The Unknown Beloved(85)

She reached for the coat with timid hands. She immediately smelled coal and newsprint, sharp and black and tinged with . . . glee?

“He thinks he is very funny. He leaves these things for you, Mr. Ness. Along with lots of fun clues that mean nothing at all.”

“Dani?” Malone warned.

“Who?” Ness asked.

“I’m not sure. It was just an impression of amusement and your name in the papers.”

The ink and merriment were quickly drowned out by stronger currents.

“These belong to Flo Polillo,” she said. She felt the woman’s weariness and her thirst. But both were old. Older than years. She’d worn this coat through many disappointing, parched days. Dani made herself hold it until she was sure there was nothing else to see and picked up the hat.

“She hopes he’ll be quick,” she said. The weariness again. The thirst. “The last time Frank bought her a drink, he didn’t make her earn it. She’s surprised he’s insisting tonight.” She waited. Turned the hat in her hands. “She hopes the little girls will take good care of her dolls.”

Silence.

“That’s all,” she said, and she heard the note of pleading in her voice.

Ness exhaled and Malone reached for her hand as Cowles placed the coat and hat back into the evidence box.

“Is there a place I can wash my hands please, Mr. Ness? A bathroom perhaps?”

“Just around the corner, Miss Kos. On your left. Take your time. I think that’s enough for tonight, don’t you?”

“Yes. Please. I mean, thank you.” She rose, testing the strength in her legs, and all three men rose as well, the way good-mannered men do, and Malone pulled back her chair so she could step away from the table.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” she said, and he nodded, his eyes searching her face. He looked as wrung out as she felt.

“You steady?” he asked softly.

“I’m steady.”





20


“You’re a damn liar, Malone,” Ness said the moment Dani left the room.

“Yeah,” Malone agreed. He was too tired to argue about the truth. He sank back into his chair. Eliot and David did the same.

“Did I miss something?” Cowles asked, looking from one man to the other.

“Does that woman look like an ugly seamstress to you?” Ness said.

“Her eyes are different colors,” Cowles said. Malone considered punching him in the face. He wasn’t too tired for that.

“Yeah. They are. You got a problem with that, David?” he asked.

“No. No problem. Just . . . haven’t seen it before,” Cowles muttered.

“That was something else,” Ness said, throwing down the pencil he’d been using.

“Do you really believe her, Malone?” Cowles pressed.

“If I didn’t believe her, I wouldn’t have brought her here,” Malone enunciated, wondering when David had become so obnoxious.

“None of this stuff is evidence we can use,” Cowles said. “She can’t testify for us. And we sure as hell can’t tell anyone we entertained her.”

“It’s not about making a case, David,” Ness said. “Not at this point. Right now, we need a direction, just like you said. We need to find this guy.”

“Well . . . she didn’t give us that,” Cowles said, shrugging. “I admit, I’m intrigued. She made the hair stand up on my arms. But she really didn’t tell us much.”

Malone gaped. Then he started listing exactly what she had told them. “You now have names for several of the victims. Who is Robert Weitzel? You have confirmation on Rose Wallace. Maybe look into finding her son? You have professions, pastimes. The second victim was a chauffeur. You also have chloroform as a method for submission—that’s what she was describing with Andrassy. Chloroform on a rag. And you have Dr. Frank.”

Ness was studying him through steepled fingers. Cowles rose and started putting the rest of the evidence away.

“You got a list from Dr. Peterka,” Malone added. “Previous renters. Is there a Dr. Frank on it? His secretary referred to a Dr. Frank when I talked to her. I’ve been asking for a copy of that list, Eliot. I want it.”

Ness and Cowles exchanged a look.

“What?” Malone ground out, and Eliot lifted a reassuring palm.

“Nobody with the last name Frank. But Francis, yeah. We have a Francis. A couple of them, actually. We’re tracking them down,” Ness said.

“That reminds me . . . who is Steve . . .” Cowles consulted his own notes. “Steve Jeziorski?”

“He’s a nosy kid,” Malone said, not liking the way he’d been sidestepped, but Steve Jeziorski needed to be discussed too. “He lives around East Forty-Ninth, near the Run. Knew Peter Kostura, one of the kids who found the first two victims. Kostura was killed in a hit-and-run in December. I’ve been trying to check on Jeziorski for weeks, but I haven’t been able to. I don’t know if he’s giving me the slip or if I’m just missing him. But he thinks Kostura was run down because he was talking to Ness. I feel responsible for him, I guess.”

“Peter Kostura was in our program for the boy gangs,” Ness told Cowles. “Along with a whole bunch of others. He was on a community patrol. Sad business, tragic, but I don’t know how his death would be connected to all this . . . madness.” He tossed his hand toward the boxes.