“They called him Count, didn’t they?” Ness asked. “I think I remember him now. But I wouldn’t rule out voodoo. That guy was a bad fella. He mighta made a deal with the devil. I think he’s in the slammer now. I hope so.”
“A deal with the devil, huh? You believe in the devil, Ness?”
“You can’t be in our business and not believe in evil.”
Malone nodded. “I believe in evil.”
“Well, if you believe in evil, you gotta believe in good. Can’t have one without the other.”
“No. I guess not,” Malone said.
Daniela Kos—Dani Flanagan—was not evil. He knew that. So whatever else she was, whatever confusion he was feeling about her abilities, it wasn’t that. The tightness he’d carried in his chest since Dani had fled his room the other day eased with an almost audible pop.
“I gotta get back, Malone,” Ness said, starting the car again. He eased away from the overhang, his eyes on his rearview mirror. “But let’s do this again next week. Same time. Until we figure this thing out.”
Dani was fixing the display in the front window when a black Ford sedan pulled up in front of the house and Malone stepped out. He shut the door without a backward glance, and the car pulled away again without giving her any indication of who was driving it, beyond a felt hat and a male profile. It was the same car Malone had driven away in the week before, and the week before that. Always the same day and roughly the same time. He had kept to himself beyond mealtime, and even then, he hardly said a word. He’d asked that Margaret not tidy his room. He said he’d see to it himself. He left his laundry in a hamper in the hall, and when Margaret was finished with it, she slid a note beneath his door, and he retrieved his things from the laundry room.
Dani didn’t blame him; Margaret was a gem, but she was also a snoop. Dani was certain Malone thought she was a snoop as well. And Dani was. But it was not intentional. She hadn’t yet given in to the temptation to touch his things. At least . . . not much.
He’d left a pair of boots on the back stoop. They’d been covered with mud—from who knows where—and he’d cleaned them off at the outdoor pump and left them beside the door to dry.
Dani had not been able to help herself. She’d brought the boots inside, telling herself they would never dry outside in the cold damp of February. But when she’d slipped her hands in the openings and pressed her palms flat to the soles, she felt nothing but his frustration with the cold, his longing for sunshine, and his curiosity over the string of murders that had happened in the area. He could hardly help but think about murder. The entire city was caught in its grip.
And then there were the silk suits in his wardrobe. She hadn’t meant to look at those either, but Charlie had gotten himself locked in Malone’s room. It wasn’t his fault, the poor baby. She’d switched rooms on him. He liked to take long naps beneath the bed and had managed to get himself locked in when Malone left one afternoon.
It was fortunate she had a key. She’d heard Charlie’s pitiful yowling and let him out. She checked the room to make sure the cat hadn’t left a mess behind—who knew how long he’d been trapped inside—and saw a few files open on the desk, a large map of Cleveland tacked to the wall above it. A few of the files were scattered on the floor. She wasn’t sure if that was Charlie’s doing or Malone’s. From the tidiness of the rest of the room, she thought it was likely Charlie. She hurried forward and retrieved them, shoving the pages inside and stacking them with the others. She hesitated when she caught a glimpse of a house and a familiar face in her mind’s eye.
Eliot Ness.
Michael Malone knew Eliot Ness. He was a popular figure in Cleveland. The papers covered his every move and clamored for his statements. She set the files down and stepped away. It wasn’t so hard to believe. Malone said he worked with local governments.
She’d made a quick turn about the room, ignoring the lure of his private papers, but when she’d paused to close his wardrobe—which was slightly ajar—she’d seen the beautiful silk of the suits, one in a snappy chalk print, one in a navy so deep it looked like a jewel. She’d touched them, admiring the cut and the fabric. Suits like that cost more than most people made in a year.
But those had been the only times she’d slipped.
She’d tried to afford him the privacy he deserved, really she had, and she’d made a point to warn him to check for Charlie under the bed before leaving for the day.
Now Malone stood on the front walk, slightly hunched, with his hands on his hat. He still wore the same dark wool suit he’d worn the day he arrived. The pose made his overcoat pull at the seams, but she wasn’t sure if it was the cold wind that bent him over or the weight he carried on his shoulders. He looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to come inside or go for a walk, which was something else he did often. He walked for hours. Sometimes he took his car and went to places unknown, but more often he left on foot. He claimed he was a tax man, consulting with local agencies, but he kept odd hours. She knew he hadn’t told the whole truth when the aunts had questioned him about his work—his silk suits told a different story—but that was a typical trait. No one gave detailed explanations about their lives or their pasts when asked. Especially not to strangers.