She waited for him to elaborate.
“They will never find him if they’re looking for a monster. It’s never that obvious.”
When she was silent, he continued. “Have you ever looked at a painting that up close is just a blur of color and smudges? Thousands of strokes and dabs, paint layered on paint . . . and then you step back from it and discover that all those parts create an actual picture?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . that’s kind of what I mean. And sometimes we look at the pieces with a picture already in mind. We think we know what we’re looking for.”
“Looking for a monster and missing the man?”
“Exactly.”
“But . . . the problem now, according to the papers, is that there are no suspects. No one has any idea who is doing this.”
“I’m not at all convinced anyone really wants to know,” he muttered. “It’s more exciting that way. The papers are full of assumptions. Assumptions are bad information. Bad information is worse than no information. Bad information makes you blind to the truth when it comes along.”
“What about feelings. Are feelings bad information?” she asked.
“Sometimes feelings are the worst information. Because we are attached to them. If you’re going to do this with me, Dani, you have to turn your feelings off.”
“Is that what you do?” she asked.
“Yeah. That’s what I do.”
“How convenient,” she murmured.
“I think so. It’s kept me from getting killed more times than I can count. It’s kept me alive. And I find that being alive is a great deal more convenient than being six feet under.”
She loosened the ties from her covering and pulled the scarf from her hair, thinking about that statement. Malone removed his own covering and washed up beside her at the sink, as silent as she.
“You said turning off your feelings has kept you alive. I’m not sure that’s true, Michael. Plus . . . a man without feelings might as well be dead,” she said, locking the door behind them.
He sighed. “Your heart is too soft for this, Dani Flanagan.”
“Hmm. Maybe so. But perhaps your heart is too hard.” She smiled a little to take the sting out of her words. “The truth is, the harder we are, the easier we shatter. It takes some softness to absorb life’s blows.”
15
He had two hours between the time they finished at the morgue and his weekly meeting with Eliot. They’d missed the week before due to Eliot’s schedule and had talked only briefly on the telephone the morning Malone had returned. Eliot had been curious about his train-hopping and also about a certain Miss Daniela Kos who had called him in great concern, but neither subject had been delved into. They’d kept it light and nonspecific, as they usually did, but there was much to discuss and Michael kept an eye on the time.
He accompanied Dani to the medical office to inquire about the apartment upstairs, just as she’d proposed. Their plan to poke around in the apartment the night before had been thwarted. But he wasn’t going to think—or talk—about last night. Dani seemed eager to steer clear of it as well.
The woman at the counter was applying a coat of lipstick when they walked into the small waiting area. The place had the smell of bleach and cheap perfume. He guessed the cheap perfume came from the woman who didn’t even bother to look up.
“Sign in, please,” she droned.
“Hello, Sybil,” Dani said, trying to maintain waiting room decorum, though no one was in the reception area but them. “This is Mr. Malone. He is our boarder. But he’s looking for a place with a bit more space. I was wondering if the upstairs apartment was available.”
The woman looked up from her compact, popping her lips to blot them. Her eyes bounced off Dani immediately and locked on him. He saw the moment she decided she was interested, because her back arched and her chest lifted. He could see her tongue probing her teeth for lipstick.
“I would think you would want to keep him, Della,” she purred.
“Daniela,” he corrected. “Her name is Daniela. And I have some questions I’m going to need you to answer.”
She frowned and Dani stilled beside him. He was not acting according to plan. He flashed his credentials at the receptionist, not giving her time to study them.
“I work for the Bureau of Internal Revenue. Who owns this establishment?” he asked, firm.
She gaped.
“Uh . . . Dr. Peterka. He’s not here right now, though. You should come back and talk to him.”
“I’d rather talk to you. Who lives upstairs?”
“No one. Dr. Peterka is planning to convert it to more office space.”
“He’s never lived in this house then?” Dani had already given him the answer, but it was a convenient segue into who else had lived there.
“He grew up here. When his parents moved out, he stayed with his own family with the practice beneath. But he moved out years ago.”
“How many years?” He asked his questions fast, wanting her to answer just as quickly. He was more likely to get honesty that way. Plus, it kept her off guard.
“I don’t know. About the time I was hired. 1930 or so.”
“So the upstairs has been empty ever since?”
“No. We usually have several interns renting the space.”
“Interns?” Again, he knew the answer.
“At St. Alexis.”
“How many interns?”
“There has to have been a dozen, at least, over the years.”
“Do you think you could make me a list?”
“Perhaps. I hardly see why you’re asking me these questions. Donna could have told you all of this. She’s lived next door longer than I’ve worked here.”
“Daniela,” he corrected. “So how long has it been since it was occupied?”
“Six months.”
“But no one now?” he pressed.
“No. It’s got a kitchen and an indoor toilet. But Dr. Peterka says he wants to put private offices upstairs. He wants it for himself if you ask me. A bachelor pad.” She gauged his response to her gossip.