The Unknown Beloved(25)

Eliot Ness.

Michael Malone knew Eliot Ness. He was a popular figure in Cleveland. The papers covered his every move and clamored for his statements. She set the files down and stepped away. It wasn’t so hard to believe. Malone said he worked with local governments.

She’d made a quick turn about the room, ignoring the lure of his private papers, but when she’d paused to close his wardrobe—which was slightly ajar—she’d seen the beautiful silk of the suits, one in a snappy chalk print, one in a navy so deep it looked like a jewel. She’d touched them, admiring the cut and the fabric. Suits like that cost more than most people made in a year.

But those had been the only times she’d slipped.

She’d tried to afford him the privacy he deserved, really she had, and she’d made a point to warn him to check for Charlie under the bed before leaving for the day.

Now Malone stood on the front walk, slightly hunched, with his hands on his hat. He still wore the same dark wool suit he’d worn the day he arrived. The pose made his overcoat pull at the seams, but she wasn’t sure if it was the cold wind that bent him over or the weight he carried on his shoulders. He looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to come inside or go for a walk, which was something else he did often. He walked for hours. Sometimes he took his car and went to places unknown, but more often he left on foot. He claimed he was a tax man, consulting with local agencies, but he kept odd hours. She knew he hadn’t told the whole truth when the aunts had questioned him about his work—his silk suits told a different story—but that was a typical trait. No one gave detailed explanations about their lives or their pasts when asked. Especially not to strangers.

His overcoat swung around his legs as he sidestepped a puddle with the agility of a young man, though he no longer was, not like he’d been. Not like she remembered. He wasn’t yet gray and his hair was still thick, but the lines were deeper around his eyes, the half-moons beneath them darker, like he didn’t rest well. Or maybe that too was just the world. The times they were living in were not happy ones, or maybe such days had never existed. Not collectively. She knew there were pockets of peace and calm, of laughter and ease, but no one she knew lived in those alcoves. She had . . . once. Then Michael Malone had looked down into her eyes and told her the truth that had changed her life.

She hadn’t blamed him, even then. In fact, before they’d parted, she had honestly loved him. It was a childish devotion, true, but deeply felt. Seeing him now, with adult eyes, she recognized that he was a rather sinister-looking character and not a hero type at all.

He was lean in the way a cat was lean, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a back that was longer than his legs and light feet that always seemed to know where to step.

He was also somber to the point of gloom. He was grim. She could think of no word that described him better. Oh, not in the way death was grim. She knew that darkness. Malone’s darkness reminded her of deep waters and long nights. She suspected his darkness was loneliness, and it echoed in her own breast.

When she was a child, he had seemed almost towering. Solid and safe. Now he was merely a man, a shade too thin and a bit too old, at least . . . for her.

He loped for the rear of the house, his decision clearly influenced by the sudden crack of thunder and the rain that followed. With just a few steps, he was completely out of view. She listened for him and moments later heard the back door open and close—just a snick and a whine—and the faint tread of wet shoes on wood floors.

She would be wise to steer clear of him as much as possible, the voice that sounded like Zuzana said from her head.

But she feared she would not.

She feared she could not.

She already knew him too well.





6


They ate dinner in awkward silence, just as they’d done every night for the last month. Malone hardly raised his eyes from his plate. Dani suspected that was her fault, though maybe not. Her two aunts had lost the art of subtlety in their old age. They watched Malone with worried gazes and pinned him in baleful stares. She wouldn’t blame him if he demanded a tray in his room, but he didn’t. He joined them each night and ate with polite gusto, and he spoke only when he was questioned directly.

He always helped them clear the dishes away, despite their insistence that he go. He said he was used to cleaning up after himself and didn’t like being waited on.

“Your wife didn’t fuss over you, Mr. Malone?” Lenka asked.

“No. She didn’t.”

“And what about your mother? Surely she doted on you.”

“My mother died when I was twelve, and I haven’t had a woman fuss over me since.”

It was the most personal information he’d offered yet, and Lenka looked at him sadly and clucked her tongue. “Poor tyke.”

“I am forty years old, Miss Kos. I have not been a tyke for some time.”

“We listen to Dick Tracy most nights if you’d like to join us around the radio,” Dani invited. “Or perhaps you have your own favorite programs. You’re welcome to listen to them here.”

He hesitated, like he was considering it, but then shook his head. Lenka’s shoulders sagged in disappointment, but Zuzana seemed relieved.

“I have work to do. So I’ll say good night,” he said, characteristically polite, characteristically guarded. But Malone had barely made it to the bottom of the stairs when the lights began to flicker. Lenka mumbled and crossed herself. Dani was tempted to do the same but instead rushed to gather the lanterns in case they lost power. Zuzana griped, trying to tune into her program, determined not to miss it, storm or no storm, and was met with static and nothing more.