The first couple of days on the job, he couldn’t get his encounter with Johnny Salcito out of his head. That first flare of anger. His sadness when he talked about Ruth.
He called Gina, asked her to meet him for a drink, told her what had happened. She drank two brandies, ordered a third. She listened, smoked, shrugged.
“Why are you so bothered about it anyway? You don’t think it’s Johnny? Tell me you don’t. That poor schmuck. Why would he hurt her kids?”
Pete sighed. “Why would anyone?”
Then Gina looked away. “Well, sure. But it’s more likely to be some people than others.”
“Like who?”
Her eyes met his and she put her head on one side. “You don’t remember what I told you?”
“About Ruth?”
“About Ruth and Lou.”
“You think Lou Gallagher had something to do with this? With the kids?”
She stared at him for a long moment. Looked away again.
“You told me he beat up some guy in a bar because he was jealous over Ruth. There’s a hell of a leap between knocking another man cold to killing two kids.”
“That guy couldn’t fight back. He was as helpless as a baby. And you weren’t there. You didn’t see Lou. He was . . . it was like he was possessed. It was brutal. Bloody.”
“You really think it’s him, don’t you?”
She nodded slowly.
“You said anything about this to Ruth?”
“Christ, no! You’ve seen her, the way she is now. Imagine what it would do to her if I told her that I thought her boyfriend killed her kids. It would finish her.”
She took another drag on her cigarette.
“And she’d tell him. I ain’t under no illusion—she’d tell him right away. She’d want him to laugh and reassure her, tell her it’s garbage. Or she’d want to warn him. She wouldn’t believe it, but she might think the cops would.”
“You’ve thought this through.”
“Yeah, I have.”
“What do you think Lou would do if she warned him?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Pete waited. Saw how her eyes flickered. How she licked her dry lips.
“You’re afraid of him.”
She nodded again. “Think I’d be dumb not to be.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You said the cops needed another suspect.”
“They do. I thought you were telling me you suspected Salcito.”
“Christ, no. It wasn’t Johnny. He’s a drunk, and he’s a little crazy, but he worships Ruth.”
“So you want me to take Lou to the cops as a suspect? Why didn’t you go to Devlin yourself? Tell him what you’re afraid of?”
“You think I didn’t try? I’d walk barefoot to Jersey if I thought it would put the guy who killed Frankie and Cin away. I was at the station house two days after Cin—after they went missing. He didn’t want to know.”
“What did he say?”
“Told me I’d been watching too many movies. Told me to go back to Ruth and tell her to send someone more . . . credible next time she wanted to give the police an alternative suspect. Told me I wasn’t so dumb I gotta be doing her dirty work for her. I tried to explain and he told me to get out or he’d arrest me for wasting police time.”
She swallowed the last of her drink.
“You’re the someone credible, Pete.”
14
Pete called Lou Gallagher’s office and again the polite, neutral-voiced secretary told him that Mr. Gallagher wasn’t available, that she couldn’t say when he’d be free. So he took a chance and headed to Santini’s. It took four nights before his efforts and his dollars paid off, and one of the waiters told him that yes, tonight Mr. Gallagher was in a booth in back. Pete found him with two girls and two bottles, took a breath, and, before he could lose his nerve, slipped into the seat opposite them.
Gallagher looked over at him with an air of inquiry. Not the irritation or the open hostility that Pete had expected. He was no threat, just a curiosity. And if he became a problem, there was presumably someone nearby who would find a solution.
“Good evening, Mr. Gallagher. My name’s Pete Wonicke. I’m a reporter.”
His hair was slick and shone dark against his scalp. Pete could smell his hair oil. His cologne. Gina was right—he did look like he had money. He looked well-fed. He looked satisfied with life.
Pete felt his inexperience seeping from every pore, dampening his armpits, beading his forehead.
Gallagher’s voice was low and rich.
“If you’d like to talk to me about my business, Mr. Wonicke, you can make an appointment with my secretary. We’re in the book.”
He gave a wide, white smile, relaxed into his seat.
He reminded Pete a little of a mallard duck he’d seen while fishing with his father. It had spent hours gliding between banks, sleek and complacent in the small pond. The gleaming emerald and sapphire feathers were oiled and slippery, the water sliding off it as it squatted low in the murky water.
“It’s not about your business, Mr. Gallagher.”
The wide smile returned.
“Then how can I help you?”
“I’m covering the Malone case.”
One eyebrow went up. “I don’t believe you mentioned which paper you work for.”