Pete imagined her soft voice in the dark, the laughter in it as she whispered. It’s more fun this way, in the darkness, don’t you think so, baby? because—she stroked—you never know where the next move—she licked—will come from, you know? And she laughed low and husky when he couldn’t talk, and removed her dress and panties but left the stockings on because there was nothing like the silver whisper of silk against skin, and if this was going to be the most memorable night of his life, she had to work on all his senses.
Pete heard him gasping, heard him beg and moan and, indistinct, her soft voice asking a question. And then a half-yell from above yes yes yes fuck yes just do it baby do it and there was a creak as they came together, and he said oh Jesus and he said God yes fuck and she raised herself up again and this time he was wise and this time he told her before she had to ask You are the best baby the best the best goddamn fuck I’ve ever and she slammed down onto him and he yelled into her hair and neck and she held him as he shuddered and groaned hot release and was still.
Ruth woke and lay quiet as he dozed with his arm flung over her. She gently scratched the hairs on his arm and leaned into his warmth and thought about what she would say to Gina later, poor Gina who’d probably been on a date with Mick last night, which meant a sad two-dollar steak at Arnie’s and afterward, Mick humping away, red-faced and breathless, while Gina sighed and moaned under him. She’d say I woke up with him but I was thinking about you! and they would giggle like little kids. Gina would ask Was he handsome? and Ruth would say Yeah, sure, dark like Elvis, with eyes like Paul Newman or someone else, and she’d think What does it matter?
She stretched and smiled now because he’d told her that was the best sex he’d ever had.
She’d worked so hard—at touching him, at guiding his fingers to the parts of her that he wanted to feel, at letting him smell her freshly washed hair, her perfume-dabbed wrists, at letting him taste the mouthwash on her tongue—nothing untoward, nothing wrong—until he’d said he wanted her.
She couldn’t bear to be alone. Mustn’t be alone. And he wanted her so bad, how could he not want to stay?
So she closed her eyes and dreamed of him saying that he loved her, that he’d take care of her, and woke again as he threw back the covers and slid into his clothes and told her in a whisper like he was in church that he had to get home, that the kids would be up soon, that she knew he was married didn’t she, so why was she looking like that—and it was just a little fun, and he’d call her, okay?
He left without taking her number and a door slammed and a car started up and she lay in the half-light of the glow from the living room, still and stiff like she could preserve heat by not moving. Then she steeled herself and looked down.
Naked sagging stomach, stretch marks, thighs with telltale dimples, a rash on her calf, a missed penny of hair on her ankle, breasts slumped sideways, and that ripe, yellow smell.
Like a bitch in heat.
Like a whore.
She was disgusting.
She was a monster.
She curled her knees up and fell sideways. She’d guessed by now that the cops had bugged the phone and thought the apartment might be too, so she stayed silent because she wouldn’t give any listeners the satisfaction of her tears.
All she could do was hold on tight and hide and hope that someday the best sex he’d ever had would be enough to make someone stay. Because she couldn’t be alone. Because she had nothing else to give.
10
Pete called Devlin, asked if he could buy him lunch. They met at Tony’s, the same as before. Everything was the same: Devlin was late and made no apology for it, and when they began talking, he was as sure and as certain of himself as anyone Pete had ever met. Pete mentioned he’d spoken to Frank: Devlin merely grunted around a mouthful of pork chop.
“He seems like a nice guy. Upset about his family and all. We talked about his movements in the days before the kids were . . .”
Devlin barked a laugh. “His movements? You been watching reruns of Dragnet, kid?”
He took a gulp of soda. “You don’t think we already looked into him? You’re wasting your time, Wonicke. Leave the alibis and the movements”—his fingers made quote marks in the air—“to us, and get back to your own job.”
Then his eyes raked over Pete and he looked as if he found him wanting.
He went on, “Frank Malone is just a guy who lost his wife and kids. He was a father. Take it from another father—he wouldn’t hurt those kids. He don’t have it in him.”
He pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth. “Anyway, he was suing for custody. He wanted the kids to live with him. And he probably would have gotten it—he had a steady job, a quiet life. Unlike their mother. Why would he kill them when he wanted them living with him? No, it’s her. I know it.”
Pete changed the subject. “When we met before, you mentioned you had a witness who called Mrs. Malone at two a.m. the day the kids went missing—and no one answered.”
Devlin sat back, reached for a toothpick.
“That’s right.”
“You mind if I get his name?”
“Yeah, I do mind. This don’t go in the newspaper. We’re saving it for the trial.”
“I won’t print it. Just curious.”
Devlin looked at him for a long moment. “His name’s Salcito. But he won’t talk to you.” He went on before Pete could speak, “I do have one other piece of information for you.”