The kids were angels. That was the word everyone used. He wondered if that was the word that was always used in cases like this.
But their mother wasn’t too popular, even with the other mothers. She’d separated from the husband: the consensus was that she’d kicked him out, but no one knew why. He was a nice guy, apparently—better liked than her, anyway. He had a good job—worked nights as a mechanic at the airport. Didn’t drink, didn’t knock her around, didn’t even raise his voice. This last from a lady with a bruise on her cheek that her makeup didn’t quite hide.
Pete looked at the photograph he’d taken of Frank Malone as he’d emerged from the doorway behind his wife. He studied the fleshy, set face. Saw again the fear he’d noticed the day before.
Then Pete heard voices and looked up to see two men approaching. He recognized one of them right away and stuffed the photographs back into their folder just as the men took a seat in a booth across from him.
Devlin walked like he was on parade, and then sat straight with his hands clasped in front of him. The other guy was younger, with sandy hair and pink freckled skin, like he’d been out in the sun for too long.
The diner was half-full and there was a buzz of voices in the background, but Pete was close enough to overhear. The men ordered and when the waitress left, Devlin was silent for a moment, lining up the cutlery, the salt shaker, the sugar bowl. Then he looked up, pointed a thick forefinger at the other man’s wrinkled shirt.
“That’s sloppy, Quinn. I want to see an improvement tomorrow. Don’t let me catch you showing up for a shift like that again.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. The case . . .”
Devlin’s eyes flickered sideways. Pete tried to look invisible in his booth.
“We don’t talk about the case, Quinn. Not here. Not anywhere public. Got that?”
“Sir.”
“And the case ain’t no excuse anyhow. The public, the chief, they see a guy in a wrinkled shirt or a guy who can’t be bothered to shave, they lose faith. Wife or mom not taking care of him right? That’s a sloppy household, right there. Cop can’t even keep order at home, how will he keep the case together, how will he solve this? That’s what people think. All the time”—he tapped his temple—“you gotta think the way other people do.”
The waitress reappeared with two plates of spaghetti and meatballs. It smelled good. Devlin tucked his napkin into his collar, and Quinn followed suit.
Pete watched, fascinated, as Devlin shoveled in forkfuls of food, as he chewed openmouthed, the mass of brown and red churning and glistening on his tongue before he swallowed. They ate in silence. Then Devlin dabbed his mouth with a napkin, reached for a toothpick, and worked at his teeth.
He leaned back and the waitress returned and took their plates. She dropped a fork as she did so, and Pete saw a flush spread over her neck as she bent to pick it up, heard her murmured apology. Devlin just looked at her, frowning, until she scurried away, head down.
Then he turned his attention back to Quinn and she was forgotten, like she’d never existed.
“Okay, I gotta go. Got a meeting at two-thirty with the chief. He wants a quick result on this. So I want you to go over the statements again. The husband’s. The wife’s. There’s something there . . . something not right.”
He got to his feet and headed for the door, leaving Quinn with the check.
Pete studied Quinn as he signaled to the girl to bring him some coffee. He didn’t look like the type to welcome an afternoon of paperwork. He slouched in his seat, head bent, picking at the skin around his thumbnail. His lip stuck out, giving him the look of a sullen teenager.
Quinn seemed to become aware of Pete’s eyes on him, and looked up to meet them. Before he could speak, Pete nodded at him.
“Your boss sounds like mine. Pain in the ass, am I right?” Grinned at him.
Quinn narrowed his eyes. “Huh?”
“I couldn’t help overhearing. What’s his problem, anyway?”
Quinn shrugged. “You want something?”
Pete slid into the seat opposite him.
“Pete Wonicke. I’m with the Herald. I’d like to talk to you about the Malone case.”
Quinn was shaking his head before he’d even finished speaking.
“Oh, no. I ain’t talking to the press. No way.”
His coffee arrived, and Pete ordered one too. When the girl had left, he asked: “Coffee any good here?”
Quinn shrugged. “It’s hot and strong, that’s about all you can say.”
Then he frowned. “Look, I can’t talk to you about the case. My sergeant would tear me a new one.”
Pete nodded. “I understand. That’s okay.”
The girl brought Pete’s coffee and he poured in a good amount of sugar, added creamer, stirred. He sipped for a moment and then he said casually, “He seems like a tough guy to work for.”
Quinn shot him a suspicious look and Pete raised his hands, leaned back. “Nothing about the case, okay? Just making conversation. How long you been working for him?”