She shrugged and they made their way over, sat on the stoop. The weak sun felt good on his skin. It felt good to take a moment. One of the reporters approached the police car, engaged the cops in conversation. Pete guessed he was looking for a new angle, something to fill a column on page five. Two women walked past, slowed as they went by the Malone building. They drew closer together, as if the weather had suddenly turned colder, and then they were out of the building’s shadow and everything was bright again.
A woman came into view, walking stiffly, as though her joints were painful. She was plump, with dyed red hair and lipstick that didn’t quite fit the shape of her mouth. She wore a shapeless flowered dress and low heels, her feet spilling over the sides. She looked familiar.
Pete nodded toward her and asked Gina, “Who’s that?”
“Huh? Oh, that’s Mrs. Gobek. She’s an odd one.”
“Odd, how?”
“Oh, you know. She’s just a lonely old lady. She makes up stories. Likes to be the center of attention, I guess.”
Then a man appeared, walking with his head down, gaze averted. There was something off about him: he was tall and walked with a shambling gait as though he wasn’t used to his long legs.
“That another Looney Tunes?”
“That’s Gus Frederickson. He lives over there.” She jerked her head toward the next building.
Pete kept watching him and Gina sighed. “Jesus. You’re just like the cops. They hauled him in for two days before they found Frankie. Questioned him till he damn near fell apart. He’s a weird guy, sure, but he ain’t no killer.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s . . . there’s something wrong with him. He had an accident when he was a little kid. Something went wrong inside his head after that. He lived with his mom till she died. He’s gentle as a kitten. He likes kids . . . no, not like that—he likes to play with them, little kids, because he’s like a kid himself. I’ve known him for years and he’s not . . . he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Frederickson shuffled out of view and Gina took a last drag on her cigarette, flicked it onto the sidewalk below them, then wrapped her coat tighter around herself, stuck her hands deep in the pockets.
He saw she was looking at the cop car, the press men, and he said softly, “They think she’s guilty.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think she don’t know that?”
He nodded, watching her face. “I don’t know what happened that night. But if she didn’t do it . . .”
“She didn’t.”
“Well, then she needs to build a defense. The cops need another suspect. They need to be asking questions instead of just focusing on her.”
He could see her thinking about it, and he pressed on.
“She needs to start fighting back.”
Gina looked down, rubbed her hands over her face as though she was washing it. When she looked up again, her skin and her eyes were red. She sighed. Then she raised her chin defiantly.
“I want to show you something. Come on.”
The cops and the guys by the car fell silent as they approached her building and four pairs of eyes watched them climb the steps. Watched Gina fumble with her key, watched Pete take it from her and unlock the door, watched him push her gently into the hallway and shut out their hostile stares.
She ran a hand through her hair.
“Jesus Christ. I hate this. I hate it. It’s been months. When are they going to stop?”
“They’re still hungry. They need a break.”
She looked at him almost fearfully, and for a moment he thought she was going to change her mind. But she nodded toward a white door across the hallway. Pete stared at a polished brass number plate, at scuff marks on the paintwork made by small feet.
“Is that . . . ?”
“Yes. You need to see this.”
She knocked and the door opened and the old woman from the funeral was standing there. She looked at Pete with blank indifference and shifted her gaze to Gina. Just for a second, there was a sneer of disgust: then she shouted her daughter’s name at them and behind her at the same time. A moment later, Ruth Malone was there.
She was tiny. She seemed to have gotten even smaller in the days since he’d last seen her. Even under her makeup he could see how pale she was, how fragile and afraid. This was not the glowing, golden woman he had seen in those bars. This woman was consumed by something bigger than she was. Her eyes were huge and dark and lost and she blinked and had to swallow before she could speak.
“Gina,” is all she said, and she reached out a hand, and the other woman moved to take her in her arms. For a moment he almost thought that everything would be okay. That Gina would hold her and rock her until the pain had gone and she could stand straight. As though a little kindness was all she needed to turn her back into that girl with the glossy hair and shining lips and eyes.
But she pulled her arm back and swallowed again and Pete saw something come down hard in her eyes. And then she looked over at him: there was a flicker of recognition and then of anger. Color came bright into her cheeks.
But before she could speak, Gina said, “Ruth, honey, this is Mr. Wonicke. He’s a reporter. He’s . . . well, he’s okay. I figured you keep getting bothered by them, you may as well give them something.”