“Better than showing up with another woman. And why does Congressman Sweeney care?”
“I told you. Politics. It’s all about demonizing the other side. Pointing out the flaws of the opposite team to distract from your own. He hates Burton . . . so he hates me.” He took a big bite of his sandwich and urged Malone to dig in.
“Go ahead. I made extra just for you,” he said around his mouthful. “Peanut butter and honey. They taste like dessert.”
Malone shrugged and accepted. Breakfast had been a long time ago, and he’d been too uptight to eat his fill. He’d been wracked with guilt about kissing Dani. Again.
Amid sticky bites, Malone outlined everything he’d learned in the last few weeks, focusing primarily on the story of Emil Fronek—who still hadn’t been located, according to Eliot—in relation to the medical practice on the corner of Pershing and Broadway and the café butting right up to the stairs.
“It was in ’34, but it seems to me that’s when the Butcher got started. That apartment has seen a stream of characters with medical training. I’ll just have to track them all down. It’s empty now, but I can get in. Poke around. See what’s there.”
“If we can find Fronek and get him here, let him retrace his steps, and even get a description of the guy he thinks drugged him, that’d be something concrete,” Ness said. “We could show him pictures. St. Alexis has photographs of all their staff on file. Even interns. We need to narrow the field. And we need evidence.”
Malone nodded, chewing. Thinking.
“I checked into the kid’s story,” Ness said, moving on. “Pete Kostura was killed in a hit-and-run in December. Damn tragic. He was in one of the boy gangs I’ve been working with. I lit a fire under the detectives on his case. But I don’t know how his death has anything to do with the Butcher.”
“Why? ’Cause his head wasn’t chopped off?”
“Yeah. Not the Butcher’s style,” Eliot said, his cheeks bulging.
“Well, someone ran that kid over. Someone who didn’t live in that neighborhood. Someone with a big, fancy car, like the mayor drives,” Malone said, quoting Dani, who’d been quoting Steve Jeziorski. “Maybe Kostura thought he could squeeze someone for money, the way Steve does. Maybe he threatened someone important with something he saw the day he found those bodies . . . or with something he learned since. And instead of paying up, they took him out.”
Something flickered across Eliot’s face, and he stopped chewing.
“What?” Malone pressed.
Ness busied himself with his thermos and shook his head like it was nothing.
“Eliot,” Malone said, insistent. “What?”
“Nothing. Any luck finding your shadow?” Ness said, changing the subject.
“No. I talked to the kid—Steve Jeziorski—again. He works at the plant Flo Polillo’s remains were found behind. How’s that for a coincidence?” He sighed. “I’m not worried about it. Jeziorski could have been describing half the men in this city. He said he’d try to get the guy’s name—if there really was a guy—for a price. I told him to forget about it. The kid’s a bit of a con artist, but I don’t want him getting run down too.”
Eliot didn’t rise to the bait but sloshed some lukewarm coffee into the cup from his thermos and offered it to Malone.
Malone drank it down in one gulp. Then he took out his handkerchief and wiped at his hands, removing the crumbs and the sticky residue, and swiped at his mouth. Eliot didn’t want to tell him, fine. He had a bigger ask.
“I want to see the items that were found at the scenes. Can you get me into the evidence locker?”
“Yeah. But why?” Eliot asked, eyes narrowed, the big black car forgotten. “The descriptions are pretty complete. That stuff has been combed over.”
Malone considered not answering, the way Eliot had just done. But he couldn’t show up with Dani and not provide any explanation. Special precautions would need to be taken.
He chose his next words carefully. “I have my own expert. Someone I want to have a look at the clothing, in particular.”
“Your own expert?” Ness said slowly.
“Yeah . . . you’ll see. It will be better if you just trust me. You can watch.”
“What’s the expert going to do?”
“She’s a tailor. I think she can tell us things that someone else might miss.”
“She?” Eliot crowed.