The Unknown Beloved(58)

“The saddest part of it all,” she whispered, returning the conversation to the victims, “the saddest part, even sadder than their deaths, is that no one knows who most of them were. You know I can help with that, Michael. Even if I can’t help you find the Butcher, I can give his victims back their names. That is important. That is important . . . to me.”

“I don’t want you touched by any of it. This isn’t writing love notes for the dead, Dani. You don’t know what you’re asking for. You might see things that haunt you for the rest of your life. That hurt you for the rest of your life. You want that?”

She looked at him then, tipping her head to the side to study his sober countenance. “It will hurt me more to know I could have done something, and I did nothing. You have given your whole life to your work. Surely you can understand me wanting to do this one, small thing.”

“It is not a small thing,” he mumbled, but she detected concession in his sigh. She jumped on it.

“I will try harder not to touch your things. I’ve actually been trying.”

He scoffed, incredulous.

“I have! But . . . you are a fascinating man, Michael Malone. And, in my defense, I can’t really help it.”

“You can’t stop yourself from shoving your hands in my old boots?”

She blushed. “Well, yes. I can. But sometimes . . . sometimes it’s as simple as catching a whiff of something. You can’t stop your nose from smelling. Can you? Or your ears from hearing or your eyes from seeing?”

“So you are a Peeping Tom—a Peeping Dani—of a different sort.”

The blush intensified; she could feel it seeping down her throat and over her chest. She supposed that was as good a description as any, though she didn’t care for it. “You help people. I just want to help people too. And who is . . . Emil Fronek?” She might as well get it all out in the open.

He gaped, and then closed his mouth and shook his head. He threw up his hands, relenting. “All right. I’ll answer every last one of your questions. I’ll tell you everything. All of it. At least that way I won’t be driven crazy wondering what you already know.” He shook his finger in her face, his eyes narrowed on hers. “And you will not tell anyone. Not those two old ladies upstairs or Margaret downstairs. Not even Charlie. What I say doesn’t get repeated. Ever. And what I say goes. Do you understand? You go only as far as I say. And when I say don’t touch? You. Don’t. Touch.”

“Okay,” she whispered. She zipped her lips, showed him her palms and, folding her arms, tucked them under her armpits, signaling she was locked down tight.

“This is a mistake,” he muttered, but a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and she wished he’d just let it go so she could bask in it. Malone’s smile was something to behold.

He didn’t let it go, though. He banked it like he always did and scowled at her. “This is a mistake,” he repeated. “But I don’t think I have much choice in the matter.”



Malone didn’t give Dani a rundown of the murders or the steps he’d taken since arriving in Cleveland. He figured she could ask what she wanted to know. Otherwise, he was just going to assume that she knew it all. But he did tell her the story about Emil Fronek.

He’d told Eliot about Steve Jeziorski’s assertions. He’d also told him about Emil Fronek’s odd encounter with what might prove to be the Butcher, and Eliot had promised to take the “tip” to the detectives assigned to the case. Locating a particular transient in Chicago wouldn’t be easy, but they had a lot more resources and manpower than Malone did. And in Chicago it wasn’t exactly safe for him to go snooping around, asking questions, drawing attention to himself. Especially in the shipyards. The mob had a major presence on the docks. Better to let the Cleveland police reach out to the Chicago police and see what they could find. As far as he knew, Fronek hadn’t been located, but that fact didn’t take away from the impact of the account.

Dani’s eyes got big during the telling, but she held her questions until he relayed the whole thing.

“The sandwich shop butts right up next to Peterka’s,” she gasped. “And there are stairs that lead up to the second floor from outside. If it was dark and Mr. Fronek had walked around the south side of the café, he would run right into those stairs.”

“Yeah. I know. I thought of that too. Tell me about Peterka.”

“Dr. Edward Peterka. It’s his home—he grew up in that house—and it’s now his practice. He hasn’t lived there for a long time. It’s been years. Almost a decade, I would think.”

“So who lives there now?”

“I don’t think anyone does. But there have been quite a few renters, I believe. Mostly interns at St. Alexis. I could ask Dr. Peterka. He was the same age as my mother. They grew up together and were friends. He’s been good to my aunts and me, and I think he would tell me whatever we need to know.”

“No. I don’t want the doctor—any of the doctors—getting wind that you were asking questions.”

Dani seemed shocked by that, and her brows rose. Good. She needed to be aware that killers lurked behind friendly faces and innocuous fronts.

“I could get you inside. Just to have a look around,” she said. “There’s an interior staircase too. It’s laid out very similar to our home. They added the stairs and the upper outside entrance later, so someone renting the room wouldn’t have to enter the business.”