The conversation had quieted after that, each man lost in his own thoughts on the matter, and Malone had closed his eyes and feigned sleep until morning came.
He’d hit pay dirt, he was sure of it. There was a sandwich shop on Broadway, right around the corner from the house, where the lights of St. Alexis were easy to see. The story gave Malone a jumpy feeling in his gut, the kind of feeling he didn’t ignore.
He would tell Ness about Fronek. Maybe one of the detectives could hunt him down and get his story. Or maybe Malone would have to do it himself. He also wanted someone to track down Darby O’Shea, as long as they were sniffing in Chicago. It wouldn’t hurt to find out what had happened to George Flanagan’s cousin, for Dani’s sake.
He hadn’t let on when she’d mentioned him, but he’d known all about Darby O’Shea, even as a young patrolman. Dani’s mother was right. O’Shea was trouble, not that it mattered now. He also had nine lives. He’d avoided the hit that had taken out George Flanagan, though they were partners. When Dean O’Banion, the leader of the North Side Gang, was taken out at the flower shop in ’24, O’Shea had supposedly been on his way to meet him. O’Shea had even managed to avoid getting mowed down in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre in ’29, though five of his known “associates” had not fared so well. Malone had been sent to infiltrate Capone’s organization not long after the slaughter, and O’Shea’s name had popped up time and time again in the investigation, though Malone had never run into him, as far as he knew.
But first, after four days without a shower and a shave, two of them spent just trying to get home, he needed to wash, and he needed to sleep.
It was late, the house was quiet and welcoming, and he was so relieved to be back he spent an hour in the bathroom scrubbing and shaving, in no hurry whatsoever. He padded to his room at 2:00 a.m., his soiled clothes wrapped in a towel so he didn’t have to touch them, another towel wrapped around his waist. But he hesitated outside his door.
He’d left it locked, but it wasn’t locked anymore. He eased the bundle of clothes to the floor, and pushed the door open slowly, one hand on his towel, one hand on the knob. The lamp beside his bed burned softly, and Dani was waiting.
Unlike him, she was fully dressed and curled on his bed, Charlie cocooned in the curve of her body. Both cat and woman were deeply asleep.
He hesitated, caught with his pants down, literally, and then moved with quiet tread to retrieve some clean clothes.
She’d been through his things.
His wardrobe was open, his suits pushed to the side as if she’d run her hands over them, searching for something. He’d put the files in the trunk of his car before he’d left, but his notepad with his lists, which he kept tucked into the narrow desk drawer, was now sitting atop it. He’d been careless to leave it behind, even in a drawer, even with a locked door. But he’d had some expectation of privacy, damn it.
She didn’t wake as he yanked on his shorts and undershirt, along with a pair of trousers for modesty, and snapped his suspenders in place. She slept like poor, drugged Emil Fronek.
“Dani,” he said. She didn’t stir. He said her name again. “Dani.” Nothing. He walked to the bed and shook her gently, jostling Charlie in the process. The cat lifted his head and regarded Malone in narrow-eyed disdain before setting his head back down.
“Dani,” Malone said again, and she blinked, coming awake slowly. The mellow glow of the small lamp lit her hair like a halo around her face, and when she finally looked up at him, still half asleep, still hazy, he felt a pang of reluctant affection. God, she was pretty.
“Dani . . . why are you in my room?”
She frowned and blinked again, and then she sat up suddenly, spooking her cat. Charlie shot beneath the bed, but Dani ignored him.
She stood with a cry and threw her arms around Malone’s waist.
“I will scold you later. Right now I’m too grateful you are all right to be angry,” she moaned.
Her curls tickled his chin, and her words were muffled against his shirt. He froze, not certain what he should do with his arms. He laid his palms carefully against her narrow back, hoping she would release him before he grew too attached to her nearness.
“Where have you been?” she chided. “I called Eliot Ness and told him you were missing. I’ve been sick with worry. Sick. I thought something terrible had happened to you.”
“You called Eliot Ness?” The anger that had abated in the face of her cherubic slumbering now returned. “And why in the world would you think that?”
She pulled back enough to stare up into his face. He could see himself mirrored in blue and brown. This close, her eyes were even more fascinating than before, but he was too irritated to enjoy them.
“Why? Because you’re hunting the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run,” she said, clearly flabbergasted by his very logical question. “You left your car. You didn’t say a word to me about where you were going or how long you’d be gone. You’ve been gone for four days, Michael. Four days. Why in heaven’s name didn’t you say something?”
“Because it never occurred to me to do so.” And how had she known to call Eliot?
She gasped, outraged, but did not step away from the loose circle of his arms. They were arguing within inches of each other, their voices pitched low.
“It never occurred to you?” she cried.
“No. I knew you wouldn’t need me at the morgue. I suppose it would have been polite to tell Margaret I would not need dinner, but extras always get eaten, don’t they? You were with a customer when I left. I let you do your job, and I went to do mine. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” she repeated, her voice high and her eyes wide.
“Yes. And you called Eliot?” he repeated.