Irey sighed and sat back in his chair. “Come on now, Malone. You are not a foolish man. You know how this works.”
Malone didn’t respond. The axe was coming, and he simply waited for it to fall.
“You’re done in Cleveland. Case closed.”
“The case is not closed, as you’ve so plainly outlined,” he said.
“We’re done in Cleveland,” Irey reiterated, changing the pronoun. We’re done. Meaning the agency was done. “And I need you in Chicago.”
“Why?”
“Big money is going into US Steel, money not making it to production levels. With the war coming, the president wants to know why.” Irey’s voice was brisk, matter-of-fact.
What in the hell was he going to tell Dani? What in the hell was he going to tell himself?
“I’ll expect you in Chicago tomorrow. You’ve got somewhere you can stay?” Irey knew he did.
Malone nodded once.
“We’re done here, Malone,” Irey said again. “It’s over.”
26
She was waiting up for him. His lamp was burning, and she was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a dress in her lap, and a tin of beads beside her. She was attaching them, one by one, her needle flying, her hands sure.
He walked into the bathroom without greeting her, needing a minute alone. He washed and shaved, brushed his teeth, and gathered his things. He didn’t have much.
He didn’t look at her when he walked back in the room, but Charlie twined himself around his legs and then shot under the bed when he stumbled.
“Damn cat,” he muttered. He crouched down and lifted the spread. His suitcases were where he’d shoved them back in January. Both were speckled with Charlie’s hair. He unzipped the empty one and laid it open. The other was still packed with things he hadn’t used, costumes for characters he hadn’t needed.
“He’s going to sulk for hours now,” Dani said, still beading. “I’ll never get him out.”
He grunted and straightened. She thought he was worried about Charlie. He shrugged out of his shirt, exchanging it for a new one. His fingers flew over the buttons, and he tucked it into his trousers, snapping his suspenders back in place and turning down his collar.
“He likes you, you know. He just doesn’t know how to tell you. So he makes a nuisance of himself.” So far his actions had not alerted her that something was amiss.
“I have to leave, Dani,” he said, tugging open his drawers. He didn’t look at her, but from the corner of his eye, he saw her pause, her needle upraised so her beads wouldn’t slide off the string.
“Where to?” she asked. “And when will you be back?” Her voice was easy, trusting.
He kept moving. His drawers were emptied—one, two, three—in all of twenty seconds.
“Michael?” She secured the needle in her fabric and put the lid on the tin of beads.
He folded his suits on top of the contents of his drawers and added his dress shirts before zipping it closed. His files were already in the trunk. He didn’t know what he’d do with those. He didn’t need them anymore. His boots were in the trunk too. He’d started keeping them there, away from Dani’s curious touch.
“Chicago. I have to go to Chicago,” he said, his answer distracted. Belated.
He tossed his shaving kit, his spectators, and his white fedora into the valise he’d had since he was eighteen years old. It’d been everywhere with him. The white handkerchief Irene had initialed and Dani had returned was already tucked in the inside pocket.
“Michael?” Her voice was sharper now.
“I’ll just run these out to the car. Give me a minute,” he said. “Then I’ll tell you everything.” Dani’s feet were bare, and she wouldn’t follow him. He strode out of the room, the two suitcases in his hands, and was through the back door before she was even off the bed.
She was ready for him when he returned, though, holding his valise like she was taking it hostage, her eyes bright, shoulders stiff, mouth unsmiling.
He took it from her and set it by the door. His hat was on his desk, his overcoat slung over his chair. His suitcoat was still in the car. He hadn’t even worn it inside. He was ready.
“What happened, Michael?” she asked.
“I have a new assignment in Chicago and reason to believe that I’ve been made, or Michael Lepito’s been made. And that’s not safe for you or your aunts.”
Her brow furrowed. “What about Francis Sweeney?”