Then Malone was pushing her out onto the landing and pulling the door closed behind them. She flew down the stairs, Malone at her heels, and together they fled across the grass, out into the street, and back home, tumbling through the door like they were being chased by Satan himself.
17
“Any idea who that was?” Malone asked, pacing back and forth from his wardrobe to his desk. He’d not been afraid for himself. Had he been alone, he might have enjoyed the encounter. He’d been cornered and surrounded in worse situations than that, more times than he could count, but he’d never had a woman he cared about—anyone he cared about—caught with him.
Dani had collapsed onto his bed and was now laughing in relief. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes and curls gleamed, but Malone was not amused.
“Dani,” he sighed. “It isn’t funny.”
“No. You’re right. It definitely isn’t funny.” But she continued laughing away her nerves, and he waited, his hands on his hips, his narrowed eyes on the window, though he couldn’t see anything but the Rauses’ backyard.
“Who was he?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she hiccuped. “But he didn’t move like Edward Peterka. Dr. Peterka’s slim and tall and light on his feet.”
“Liquor can make every man sound like an elephant if he’s had too much.”
“He had a key,” she said. “It was probably one of the doctors on staff.”
“Any doctor drinking in this neighborhood and crashing in that apartment is hiding something.”
“St. Alexis is right across the street. Where do those doctors drink?”
“Not in the bars around here. Not if they are doctors in good standing. I’ve been in all of them, and there is a distinct clientele.”
“You say he’s hiding something. Maybe he’s simply hiding the fact that he drinks too much.”
“From who?”
“His wife?”
“Would you rather your husband come home drunk or not come home?” he asked.
“I’d rather he come home drunk,” she said, no hesitation.
“Yeah. I’m guessing that’s the way most women feel. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t. So I’m guessing it isn’t a wife he’s hiding from.”
“Sybil said Dr. Frank drank too much. That he was fired, and his marriage failed because of it. Maybe that man was Dr. Frank.”
“You don’t think Peterka has changed the locks in all these years? Peterka fires him but lets him access the building to sleep off a drunk?”
She shrugged. “Dr. Peterka is a good man. He looks out for the people in this community. He’s on the board at St. Alexis and is constantly raising money with the diocese for meals, medical care, and shelter for Cleveland’s poor. It wouldn’t surprise me if he went very easy on Dr. Frank.”
“A regular St. Peter,” Malone muttered. “But he’s a very foolish man if he isn’t running a tighter ship.”
“People aren’t dying in that apartment, Michael.” She said it with such confidence that he stopped pacing and scowled at her, even though he agreed with her.
“No?” he pressed. “You get something from that couch you aren’t telling me?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It was just as I said. It was unpleasant. But I’m used to that. My ability is unpleasant . . . often. The brush of a memory, the brush of a moment, that’s fine. But the layers of a life? It’s like peeling an onion. And I’d rather not do it.”
“You could have fooled me, kid,” he snapped.
She was quiet for a moment, studying him.
“Are you angry with me, Michael?”
“I’m angry with myself.”
“Because you let me come with you?”
“Yes! Because I let you come with me.” He walked to his desk and took out the notepad with his lists. He turned a few pages and found the list he wanted and handed it to her.
“Read this. And tell me what the Butcher’s victims all have in common.”
She looked it over quietly.
“Dani? Read it.”
“They all lost their heads.”
“They didn’t lose their heads.” He tapped the sentence she’d restated.
“They all had their heads cut off,” she amended.
“Yes. Correct. What else?”
“They were all relatively . . . unknown.”
“Yeah. Unknown. Down-and-out. Nobodies.”