And then the girl appeared.
She walked down the aisle and took the seat in front of Ruth. She was young, small, slender, with tiny breasts and hips and round arms and calves. She wore a simple blue blouse, her hair was long and shining and she looked like she should smell of soap and something sweet: cream soda or talcum powder.
Ruth didn’t take her eyes off her. Pete watched her watching the girl as she turned to look out of the window, her clear skin flushed, her chin raised. She was on the verge of becoming a woman but she lacked those womanly trappings: lipstick, powder, cigarettes.
Pete looked at the girl and at Ruth’s pale face and then he realized she must be thinking of her daughter. This girl was just like Cindy, but Cindy grown older.
Apparently without realizing what she was doing, without any kind of conscious thought, Ruth stretched out an arm and stroked the soft cotton. As gently as falling blossom. The material was thin and the girl’s skin showed through it. Ruth stroked a loose strand of hair that flowed over that shoulder like water, fingered the long, cool smoothness of it, stared at the change in depth and color as the light danced over it, and then as it was jerked up and away.
“Hey,” said the girl, her face red. “Hey!”
Ruth’s hands flew up, white and tremulous as birds.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought . . . I thought you were someone else.”
She stumbled into the aisle and pulled the bell again and again until the driver yelled into his rearview mirror and brought the bus to a halt and shook his head at her.
The door hissed shut behind her and the bus moved on and Pete twisted to see her lonely figure grow smaller in the rear window as the long gray road stretched between them.
Pete was on his way back from lunch when Friedmann appeared in the doorway to his office and beckoned him over.
“Take a seat. What you working on right now, Wonicke?”
“Well, the Malone case.”
“That’s it?” Friedmann shook his head. “I can’t afford to leave you on that. We got too many other stories need attention.”
“Sir, it’s still news. Two unsolved murders.”
“Unsolved being the key word. Until the cops make an arrest, there’s nothing we got to tell readers that they want to hear. They close to pulling somebody in?”
“I don’t think so. But . . .”
“But nothing. You come back with a new angle or new information, we’ll talk. Look, you’ve been doing some good work lately. That piece you wrote about the father’s appeal—the contrast with the mother, that was nice. But now I want you on that Panty Burglar case in Jamaica.”
“The what?”
“I know. The Star gave the guy a name, it stuck. Series of burglaries going back a few weeks. Guy only steals women’s underwear.”
He took off his glasses and polished them on his tie. “It takes all kinds, right?”
“Jesus.”
Pete stared down at Friedmann’s desk, thinking. As Horowitz had said, this story could be huge—and he wanted to be there when it took off. He wanted to break the story of an arrest, or a conviction. Even—and he felt adrenaline rush through him at the prospect—even be the one to uncover evidence that might prove who the killer was.
“How about I go and talk to the cops again? See if they got anything . . .”
“You still stuck on this? I told you, we don’t have time. Go talk to Gluckstein about this burglar thing. He was talking to one of the victims this morning. He’ll give you what you need.”
Pete stood. Then with one hand on the door, he said in a rush, “What if I can get an interview with the parents? Mr. and Mrs. Malone. An exclusive.”
Friedmann frowned at him. “You really want this? Okay, you get me an exclusive, we’ll talk. But make it good. I’ll give you twenty-four hours, then I need you back here to pick up whatever comes in.”
Pete called the airport and learned that Frank’s shift ended at seven. He was in the parking lot by six-thirty, watched Frank leave, and followed him to Marty’s.
“Hey, Mr. Malone. How you doing? Can I get you something?”
“Oh, hey, Mr. Wonicke. Uh . . . I’ll take a bacon cheeseburger. Onion rings.”
Pete ordered for them both, then glanced over at Frank. He looked like he’d lost weight in the last week or so. There was a patch of stubble by his ear that he’d missed while shaving.
“How you holding up, Mr. Malone?”
“Okay, I guess. It’s tough, you know.”
Pete nodded. “Sure. I understand. Listen, I’ve been thinking. I’d like to do an interview with you and Mrs. Malone together. That kind of thing always attracts interest, and it’ll keep Cindy and Frank Jr. in everyone’s minds. Might jog a few memories—it might even bring out a few more witnesses. I’ve seen it work before.”
“You have?”
“Oh, sure. People often don’t realize that what they’ve seen is important. They don’t understand that even seeing nothing may be useful information.”
Frank looked confused, so Pete kept talking.