The Unknown Beloved(65)

She set one coat aside and picked up another. “Well . . . There are little things. Exasperation. Stomach discomfort. One of the doctors has heartburn. This one enjoyed a delicious ham sandwich for lunch yesterday.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. See how helpful my gift is?” She smiled, sheepish, and he snorted at her sweet self-deprecation. She surprised him sometimes. She surprised him often. Caught him off guard. Made him hope. Made him afraid. Made him foolish. Made him yearn.

“Keep going,” he insisted, quelling his thoughts once again. She did as he asked, shaking out the white coats and shoving her hands into the sleeves to listen for whatever it was she heard.

A moment later she grimaced and withdrew her arms, hugging herself.

“What?”

“Dr. Peterka knows his patient has cancer. He is sending the man to St. Alexis for tests, but he knows.” She sounded aggrieved, like the knowledge pained her.

“So Peterka wore that one?” he asked, taking it from her. He didn’t like the sorrow that rippled over her features.

“Yes. That image is clear. It’s a strong emotion, and fresh.” She turned to wash her hands like the scent of sadness clung to them, but she returned to the pile.

She picked through every one of the coats, telling him what she felt and saw, but there was little of substance—nothing of substance—and he mentally moved the doctors at Peterka’s practice onto his unlikely list. Ness had given him a list of medical professionals a mile long. It would take him ages to work his way through them.

“I’m not sure what I would feel . . . or see, Michael, even if one of these men was the Butcher. The cloth is not a mirror for men’s souls or their lives. Unless someone was killed in one of these coats, I doubt I would see a thing.”

He moved the doctors back into the “maybe” column and sighed.

“It would be much more effective . . . I would be much more effective . . . if you could get me items from the victims. At least I could give them names,” she said.

Dani and her names. Dani and her dead. Her beloved unknowns. The idea made his stomach twist. “We’ll see.”

“And, Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Should you want to go exploring tonight . . . you will take me, won’t you?”

“Yes, Dani. I’ll take you. I said I would.”

“Okay. Good.” She smiled and set the coats back in the bin. “I’ll tell Margaret these are here. And I’ll see you later.”

She went one way and he went the other, exiting into the tepid shine of midday to walk around the house to the street. Eliot was already waiting.



They had a lot of ground to cover, and Eliot was always short on time. He parked in an empty lot, turned off the engine, and rolled down the window before taking a lunch box from the back seat and offering Malone two of his sandwiches.

“I made them myself. Even the bread. My father would be proud. He always wanted me to go into the family business.” He took a big bite and sighed. Eliot’s parents had owned a bakery in Chicago, but the fact that Eliot had made the bread—and his sandwiches—told another story.

“Edna hasn’t come back?” Malone asked.

“Nah. She’s not coming back. It’s over.” Eliot’s voice was resigned. “And I’ve got that damned gala at the end of the month. The press—and Congressman Sweeney—are going to have a field day when I show up in tails by myself.”

“Better than showing up with another woman. And why does Congressman Sweeney care?”

“I told you. Politics. It’s all about demonizing the other side. Pointing out the flaws of the opposite team to distract from your own. He hates Burton . . . so he hates me.” He took a big bite of his sandwich and urged Malone to dig in.

“Go ahead. I made extra just for you,” he said around his mouthful. “Peanut butter and honey. They taste like dessert.”

Malone shrugged and accepted. Breakfast had been a long time ago, and he’d been too uptight to eat his fill. He’d been wracked with guilt about kissing Dani. Again.

Amid sticky bites, Malone outlined everything he’d learned in the last few weeks, focusing primarily on the story of Emil Fronek—who still hadn’t been located, according to Eliot—in relation to the medical practice on the corner of Pershing and Broadway and the café butting right up to the stairs.

“It was in ’34, but it seems to me that’s when the Butcher got started. That apartment has seen a stream of characters with medical training. I’ll just have to track them all down. It’s empty now, but I can get in. Poke around. See what’s there.”

“If we can find Fronek and get him here, let him retrace his steps, and even get a description of the guy he thinks drugged him, that’d be something concrete,” Ness said. “We could show him pictures. St. Alexis has photographs of all their staff on file. Even interns. We need to narrow the field. And we need evidence.”

Malone nodded, chewing. Thinking.

“I checked into the kid’s story,” Ness said, moving on. “Pete Kostura was killed in a hit-and-run in December. Damn tragic. He was in one of the boy gangs I’ve been working with. I lit a fire under the detectives on his case. But I don’t know how his death has anything to do with the Butcher.”