The Unknown Beloved(52)

“All I know is the Butcher ain’t one of us,” Sully added.

“One of us?” Malone asked.

“A transient. A homeless guy. We don’t have enough time to think about killing. Not like that. Not for sport. Not for pleasure.” Sully scratched at his head and shook his hat, as if that would shake the itch loose, and shoved it back on his head.

“I’d have to agree with you there, Sully,” Chester admitted. “Everyone talks about it, everyone has their opinions, and everybody points their fingers at each other. There’ve been police and patrols crawling all over the Run for three years now. It can’t be that hard to find a mad butcher. They’re just looking in the wrong place. I’d say they’ll find someone to pin it on, but the problem with pinning it on someone is that the killing won’t end. So they can’t fudge it.”

The sentiment was so close to what Malone and Ness had discussed that Malone could only nod in agreement.

“Still, someone like that wants to be caught,” Sully said, inserting himself back into the conversation. “Else they wouldn’t leave the parts scattered where people can find them.”

“He throws them in the water,” another man scoffed.

“Some of them. Yeah,” Sully said. “Others he buries with their heads aboveground or wrapped in their clothing, like he’s giving the world a gift. And do you notice how he chops up the ladies into smaller sections? He’s not happy with the ladies.” Sully hooted like he had his own history with women.

“It doesn’t feel personal to me,” Chester argued. “I think he just likes killing.”

“Oh, it’s personal,” Sully said. “But it’s definitely not specific.”

“How does he lure them in?” Malone asked, fascinated by the exchange. He’d had many of the same impressions.

“He offers them what they want,” Chester said, no hesitation. “What they need. A ride. A drink. Food. I’m guessing he’s fed them all. That’s all a body can think of when he’s hungry. We eat fast and taste later. They fall asleep, and he cuts ’em up. That’s how he almost got old Emil, isn’t it? I bet that’s how he’s got ’em all.”

The conversation had quieted after that, each man lost in his own thoughts on the matter, and Malone had closed his eyes and feigned sleep until morning came.

He’d hit pay dirt, he was sure of it. There was a sandwich shop on Broadway, right around the corner from the house, where the lights of St. Alexis were easy to see. The story gave Malone a jumpy feeling in his gut, the kind of feeling he didn’t ignore.

He would tell Ness about Fronek. Maybe one of the detectives could hunt him down and get his story. Or maybe Malone would have to do it himself. He also wanted someone to track down Darby O’Shea, as long as they were sniffing in Chicago. It wouldn’t hurt to find out what had happened to George Flanagan’s cousin, for Dani’s sake.

He hadn’t let on when she’d mentioned him, but he’d known all about Darby O’Shea, even as a young patrolman. Dani’s mother was right. O’Shea was trouble, not that it mattered now. He also had nine lives. He’d avoided the hit that had taken out George Flanagan, though they were partners. When Dean O’Banion, the leader of the North Side Gang, was taken out at the flower shop in ’24, O’Shea had supposedly been on his way to meet him. O’Shea had even managed to avoid getting mowed down in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre in ’29, though five of his known “associates” had not fared so well. Malone had been sent to infiltrate Capone’s organization not long after the slaughter, and O’Shea’s name had popped up time and time again in the investigation, though Malone had never run into him, as far as he knew.

But first, after four days without a shower and a shave, two of them spent just trying to get home, he needed to wash, and he needed to sleep.

It was late, the house was quiet and welcoming, and he was so relieved to be back he spent an hour in the bathroom scrubbing and shaving, in no hurry whatsoever. He padded to his room at 2:00 a.m., his soiled clothes wrapped in a towel so he didn’t have to touch them, another towel wrapped around his waist. But he hesitated outside his door.

He’d left it locked, but it wasn’t locked anymore. He eased the bundle of clothes to the floor, and pushed the door open slowly, one hand on his towel, one hand on the knob. The lamp beside his bed burned softly, and Dani was waiting.

Unlike him, she was fully dressed and curled on his bed, Charlie cocooned in the curve of her body. Both cat and woman were deeply asleep.

He hesitated, caught with his pants down, literally, and then moved with quiet tread to retrieve some clean clothes.

She’d been through his things.

His wardrobe was open, his suits pushed to the side as if she’d run her hands over them, searching for something. He’d put the files in the trunk of his car before he’d left, but his notepad with his lists, which he kept tucked into the narrow desk drawer, was now sitting atop it. He’d been careless to leave it behind, even in a drawer, even with a locked door. But he’d had some expectation of privacy, damn it.

She didn’t wake as he yanked on his shorts and undershirt, along with a pair of trousers for modesty, and snapped his suspenders in place. She slept like poor, drugged Emil Fronek.

“Dani,” he said. She didn’t stir. He said her name again. “Dani.” Nothing. He walked to the bed and shook her gently, jostling Charlie in the process. The cat lifted his head and regarded Malone in narrow-eyed disdain before setting his head back down.