The Unknown Beloved(5)

“You’ve hardly aged at all, little brother,” Molly had said, kissing his cheeks and holding him close. But they both knew he was a much different man.

Now he watched as the coffin he’d purchased, a white one with pink roses painted on the corners, was lowered into the ground beside Mary’s little stone and the marker for James. Molly cried, though Michael suspected a little relief in her tears. Molly had always had too many people to look after, and Irene had been a burden. He’d always made sure there was a roof over Irene’s head and money in her account, but Molly had cared about her. And caring was its own millstone.

No one but Father Kerrigan, Sean, and Molly came to the graveside service. There was no one else. And Michael just felt cold.

He would need to leave again. Soon. The old neighborhood wasn’t safe for him anymore, though the Chicago Outfit was under new leadership and the Prohibition wars of the ’20s were over. But he didn’t like sleeping under Molly’s roof. His presence, no matter how long it had been or how insulated he’d become, made her less safe. Not more.

Word got around, but it still surprised him to see Eliot Ness standing on the doorstep two days later, bags beneath his blue eyes and a file box under one arm.

“I heard about Irene, Mike. I’m sorry.” He took off his hat when he said the words, paying his respects. He still parted his hair straight down the middle, and at thirty-four he still retained the boyishness that had caused so many to either underestimate or adore him.

Malone nodded, acknowledging the sentiment, and invited Eliot in by simply stepping aside. Molly rushed out from the kitchen and greeted the famed Prohibition agent, asking about his wife, Edna, who had grown up down the street, and giving her condolences for his mother, Emma, who had apparently passed away the month before. But Molly didn’t linger. She left them alone with a couple of glasses and a bottle of malt whiskey, closing the sitting room door behind her. She knew the business they were both in. Or had been in. Ness had moved on from the Treasury Department.

“I heard you’re in Cleveland now,” Malone said, pouring as he talked.

“Yeah. I moved there in August of ’34 when I was still working for the bureau. Got offered the job as safety director about a year after that,” Eliot answered, taking the glass Malone handed him; he sipped it appreciatively. He never used to drink. He’d never wanted to be a hypocrite. But Prohibition was over.

“What the hell is a safety director, Ness?” Malone asked. He stared down into the amber liquid in his own glass. He didn’t really want to drink right now. Once he started, he might not stop.

“I’m in charge of the police and the fire department. Basically . . . the public safety guy.”

“You’re the chief of chiefs?”

“Something like that.” Eliot spoke in the same slow manner Malone remembered. It made him seem older than his years and forced patience and attention on the listener, and Malone had always found it endearing.

“Last I heard, you were hunting moonshiners in Kentucky,” Malone pressed.

“Yeah. And I’m never going back.” Ness set his empty glass on the table.

Malone added another finger. “That bad?” he asked.

“I’d take Al Capone and his boys any day.”

“You got mob troubles in Cleveland?”

“Yeah. They’re everywhere. But I have a whole new set of problems. You know what’s going on in my city?”

Malone’s brows shot up. “Your city? Cleveland is your city now? I thought Chicago was your city.”

“I’m responsible to the people in Cleveland now. And Cleveland has a madman roaming the streets, cutting people’s heads off.”

“I’ve been a long ways from Cleveland,” Malone said. “Are you talking about the murders? I know a little. But you’re going to have to fill me in.”

“They’re calling him the Torso Killer. The Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run. I’ve never seen the like. Not here. Not in Kentucky. Not ever.” Ness sighed. “The thing is . . . I understood Capone. His crimes made sense. It was business. Money. Power. Control. I don’t understand this guy. Chopping people up. Dumping their naked corpses in plain sight. Men. Women. Doesn’t seem to matter.”

Ness took another swallow like he needed the reinforcement. “Some of the bodies have been found by kids. Scarred for life now, those kids. You decide to skip school and go fishing and end up finding a human head, rolled up in a pair of trousers, sitting beneath a tree? How does a kid recover from that? Some other boys were playing ball near the Run, on a slope they call Jackass Hill. Their ball rolled down the hill; they chased it and found two dead men without heads or genitals, one of ’em still wearing his socks.”

Malone winced.

“Oh, it gets worse,” Eliot said. “The third victim, a woman named Flo Polillo, was chopped up and divided between two produce baskets. The woman who found the baskets thought the woman’s torso was a couple of hams.” He grimaced. “People are hungry right now, Malone. Luckily, the woman was not as desperate as some, and she went and told the butcher across the way that she thought he’d been robbed. Imagine her shock when she discovered the hams were human flanks. That’s the garbage going on in Cleveland. Not raids on distilleries. Not disruption of supply lines. Not good old cops and robbers or gangsters and agents. I can handle all that.”