Cowles was consulting with crime labs and criminologists all over the country, and he brought Malone up to speed on their mostly unhelpful assessments. Eliot listened to the conversation with bruised eyes and slumped shoulders but added little. There was simply no real news and no developments.
“Eliot says you have an expert,” Cowles said to Malone, his gaze curious. Hopeful.
“Yeah. I do,” Malone replied, glancing at Ness. He’d thought maybe Eliot had forgotten the conversation with all the chaos. He obviously hadn’t. Dani hadn’t forgotten either, and she was persistent, even eager, about getting her magic hands on the evidence. But with the new victim and no new information in the last two weeks, reporters were rabid, and Malone had become more and more opposed to the idea of bringing Dani into the investigation in any way.
“I don’t want anyone getting curious about her. It wouldn’t be good for Ness.” It wouldn’t be good for Dani either.
Cowles frowned and Eliot straightened in his chair. “How so?” Cowles asked.
“The papers are clamoring for information. They want stories. They get a whiff of her—if anyone gets a whiff of her—they’ll put it in the papers. They’ve got nothing else to talk about,” Malone said. “So we need to keep it quiet. And private.”
“What kind of expert are we talking about?” Cowles pressed.
“She’s an ugly seamstress,” Eliot said, straight-faced but with a twinkle in his eye. It was the first sign of good humor Malone had seen in him since the leg had been discovered.
“Huh,” Cowles grunted. “All right. Guess it can’t hurt. We’ve traced the laundry marks, though, in the few items that have them. So far nothing’s come of it.”
“Say when, Mike,” Ness said.
“Next Saturday night,” Malone said. “You can get us into the evidence locker without anybody getting too nosy about what we’re doing, right?”
“Next Saturday is the damn Spring Gala at St. Alexis.” Eliot sighed. “Press. Politicos. Fundraising. The diocese and the nuns have turned it into an annual arm twisting, and nobody gets out of it without a public shaming or a huge check, but it keeps the hospital and Catholic charities going, and I have to make an appearance.”
“Even better. It’ll be a good distraction,” Malone said. “We can do it after.”
“You’re right,” Ness agreed. “Everyone will be there, occupied and accounted for. Staff will be light at headquarters, even lighter than usual on a Saturday night. And we won’t have any reporters lurking with the gala in swing.”
“Can you get me two tickets?” Malone asked, an idea surfacing.
Ness raised his brows, surprised. “You want to come to the gala?”
“It’s at St. Alexis itself, the hospital?”
“Yeah. The dining hall doubles as a ballroom. It has a stage where the orchestra sits, and they clear the center of tables for dancing. People dress to the nines—full tails and evening gowns—and it’s quite the event. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a wife.”
Cowles shifted uncomfortably, and Ness blushed like he hadn’t meant to say that last bit. He laughed at himself, sheepish. “On the bright side . . . maybe after the gala the papers will be talking about my love life and ignoring the fact that I can’t seem to find the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run.”
Cowles didn’t look optimistic. “Can’t we do it any sooner? Next Saturday is more than a week away. We need a direction, Malone. We’ve got nothing. If you think your expert can give us something new, I want to talk to her now. Tonight.”
“You get a call from Irey, Cowles?” Malone asked. Ness’s eyebrows shot up, and the bureau man’s shoulders sank.
“Yeah. I did. Lotta talk about Germany winning the propaganda war and Cleveland getting their federal contracts pulled if this thing doesn’t go away immediately.”
“I got that call too,” Malone said. “David’s right, Ness. Sooner is better.”
“Well, damn.” Ness sighed, scrubbing at his face. “So that’s how it is? I’ve been wondering when the brass was going to start throwing their weight around. How long do I have?”
“We need a break,” Cowles said. “We need it now.”
“Or what?” Ness pressed, grim.
“Or all your programs—work with the boy gangs, traffic safety, police reform—it won’t mean a thing,” David answered, frank. “Mayor Burton will let you take the fall just to make it look like somebody’s doing something. I heard he’s going to run for Senate next go-round, just to get out of Cleveland. But everyone’s gunning for you, Ness.”