The Unknown Beloved(63)

He had two hours between the time they finished at the morgue and his weekly meeting with Eliot. They’d missed the week before due to Eliot’s schedule and had talked only briefly on the telephone the morning Malone had returned. Eliot had been curious about his train-hopping and also about a certain Miss Daniela Kos who had called him in great concern, but neither subject had been delved into. They’d kept it light and nonspecific, as they usually did, but there was much to discuss and Michael kept an eye on the time.

He accompanied Dani to the medical office to inquire about the apartment upstairs, just as she’d proposed. Their plan to poke around in the apartment the night before had been thwarted. But he wasn’t going to think—or talk—about last night. Dani seemed eager to steer clear of it as well.

The woman at the counter was applying a coat of lipstick when they walked into the small waiting area. The place had the smell of bleach and cheap perfume. He guessed the cheap perfume came from the woman who didn’t even bother to look up.

“Sign in, please,” she droned.

“Hello, Sybil,” Dani said, trying to maintain waiting room decorum, though no one was in the reception area but them. “This is Mr. Malone. He is our boarder. But he’s looking for a place with a bit more space. I was wondering if the upstairs apartment was available.”

The woman looked up from her compact, popping her lips to blot them. Her eyes bounced off Dani immediately and locked on him. He saw the moment she decided she was interested, because her back arched and her chest lifted. He could see her tongue probing her teeth for lipstick.

“I would think you would want to keep him, Della,” she purred.

“Daniela,” he corrected. “Her name is Daniela. And I have some questions I’m going to need you to answer.”

She frowned and Dani stilled beside him. He was not acting according to plan. He flashed his credentials at the receptionist, not giving her time to study them.

“I work for the Bureau of Internal Revenue. Who owns this establishment?” he asked, firm.

She gaped.

“Uh . . . Dr. Peterka. He’s not here right now, though. You should come back and talk to him.”

“I’d rather talk to you. Who lives upstairs?”

“No one. Dr. Peterka is planning to convert it to more office space.”

“He’s never lived in this house then?” Dani had already given him the answer, but it was a convenient segue into who else had lived there.

“He grew up here. When his parents moved out, he stayed with his own family with the practice beneath. But he moved out years ago.”

“How many years?” He asked his questions fast, wanting her to answer just as quickly. He was more likely to get honesty that way. Plus, it kept her off guard.

“I don’t know. About the time I was hired. 1930 or so.”

“So the upstairs has been empty ever since?”

“No. We usually have several interns renting the space.”

“Interns?” Again, he knew the answer.

“At St. Alexis.”

“How many interns?”

“There has to have been a dozen, at least, over the years.”

“Do you think you could make me a list?”

“Perhaps. I hardly see why you’re asking me these questions. Donna could have told you all of this. She’s lived next door longer than I’ve worked here.”

“Daniela,” he corrected. “So how long has it been since it was occupied?”

“Six months.”

“But no one now?” he pressed.

“No. It’s got a kitchen and an indoor toilet. But Dr. Peterka says he wants to put private offices upstairs. He wants it for himself if you ask me. A bachelor pad.” She gauged his response to her gossip.

“But Edward isn’t a bachelor,” Dani said, frowning. Her innocence had Sybil rolling her eyes.

She reminded him of Dani’s old neighbor, Mrs. Thurston, full of suggestion and innuendo, trying to find an angle. He also didn’t like that she couldn’t remember Dani’s name. People did that on purpose. You didn’t consistently get someone’s name wrong unless you were trying to insult them. The woman was probably jealous. Women were odd that way. Maybe it was instinctual, but it wasn’t attractive.

“I want a list of who has stayed up there, Sable.”

“Sybil. It’s Sybil.”

“That’s right,” he said, level-eyed.

“Dr. Peterka’s brother-in-law lived there last.”

“Good. And what was his name?”

“Bartunek. Jacob Bartunek.”

“How long ago was that?”

“He . . . left . . . last summer.” She wasn’t telling him something.

“And how long did he live here?”

“It wasn’t very long. Four or five months. Six at the most.”

“I’d like to talk to him. Could you get me an address?”

“No.” She frowned, but her eyes were lively with a secret she couldn’t wait to tell.

“Why not?” he grunted. “He was related to Dr. Peterka. A brother-in-law, you said? Surely you can get me an address.”

“The poor dear is dead. Suicide. Not here, thank goodness. Can you imagine finding the body? It was after he left. When he gave up his internship and went back home. Dr. Peterka was devastated.”