“She was jealous of Mother,” the girl whispered. “She said mean things and tried to kiss Daddy one time. Don’t believe the things she says. She’s not a nice lady.”
Well, damn. Malone had kind of thought as much as soon as Mrs. Thurston had opened her painted mouth.
“Do you have family you can go to?” he asked Dani. He hoped she did. God, he hoped she did.
“I have Uncle Darby and my tety,” she said softly. “And my grandfather, though he’s odd.”
“Tety? Who’s Tety?” He was good with languages, but he didn’t know that word.
“Mother’s aunts. Tetka Zuzana, Tetka Vera, and Tetka Lenka.”
Her mother’s family. The names sounded eastern European.
“Do your aunts love you?” he blurted. His question embarrassed him, but he needed to know.
“Yes. They love me.” Her assurance eased the nerves in his belly. He didn’t want the kid to be stuck with the likes of Darby O’Shea, if he was the Uncle Darby she was referring to.
“Then you will not have to be with Mrs. Thurston for too long,” he said. “We’ll call your aunts.”
He’d taken the girl around to the front yard and stood beside her as her parents were carried out on stretchers, shrouded from view. The coroner was preparing to take them away, and though Malone had seen death up close in the Somme, he’d never witnessed a moment more tragic.
The little girl ran, breaking away from him, and begged the ambulance workers for a chance to say goodbye. The attendants, preparing to lift the stretchers into the back of the waiting truck, paused in discomfort.
“What the hell, Malone?” Murphy yelled, but Malone ignored him. He’d been twelve when his mother died, not much older than Dani. And he’d been allowed to say goodbye.
Malone followed the girl, and with great care and a quick crossing of his heart, folded the cloth down from George Flanagan’s face first, and then did the same to his wife.
Dani Flanagan, still wearing his overcoat, pressed a kiss to their cheeks, her tears streaming but her sobs restrained. And then she stepped back, clutching Bunny in her hands, and watched as they were taken away.
1
January 1938
Michael Malone hadn’t been back to Chicago since he’d helped bring down Al Capone in ’31. Poor Big Al. He was currently sitting in a cell on Alcatraz. Malone thought even Alcatraz would be better than standing in a cemetery in Chicago on New Year’s Day.
Malone had been in the Bahamas working a case involving offshore accounts and money laundering for most of the year, which meant that at the moment he was nut-brown and colder than he’d ever been in his whole life. He’d had no time to acclimate to Chicago, though he was well-adjusted to the fact that Irene was gone. She’d been gone for a long time.
His sister, Molly, had gotten a message to him two days after Christmas.
Irene is dead. What should I do?
He’d gone home to the house on the south side of Chicago, the house where he’d been raised, though it didn’t feel like home anymore. Molly was glad to see him. Her children had grown, and both she and her husband, Sean, were grayer and thinner.
“You’ve hardly aged at all, little brother,” Molly had said, kissing his cheeks and holding him close. But they both knew he was a much different man.
Now he watched as the coffin he’d purchased, a white one with pink roses painted on the corners, was lowered into the ground beside Mary’s little stone and the marker for James. Molly cried, though Michael suspected a little relief in her tears. Molly had always had too many people to look after, and Irene had been a burden. He’d always made sure there was a roof over Irene’s head and money in her account, but Molly had cared about her. And caring was its own millstone.
No one but Father Kerrigan, Sean, and Molly came to the graveside service. There was no one else. And Michael just felt cold.
He would need to leave again. Soon. The old neighborhood wasn’t safe for him anymore, though the Chicago Outfit was under new leadership and the Prohibition wars of the ’20s were over. But he didn’t like sleeping under Molly’s roof. His presence, no matter how long it had been or how insulated he’d become, made her less safe. Not more.
Word got around, but it still surprised him to see Eliot Ness standing on the doorstep two days later, bags beneath his blue eyes and a file box under one arm.
“I heard about Irene, Mike. I’m sorry.” He took off his hat when he said the words, paying his respects. He still parted his hair straight down the middle, and at thirty-four he still retained the boyishness that had caused so many to either underestimate or adore him.