“Yeah. The thing is . . . I don’t know any man who has chosen the right who didn’t think it was worth it in the end. And I don’t know any man who has sold his soul who thought he got the better deal.”
“Eliot . . . what do you need to tell me?” Ness was scaring him a little. He was weary and wilted and taking an awful long time to get to the point.
“The problem is, we don’t sell ourselves in one swoop. We sell ourselves sliver by sliver, little by little, until one day it’s all gone. This feels like that. Like taking a bribe that’s so small I can pretend it isn’t a bribe at all.”
“Eliot! What the hell is going on?”
Eliot took a deep breath. “You know Martin L. Sweeney has been a thorn in my side.”
“Yeah.”
“Since I got here, he’s done everything he can to get me fired, to make me look like a flunky, a stooge, an incompetent.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s got a lot of sway in this city, and he doesn’t like me.”
Malone grunted. Ness was picking up steam now.
“I told you that there was a group of businessmen who were funding this operation. Kind of like the Untouchables.”
“The Unknowns,” Malone said, mocking.
“Yeah. Well. Most of them are big donors too.”
“Big donors to who?”
“To everyone, Mike. The money is spread nice and thick.”
“Like jelly toast. All you can eat.”
“Huh?” Ness said. Malone just shook his head.
“The thing is. I’m out on a limb here, all by myself. They aren’t going to like what I’ve done.”
“What have you done, Eliot?”
He took another deep breath. “We got that list from Dr. Peterka after your tip about the apartment. Thing is, there was a name on it. A doctor who was a partner and lived upstairs for a while. It was a name I was already familiar with.”
Malone just waited. Eliot seemed intent on circling around the issue, for whatever reason.
“This guy grew up over on Jessie Avenue, not too far from here. A guy who knows the Run. A doctor. Smart too. Brilliant, even, according to his school records. His wife has petitioned the court—twice—about his mental state. She divorced him in 1934, right before all this garbage started going down. He did his internship at St. Alexis, though his work history has been spotty. He’s got an alcohol problem. Barbiturates too.”
“And you knew all this before you came to me in Chicago and asked me to take this job?”
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t think to put an asterisk by his name . . . maybe give me a heads-up about him going in?” Malone asked softly. “I don’t remember seeing that guy in the files.”
“I thought about it. But I told myself that woulda been wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because his name is Francis Sweeney.”
“Sweeney?” Malone asked, voice flat.
“Yep. Francis E. Sweeney. First cousin to Martin L. Sweeney.”
“Ah, shit,” Malone hissed.
“He goes by Frank. He even introduced himself as Dr. Frank when I met him at the gala last Saturday. He said he’s a ‘big fan’ and told me to ‘keep my chin up.’ Shook my hand with both of his. Looks a lot like his cousin. Same big nose and receding jaw. Same wide forehead and blue eyes.”
“He was at the gala?” Malone asked, stunned.
“Yeah. He was at the table right next to Sweeney and his wife. A table full of distinguished alumni.” Ness’s voice was wry. “He blended right in.”
“When did he live in that apartment?” Malone shot his thumb toward Peterka’s clinic.
“In 1934, when his wife booted him.”
“That lines up with Emil Fronek’s story.”
“Yep. A few weeks ago, an inquest over Francis Sweeney’s lunacy was brought forward by another doctor. A concerned family friend. It was immediately quashed.”
“And you’ve ignored all this because he’s a Sweeney, and you know you’re going to get torn up by the press.”
“I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
“You also know the money men funding your special investigation aren’t going to like it. That’s why the description of the car that took down Peter Kostura bothered you so much. A politician’s car. You don’t know who to trust. This isn’t Al Capone, public enemy number one. This isn’t the T-men versus the gangsters. This guy’s inconvenient for them.”
“I’ve got nothing on Sweeney, Malone, except my gut and what I just told you. And I can’t decide if the thing that’s holding me back is my own neck. ’Cause that would be like taking a bribe.”
“Are you asking whether I think you should pull him in?” Malone asked, grim.
“Yeah. That’s what I’m asking.”
“You have to, Ness. You don’t need me to tell you that.”
Eliot’s shoulders sagged, and he rested his head on the steering wheel for as long as it took him to breathe deeply and let it out. Then he turned and looked at Malone, his burden visibly lightened.
“Well, I’m glad you think so. Because right now, I’ve got Dr. Francis Sweeney in a suite at the Hotel Cleveland. He drank himself into a stupor at a bar in the Third on Tuesday night. I’ve had a man on him since the gala. We scooped him up, carried the son of a bitch right out of that bar early yesterday morning, and he’s still sleeping it off.”
Malone felt his jaw drop.
Ness reached over and closed it.
“I have his suitcoat in my trunk. I need Dani to have a look-see. If Sweeney’s the Butcher, I need to know. If he isn’t . . . I need to get him out of the Cleveland before all hell breaks loose.”
Malone ended up going back inside alone and waiting for Dani to finish with a customer. She’d changed her stockings and buttoned her dress, but the flush in her cheeks deepened the moment she saw him.
The aunts were squabbling in the sewing room, Margaret would be upstairs, and he didn’t want to bring the coat into his room or even into the house. The moment the customer left, he turned the lock on the door and flipped the sign in the window to Closed. Dani’s eyes widened and she bit her lip.
He scowled even as his stomach dipped. “I’m not going to ravage you in the shop, Dani.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.