Dani didn’t blame him; Margaret was a gem, but she was also a snoop. Dani was certain Malone thought she was a snoop as well. And Dani was. But it was not intentional. She hadn’t yet given in to the temptation to touch his things. At least . . . not much.
He’d left a pair of boots on the back stoop. They’d been covered with mud—from who knows where—and he’d cleaned them off at the outdoor pump and left them beside the door to dry.
Dani had not been able to help herself. She’d brought the boots inside, telling herself they would never dry outside in the cold damp of February. But when she’d slipped her hands in the openings and pressed her palms flat to the soles, she felt nothing but his frustration with the cold, his longing for sunshine, and his curiosity over the string of murders that had happened in the area. He could hardly help but think about murder. The entire city was caught in its grip.
And then there were the silk suits in his wardrobe. She hadn’t meant to look at those either, but Charlie had gotten himself locked in Malone’s room. It wasn’t his fault, the poor baby. She’d switched rooms on him. He liked to take long naps beneath the bed and had managed to get himself locked in when Malone left one afternoon.
It was fortunate she had a key. She’d heard Charlie’s pitiful yowling and let him out. She checked the room to make sure the cat hadn’t left a mess behind—who knew how long he’d been trapped inside—and saw a few files open on the desk, a large map of Cleveland tacked to the wall above it. A few of the files were scattered on the floor. She wasn’t sure if that was Charlie’s doing or Malone’s. From the tidiness of the rest of the room, she thought it was likely Charlie. She hurried forward and retrieved them, shoving the pages inside and stacking them with the others. She hesitated when she caught a glimpse of a house and a familiar face in her mind’s eye.
Eliot Ness.
Michael Malone knew Eliot Ness. He was a popular figure in Cleveland. The papers covered his every move and clamored for his statements. She set the files down and stepped away. It wasn’t so hard to believe. Malone said he worked with local governments.
She’d made a quick turn about the room, ignoring the lure of his private papers, but when she’d paused to close his wardrobe—which was slightly ajar—she’d seen the beautiful silk of the suits, one in a snappy chalk print, one in a navy so deep it looked like a jewel. She’d touched them, admiring the cut and the fabric. Suits like that cost more than most people made in a year.
But those had been the only times she’d slipped.
She’d tried to afford him the privacy he deserved, really she had, and she’d made a point to warn him to check for Charlie under the bed before leaving for the day.
Now Malone stood on the front walk, slightly hunched, with his hands on his hat. He still wore the same dark wool suit he’d worn the day he arrived. The pose made his overcoat pull at the seams, but she wasn’t sure if it was the cold wind that bent him over or the weight he carried on his shoulders. He looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to come inside or go for a walk, which was something else he did often. He walked for hours. Sometimes he took his car and went to places unknown, but more often he left on foot. He claimed he was a tax man, consulting with local agencies, but he kept odd hours. She knew he hadn’t told the whole truth when the aunts had questioned him about his work—his silk suits told a different story—but that was a typical trait. No one gave detailed explanations about their lives or their pasts when asked. Especially not to strangers.
His overcoat swung around his legs as he sidestepped a puddle with the agility of a young man, though he no longer was, not like he’d been. Not like she remembered. He wasn’t yet gray and his hair was still thick, but the lines were deeper around his eyes, the half-moons beneath them darker, like he didn’t rest well. Or maybe that too was just the world. The times they were living in were not happy ones, or maybe such days had never existed. Not collectively. She knew there were pockets of peace and calm, of laughter and ease, but no one she knew lived in those alcoves. She had . . . once. Then Michael Malone had looked down into her eyes and told her the truth that had changed her life.
She hadn’t blamed him, even then. In fact, before they’d parted, she had honestly loved him. It was a childish devotion, true, but deeply felt. Seeing him now, with adult eyes, she recognized that he was a rather sinister-looking character and not a hero type at all.
He was lean in the way a cat was lean, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a back that was longer than his legs and light feet that always seemed to know where to step.