliot’s here. He’s got something he needs you to look at,” he said, but he couldn’t resist dipping his head and stealing a quick kiss. Eliot could wait for a few more seconds.

She rose up on her toes and kissed him back, and his arms snaked around her waist. It was instant combustion, and he set her back from him ten seconds later dazed and done for. He swiped at his mouth with his palm, checking for lipstick, and strode out of the shop before he lost his wits altogether.

“I need you to do that every time you see me,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “From now on.”

“All right,” he said. Yes, Dani. All right, Dani. Anything you want, Dani.

“And will we do other things too?” she whispered as he tugged her down the hall and out the back door.

“I really can’t imagine myself telling you no,” he muttered.

He led Dani into the stable, where Eliot was waiting, his hands in his pockets, his eyes hopeful. He’d turned the suitcoat inside out and tossed it over an old dress form so Dani didn’t have to hold it.

“Eliot,” Dani greeted.

“Dani.”

“What have we here?” she asked, pointing at the rickety dress form.

“I need you to tell me what you see on that suitcoat, Dani. And it might not be pleasant” was all he said, and she accepted his request with a nod.

She didn’t ask him whose it was or where he’d gotten it. She didn’t even comment on the stench, though her nose wrinkled in distaste and she pursed her pretty lips when she moved in closer. Malone followed.

“I’m going to stand right behind you. But go slow, okay? Go easy,” Malone instructed, terse.

She flattened her palms, her fingers flared, and ran them up the front of the coat from the hem to the shoulders.

“It belongs to a man named Francis Sweeney,” she said immediately.

Considering he hadn’t said a word to her about Francis Sweeney or Eliot’s suspicions, that the name had never once come up between them, her declaration was its own witness. Eliot’s exhale was audible, and Malone’s gut twisted.

“Yes. It does,” Malone said. “But who is Francis Sweeney?”

Dani allowed her palms to rest on the cloth, but her fingers flexed and curled, like she was strumming a harp. “He doesn’t know,” she said. “Sometimes he can’t remember. He prefers Frank. Most people call him Frank. Dr. Frank.”