“You got his number? You got it, Frank?”
“Yeah, I got it. Okay, I’ll call him now. I’ll meet him outside the precinct.”
“Okay.”
“You need anything?”
“No. Just Scott.”
“Okay. Hang in there. I love you, baby. I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay.”
Pete was standing in line at Mario’s, waiting to order breakfast before work. A bulletin came over the radio. Ruth Malone has been indicted and arrested for the murder of her son and the manslaughter of her daughter.
He dropped his newspaper and just stared at the radio until the guy behind him nudged him and nodded toward the girl at the counter, who was looking at him with raised eyebrows, tapping her pen on her pad.
“Sorry,” he said. “Changed my mind.”
He pushed his way out the door. Disbelieving. It had taken over four months, but Devlin must finally have what he’d been looking for. He’d mentioned a letter. Whatever had been in that letter was enough to charge her.
Pete drove to the station house. The lobby was crammed with reporters. Two hookers were leaning against the desk while a sergeant booked them. They kept yelling at the photographers, “How d’ya want me, honey?” and “Ten bucks for a close-up!” and then collapsing into laughter.
He stared around wildly, desperate for a familiar face, for some idea of what to do. The sergeant behind the desk was shouting, trying to bring some order to the chaos, but Pete could hardly hear him above the clamor of voices.
A door opened and Devlin’s bulky figure emerged. He raised a hand and the room fell silent. Just like that.
“Gentlemen. I know why you’re here, but we got nothing more for you today. She’s been arrested, she’ll probably get bail, we don’t have a date for the hearing yet. That’s it.”
He turned and went back inside and the noise broke out again, louder still. Reporters pushed toward the door.
Pete wandered outside, stupid with confusion. What had happened? What had changed between yesterday and today to make the cops feel confident enough to go ahead and bring her in?
The parking lot was deserted: everyone had a lead to follow. He could hear Friedmann in his head: Stick close to the cops, get the reaction in her neighborhood.
He stopped to light a cigarette, noticed a guy leaving the station house with a leather briefcase. He had silver hair, a well-cut suit, an air of money. He looked like Pete’s idea of a lawyer and, judging by his suit and his shoes, he was a good one. There was surely only one person in the station who needed an expensive lawyer today.
Pete dropped his cigarette and broke into a run, skidding to a halt in front of the guy with the briefcase. He merely raised a curious eyebrow, as though Pete were something interesting that he’d come across in a book.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m . . . My name’s Peter Wonicke. Are you representing Mrs. Malone?”
He said, not unkindly, “Well now, son, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to talk about my clients.”
“No, of course.”
“Then . . .”
“It’s just . . . I know her. I might have information that could help.”
He raised his eyebrow again and studied Pete for a long moment.
“I’m not in the habit of falling into conversations about my clients on the street either. But I am in the habit of making snap judgments about people. Have to be, in my line of work.”
He fell silent again and looked at Pete.
“I’m a little busy today, as you can imagine. But why don’t we meet tomorrow? Somewhere quieter. Have a cup of coffee together, and you can tell me . . . well, whatever it is you want to tell me. I’m Henry Scott, by the way.”
He gave Pete an address, and they agreed on a time the following afternoon.
The address turned out to be an old-fashioned café, the kind of place frequented by women having morning coffee or treating grandchildren.
Scott was there before him, stood when Pete arrived, shook his hand. They ordered, and Scott asked the waitress if they had any walnut loaf. When she said they did, he beamed like the small boy at the next table who had just been served a slice of pie and a mound of whipped cream.
When she’d gone, he looked after her, still smiling.
“This place used to serve a wonderful walnut loaf. My mother used to bring me here when we had to come into the city to buy me new shoes for school. Of course, the frequency of our visits and that ritual declined at the same rate as the growth of my feet. A strange link, don’t you think, Mr. Wonicke?”
His smile broadened, and Pete smiled back uncertainly.
“However, we’re not here to talk about walnut loaf or, indeed, my feet. Is there something you’d like to tell me? Something about Mrs. Malone?”
“Yes sir. It’s not . . . I don’t really know where to begin.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me how long you’ve known Mrs. Malone.”
“I met her after her children were killed.”
“And how would you define your relationship with her?”
“I know her pretty well. We’re . . . close.”
“All right. How did you get to know her?”