The Unknown Beloved(112)

“Caught who, Molly?”

“The Butcher!”

“Now why would you think I had anything to do with that?”

“Eliot Ness was here, brother. He was here for an hour, and he gave you a box of files. Eliot Ness is in Cleveland now. He has some job as a bigwig police commissioner or some such thing. And why else, in God’s name, would you have gone to Cleveland?”

“Why indeed?” he muttered.

“So . . . have you caught him?”

“In a way,” he sighed, deciding it did no good to deny his involvement when Molly had it all figured out.

She frowned. “What way is that?”

“The case is . . . closed. For me, it is closed. I have another assignment.”

“Another assignment here? That surprises me,” she said, concern furrowing her brow. “I thought Chicago wasn’t safe for you.”

“The anniversary of the massacre is in a couple of weeks.” That wasn’t anything Molly wouldn’t know. Ten people had been killed and a number seriously injured on Memorial Day in Chicago last year when hundreds of sympathizers at a steelworkers’ strike clashed with police. “Roosevelt is worried about the steel industry with war coming. He’s been giving the union what it wants, but I’m guessing the Treasury Department wants to make sure the money is going where it’s supposed to be going.”

“Do you really think war is coming?” Molly said.

“Whether the US gets involved with the fighting or not, we’ll still be supplying weapons, ships, and planes. War is big business, and America wants its cut.”

“You’re quite the cynic, Michael Francis Malone.”

“Yes. I am. But I’m also right.” He heaved himself up from the table. “Can I stay here for a few days? Until I know what’s what?”

“Of course you can. Sean and I are bored out of our minds. At least your gloom is new.”

“Ha.” He paused by the telephone in the hallway and looked down at it, thinking of Dani. Molly was still watching him.

“Are you all right, little brother?” Molly asked softly. So she had noticed.

“I’m the same as I ever was, Molly girl,” he responded and turned away from the telephone. He would call tomorrow.

“Hmm. That’s what I was afraid of,” Molly muttered. He didn’t acknowledge her teasing but proceeded toward the bottom of the stairs where his bag sat waiting.





27


Neither of them were equipped to handle a prolonged goodbye. But whether from kindness or cowardice, in the days that followed, Dani bounced between anger and disappointment like a yo-yo on a string. There was work to do, always work to do, and she was grateful for the demands that kept her from curling up like Charlie and refusing to move.

The grief was not unlike the grief she’d felt when her parents died, and that surprised her. She’d been left behind then too, though not by choice.

Malone had left her by choice.

She wasn’t sure what that said about her or him. Maybe it said nothing at all, and maybe it said everything. He loved her. Surprisingly, she did not doubt that. He loved her as greedily and obsessively as she loved him. His mouth, his hands, his eyes, his attention had all matched hers, and she’d felt the truth of it in his clothes. What Michael did not have was courage.

Her anger would always flare with that thought, but then her compassion would drag it down again. “Courage” was not the right word.

Michael was not a man of weak character or selfish intentions, and a man who worked undercover in Al Capone’s circle for eighteen months was not short on mettle. It was not courage he lacked. She suspected it was confidence. He’d never recovered the faith to love again, with all that love demanded. That he’d fallen for her at all was miraculous. That he’d admitted it was yet another wonder.

If they’d had more time, he might have allowed himself to wade deeper, to swim farther, and not panic when he could no longer touch the bottom. If they’d had more time, he might have found the faith in himself—and her—to stay.

But the taskmaster had called, tugging the leash he’d been on for fifteen years, and he’d been dragged back to dry land. She was still treading water, hoping he would return.

Some days were easier than others, and she floated. Other days she felt like she was riding an anchor to the ocean floor. She knew she would have to wade back to shore sooner or later to face the prospect that the love he’d given her was all the love she was going to get.

But she had so much more to give him. She had so much more to give. And that kept her standing in the surf, looking out to sea.

For the first few days after he left, Lenka kept asking if she’d heard from him and when he was going to call. When he finally did, she’d demanded to know every word of the conversation. But Zuzana must have scolded her, for she stopped bringing him up.

The warmer weather meant less death from exposure but quicker decomposition, and without Michael’s help, her work at the morgue was suddenly intolerable. Smells were stronger as the days grew longer. Every day, at least one body was too ripe to touch or wash. She would write a few meaningless words—a line by Dickinson that she loved or a bit of scripture—and tuck the papers in soiled pockets and fill out her forms. She hated when she could do nothing for the dead but make a notation on a ledger no one would likely ever read.