“But you’ll help us, won’t you, Michael?” Lenka asked, tears winding their way through her wrinkles and dripping from her trembling chin.
“I should have let her go,” Zuzana said, her voice dull. “I should have let her go with you. It’s all my fault. I was afraid to be alone. Now she’s dead. The Butcher got her. I know it. The Butcher got her.”
The man was standing by his car when Malone rushed from the house, after telling the distraught women he would get help. He had to find Eliot, and he had to see the bodies. He had to know whether there was anything left to search for.
Malone skidded to a halt.
“What happened to Dani?” the man said, his Cork accent as marked as it must have been three decades before. He held his hat in his hands, and even in the darkness, his fear was evident.
Malone didn’t answer but approached the man with careful tread. The man asked the question again, his voice adamant.
“Tell me what happened to Dani. I heard the women crying. They’ve been up and down the block today, talking to the neighbors. They can’t find her. And now you’re back. Where did you go?”
“We don’t know where she is,” Malone said, hardly able to admit the words out loud. “She’s missing. Do you know anything that might help us find her?”
“I’m always too late,” the man moaned. “I’m never where I need to be. I didn’t know she was in trouble.”
“What’s your name?” Malone asked, but he already knew.
“Darby,” the man said. “Darby O’Shea. Dani’s father was my cousin.”
“Why are you here, Darby O’Shea?”
“I check on her sometimes. I’ve been back every year. Every year. Just to see how she fares. I stuck around a little longer this time.”
“When did you see her last?”
“I don’t know.” The man shook his head. “I thought you were going to look after her,” he accused. “Where’ve you been?” He was angry, and his words punched the air and knocked the breath from Malone’s chest.
Malone opened his car door. He didn’t have time for O’Shea. He didn’t have time for any of it. Darby O’Shea wrenched open the passenger-side door and slid in beside him, undeterred and still talking.
“I know who you are, Michael Malone. Michael Lepito. You took care of Dani when her folks died. You brought her to Cleveland. I saw you again when you were working for Capone. I knew you were a copper. But I didn’t say nothin’. Because I owed you.”
“Get out of my car, O’Shea,” Malone warned, but O’Shea just talked faster.
“When you came back here . . . I worried. I didn’t understand it. Couldn’t figure out why you were here. So I followed you a bit. Asked that kid about you. He said you were asking questions about the Butcher. Then I saw Ness pick you up one day. Made me feel better. But I kept an eye out.”
Malone started the car. He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have time. Malone knew where Eliot would be. Where they all would be, and bile rose and burned his throat. Darby O’Shea would just have to come along for the ride.
“I saw the two of you on Short Vincent,” O’Shea babbled. “She saw me too. Scared me a little. I thought you might think I was up to no good. Maybe send someone after me. So I took off for a few days. But I came back.”
“When did you see her last?” Malone asked.
“I don’t know . . . she gave me her medallion. Told me to take care of myself. I thought she was fine. A little sad about the eyes and mouth. But I’m guessing that was your fault. I should have warned her offa ya, like I warned that kid. You got enemies. You got enemies . . . and now she’s gone.”
Malone stared straight ahead, his hands gripping the wheel.
“Where did you go?” O’Shea shouted. “Where the hell you been?” He had a hand braced against the dash and the other hanging on to the door. Malone was not driving cautiously. “I’ll kill you, Malone. If something’s happened to that girl, I’ll kill you.”
If something had happened to Dani, Malone would kill himself.
Darby O’Shea fell back against the seat, releasing his death hold on the dash and covering his face. “Oh God,” he moaned. “George. George, forgive me. I’m always too late. I’m always too late.”
Malone drove to the city morgue. The Butcher’s latest victims would have been brought there, and that’s where Ness would be. Where they all would be if there were new remains to examine. Darby O’Shea rode beside him in introspective silence, and when Malone pulled into the parking lot, the man followed close on his heels. Malone did not protest.
In April, Malone had waited outside the city morgue for news on Victim #10. He didn’t wait now. He walked through the front doors and past the sign-in desk without slowing his stride. It was something he’d learned long ago: look like you know where you’re going, and no one will stop you.
No one did.
No one yelled, You can’t go in there, or asked for his credentials. No one even turned their head. He walked down a long corridor, past doorways and gurneys and evidence tables, past technicians and policemen. He even walked past Coroner Gerber, who was huddled with a group that hung on his every word. Malone did not slow to hear the discussion, and no one looked up as he passed. He must have looked like he belonged. Confident. In control. Unconcerned. But when Malone saw Eliot, he felt none of those things. His legs went numb, and his head swam. He didn’t know how he remained upright for the final few steps.
Ness looked like he hadn’t slept since Capone. Maybe he hadn’t. His hair stuck up on the sides like he’d been sitting with his hands gripping his head. His tie was loose and his trousers creased in a thousand places.
“Mike?” Eliot asked, baffled. “Why are you here?” Then his eyes skipped to Darby O’Shea, still at Malone’s heels, but Malone was too distraught to make introductions or give explanations. Instead he asked, “Is it her, Eliot. Did you find her?”
“Who?” Eliot asked, bewildered.
“Did you find Dani?” Malone insisted, gripping Eliot by his rumpled lapels. He needed something to hold on to.
“What are you talking about?” Eliot gasped.
“Dani’s gone.”