As Pete left the office and headed over to the typists, Horowitz winked at him.
No matter what doubts he might have about Ruth’s guilt, Pete needed a solid angle to write from. He needed Devlin’s certainty. He needed to believe in something.
MALONE MURDERS LATEST: NEW LEADS
By Staff Reporter Peter Wonicke
QUEENS, Aug. 12–Police have several promising leads in the case of the two murdered Malone children, a source said last night.
Little Frank Jr., 5, and Cindy Marie, 4, disappeared from 72nd Drive in the early hours of July 14. They were reported missing from the apartment they shared with their mother, a cocktail waitress who is separated from their father.
At 1:30 p.m. that day, the body of the little girl was found in an empty lot on 162nd Street near 71st Street, about a half-mile from her home. She had been strangled.
On July 25, the decomposing body of her brother was found on an embankment near the New York World’s Fair site. No autopsy could be made on the boy due to the condition of the body.
Frank Malone Sr., an airline mechanic who works nights at Kennedy International Airport, yesterday made a fresh appeal for information.
He looked visibly upset as he spoke to this reporter. “There’s no need to tell you how we feel,” he said. “If anybody in the city or anyplace has any idea what happened to Frankie and Cindy, please call the police.”
While her estranged husband was speaking to reporters, Mrs. Malone, a petite strawberry blonde, attended another interview at Fresh Meadows police station. She was freshly made up with lipstick and eyeliner and wore a fashionable blue skirt, matching heels and a low-necked cream-colored blouse. Mrs. Malone left the station house at 4:50 p.m. and was driven away by a male friend.
Pete kept thinking about Horowitz. About the look on his face as he avoided the question of how he knew Devlin. The way he wouldn’t meet Pete’s eyes.
So one morning, Pete went to the public library and spent some time in the stacks. It took him a while—he had to go back more than eight years—but he found the story that Horowitz hadn’t told him.
He used the ancient copy machine to make duplicates of the news articles, and left with the pages folded in his notebook and the facts clear in his mind.
He wasn’t sure why it was important to have this. But he decided to hold onto it, just in case.
9
Pete’s thoughts kept turning back to what Friedmann had said about every story needing a villain. It seemed to him that the police weren’t looking at other suspects. He wondered if they’d even asked Ruth Malone who she thought had done it.
He needed to speak to her.
He told Friedmann he had a lead, and spent a couple of days sitting outside her building, waiting.
And finally she emerged.
She walked to her car, head bent, and didn’t notice him.
“Mrs. Malone?”
Her face was drawn and tired beneath the makeup. Her lips were chapped, dry. She didn’t smile or ask him what he wanted. Just waited for him to speak.
“Mrs. Malone, I’m Pete Wonicke from the Herald. Can I have a few moments of your time?”
“What . . .” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “What do you want?”
“Well, I want to hear your side of things. I wondered if you had . . .”
She didn’t raise her voice, or bluster, or avoid his eyes. She simply stood on the sidewalk and said, “No.”
“It’s important . . .”
“I’m not interested.” And then, like a child, “I don’t want to.”
“Mrs. Malone, this could be your only chance to tell your side of things.”
And now she smiled, but it was a smile without warmth or humor.
“I sincerely doubt that. You people”—and here her lip curled—“you people are always bothering me.”
She took a pair of sunglasses from her bag and slipped them on.
“I just want to be left alone, Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is. Just leave me alone.”
There was a tiny catch in her voice and she pressed her hand to her lips. Then she got in her car and drove away.
He kept watching her, waiting for another opportunity. She didn’t go out much during the day. She shopped for food. Looked listlessly in store windows. Once she went to the beauty parlor and had her hair set.
Nights were different. She was out every night: at Callaghan’s, at Santini’s. Mostly with the same guy: short, thickset, with sallow skin and oiled black hair, expensive suits, cigars. Sometimes she went out with girlfriends and once or twice with other men. She drank too much, laughed too loudly, complained it was early when the others wanted to call it a night.
The cops were trailing her too. There were four of them, working in shifts. Pete would stroll over to their cars, offer around cigarettes, sticks of gum. Then he would stand and smoke with them, lead the conversation to why they were all there. He would ask how the case was going, if they had anything he could run with yet. They talked a lot about Ruth Malone, mostly dirty jokes, but their answers about the case were always the same.