He hitched his belt up, straightened his tie.
“And now I’m off to crack that whore,” and he was gone, leaving the ring of that final word reverberating around the booth like a slap.
The next morning, Pete woke early. He lay in bed and thought about Ruth Malone. About how she’d appeared trapped behind the window. About how she’d looked at him. He couldn’t get the memory of her face out of his mind: her lowered eyelids, her red lips. His skin felt hot and his chest ached as he thought about her.
Then he thought about Devlin’s determination to find a witness. He seemed so certain about her. So confident. Pete felt anything but sure about her.
Eventually, he got out of bed, dressed, and drank a glass of milk. Then he went back to 72nd Drive, knocked on Mrs. Malone’s door again, and again got no reply. He scribbled another note for her and put it in her mailbox with his business card, then sat in his car and watched her building for over an hour. No one went in or out, and there was no movement at the windows on the first floor. He looked at the drop between the windows and the ground, thought about what Quinn had said: that Frank believed the kids had climbed down themselves.
That got him thinking about Frank. If he couldn’t get an interview with Mrs. Malone, maybe he could speak to her husband. He drove back to the office and called the airport, and after getting passed around between supervisors, learned that Frank’s shift finished at four. Pete was in the parking lot by three-forty, waiting for the doors to open. Eventually he saw Frank emerge, and jogged over to intercept him before he could drive away.
“Mr. Malone?”
“Yeah?” Frank put his hand up to his face, to shade his eyes from the sun.
“I’m Pete Wonicke, from the Herald. Can I have a few moments of your time?”
Frank dropped his hand, looked around him.
“Here?”
“I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee. How about we head back toward Kew Gardens Hills and stop somewhere on the way?”
“Well . . . sure. I guess that would be okay.”
Frank seemed a little bewildered.
“Great. I appreciate this, Mr. Malone. Is your car over there? I’ll follow you. If you see a diner, just pull over. I’ll be right behind you.”
Frank blinked at him. Cleared his throat.
“There’s . . . uh . . . Marty’s off the expressway. That okay?”
“Perfect. I’m right behind you.” Pete was already running back to his car.
Marty’s was a big place with chrome trim and a lunch counter running the length of the room. Pete led the way to a corner table, away from the kitchen bell and the bustle of the counter.
A waitress brought over two menus and Frank smiled at her.
“Hey, Lisa. I’ll take a cheeseburger and fries. And a Coke.”
“Sure, hon. And for you?”
“Just a Coke, thanks.”
“Two Cokes, coming up.”
She winked at Frank and headed for the kitchen, hips and hair swaying in her wake. Frank didn’t seem to notice; he was staring down at the tabletop, picking at a hangnail.
“You a regular here?”
“Huh?”
“You didn’t look at the menu. Assumed you must come here a lot.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess. It’s on the way home. And I don’t . . . I’ve never liked eating alone.”
His face flushed and he cleared his throat. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
Pete leaned forward, keeping eye contact.
“Mr. Malone, we at the Herald are truly sorry for your loss. What happened to your children was a tragedy.”
Frank nodded. “I appreciate that, Mr. . . .”
“Wonicke. Pete Wonicke. A truly terrible tragedy. And we want to do everything we can to help catch the person who took your kids.”
Frank licked dry lips. “Thank you. Do you mean . . . uh . . . is your paper offering some kind of reward?”
“That’s a very good idea, Mr. Malone, and one I’ll certainly mention to my editor. But what I was thinking of was some way that I might help today. Is there a message you’d like to give to our readers? Something you’d like to say to them?”
Frank looked puzzled. “Like what?”
“Well, you could ask for their help. Make a public appeal through the newspaper.”
Frank was frowning, and Pete realized Quinn had been right about him: he wasn’t too bright.
He made his voice softer. “We can just ask if anyone knows anything, or saw anything that day. I can help you write something.”
Frank nodded slowly. “Sure. That would be real nice of you, Mr. Wonicke. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Back at the office, Pete sat down to work on the story he knew he had to write. One that carried Devlin’s conviction there was something off about Ruth Malone. One that gave Friedmann the sexy broad that he thought would sell newspapers.
He pulled the sheets from his typewriter and took them into Friedmann’s office. Friedmann read the story over, made a couple of corrections, nodded.