Only Gina, slipping in late, found a weak spot and let a little daylight into Ruth’s thoughts.
She felt a hand on her arm and a squeeze, a rough friendliness that interrupted the polite press of the others. She stared at the hand, with its bitten cuticles and cheap rings, and she couldn’t look up because she knew that the understanding in Gina’s face would break her. She felt tears threaten and began to panic and, in her confusion, she turned away from Gina toward the coffin, and was shocked again at how small it was. At how white and smooth and perfect it was, at how pretty the silver handles looked. If Cindy’s dollhouse had come with funeral home accessories, this coffin would have been the centerpiece.
A sound escaped Ruth’s throat then, and she swallowed down the sob, the lump that was lodged there. That seemed to satisfy Gina, and she gave a final squeeze and moved on. Ruth kept her head down and watched her feet walk away: thick tan ankles with a gold chain that Mick had given her; dark blue heels scuffed at the back; that familiar heavy wiggling walk.
After the mass, the slow steady drive to the cemetery. Limousines like a caravan of ants bearing a tiny load. Ruth sat in the first car, between Frank and her mother, feeling the dampness of her stockings and the sweat pricking her upper lip.
The grave was still raw—a small hole lined with something bright and green, as though it was going to be a display of oranges in a grocery store. A mound of earth and two men leaning on spades a distance away, standing in the cool shade of a tree, waiting to throw dirt on top of her daughter. She stared down into the hole while Father O’Brien spoke.
As they turned to go, she saw that a space had been left beside the grave and she realized that, if they found him, Frankie would lie beside Cindy. Her daughter had been alone in death for almost two weeks. But if they found him, Frankie would be with her and he could look after her, as he had always done.
7
There were two articles on Pete’s desk when he got in the next morning, neither of them related to the Malone case. The copy editor’s blue pencil meandered from line to line like snail tracks. He poured himself a cup of coffee, stirred in three packets of sugar and started typing, but his thoughts kept drifting to Devlin; to Quinn, talking about Mrs. Malone. To Ruth Malone herself.
It had been sixteen days since the kids had been taken and the girl found dead, and there was no real news—about who’d killed her, about her missing brother. The police had released a statement saying that Cindy had been strangled, but giving no other details. All the papers could print was a rehash of names, ages, dates; where she’d been found; a description of Frankie and what he’d been wearing the night they disappeared; speculation about what had happened.
Fluff, Friedmann called it. They were just keeping the kids in the public eye. They were all waiting for the next thing.
And that morning the next thing happened.
The phone rang. Pete looked up automatically and saw that Janine was watching him as she answered. She turned away slightly, cupped her hand around the receiver. He started to pay attention.
Then she put the caller on hold, ignored his hissed “Hey, what’s . . .” and trotted over to Friedmann’s office. It must be something big: she didn’t even want to risk being overheard putting this one through. Her tight skirt meant she could only take small steps, but she was scurrying fast enough that Pete pushed his proofs aside and turned to a blank page in his notebook.
Janine’s other line rang and Pete ignored it, but it kept ringing until one of the secretaries covered her own mouthpiece with her hand and hissed at him to pick up. He lifted the receiver, kept his eyes on Friedmann’s door.
It was O’Connor. As soon as he heard his voice, Pete thought of Friedmann saying, “O’Connor has two weeks of his vacation left. You can stay on this story until he’s back.”
He kept his tone light. “Hey, man. I thought you were in Florida.”
“Wonicke? What, you’re a goddamn receptionist now? Listen, I don’t got much time. I am in Florida. I’m in the fucking hospital.”
“What happened? You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. If I was okay, I wouldn’t be in here, dumbass.”
Pete was still watching Friedmann’s door, but neither of them had come out yet.
“Is Friedmann around?”
“He’s got someone with him.”
“Listen, I need you to give him a message. I’m due back tomorrow. Tell him I need another week. My idiot brother totaled his truck.”
“Shit.”
“Shit is right.”
“What happened?”
“We were in a bar, playing a little pool, drinking beer. We had a few shots. Only the fucking moron can’t hold his liquor. He wouldn’t give me the goddamn keys to his truck. Said he was fine, said he could drive. And now he’s in here with two broken ribs and a punctured lung, and it’s down to me to take care of the goddamn insurance paperwork.”