“Why she tried to kill you, or why she killed Nainsi?”
“Neither. I wanted to know why she came up with the plan to have Nainsi marry Antonio in the first place. Most women wouldn’t want anything to do with their husband’s mistress and bastard child.”
“You said yourself she’s not in her right mind,” Malloy reminded her.
“She’s not now,” Sarah reported sadly. “She has a bundle of rags that she carries around the jail with her. She thinks it’s her baby, Joseph.”
Malloy winced. “Then I don’t suppose you got any answers from her.”
“Oh yes, I did. She was only too happy to explain her reasoning to me. She feels justified in everything she did, and she wants the family to understand her reasons. They certainly don’t want to hear about it, especially from me, but she didn’t seem to realize that.”
“So did she want the baby for herself, and plan to kill Nainsi all along?”
“No, not at all. She did want the baby, of course. She thought Joe owed it to her because he refused to fulfill his husbandly obligations to her. That’s why she figured out the plan to get the baby into the family by marrying Nainsi off to Antonio. She apparently thought Nainsi would get bored with being a wife and mother and run away, though. Maria might even have planned to encourage her to do just that, but we’ll never know.”
“And that would leave the baby for Maria to raise.”
“Exactly. She’d have Joe’s baby, which is all she ever wanted. And Antonio wouldn’t be stuck with a wife he didn’t want anymore. I gather he might have even been able to get an annulment if she abandoned him, but I’m not sure Maria cared about Antonio’s future. She’d have the baby, and that’s all she cared about. She thought it was a perfect plan.”
“Have you heard how the Ruoccos are getting along with the baby?” he asked.
“Not firsthand, of course,” Sarah admitted. “I did hear that they got a woman in the neighborhood to nurse him, though, so he should be fine.”
“If they can keep Valentina away from him,” he remarked slyly.
That seemed to end their conversation about the Ruocco family. Sarah sipped her coffee to extend the silence, giving Malloy a chance to say what he’d called her here to say.
When he didn’t, she said, “Why did you really ask me to meet you here, Malloy? And don’t tell me any fairy tales this time.”
He fiddled with his cup for a few seconds, as if looking for an answer there. Finally, he said, “Roosevelt gave me permission to work on your husband’s case.”
This wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “I wrote to him . . .”
“I know. He told me. I have to keep doing my regular work, of course, but he said he’d clear it with Conlin to let me work on it when I can find time.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t what she’d wanted, not exactly, but it was more than they’d had before. “What are you going to do next?”
“I’ll go back to the families again, and this time I’ll have the authority I need to question them.” They had discovered that Tom was treating some mentally ill women just before he was murdered, and Malloy believed that had given someone a motive to kill him.
“I told you before that I’ll help in any way I can,” she reminded him.
He managed a smile at that. “Have I ever mentioned how much I hate having you involved in my investigations?”
“I’m serious, Malloy. You know I can go places that you can’t and talk to people who won’t speak with you. I can even ask my family for help if necessary.”
Did he flinch slightly? She was sure he had. He was probably remembering her mother’s involvement in one of their earlier investigations. “Do you think your family would be interested in helping solve your husband’s murder?” he asked.
She’d never thought of that. “It doesn’t matter if they are or not. They’ll help me if I ask them,” she said with certainty.
That seemed to satisfy him. “I won’t need them, though,” he said. “And I won’t need your help, either. It’s too dangerous for you to be involved.”
“But, I—”
“No,” he said sharply. “How many times have you gotten yourself into danger when you were just an innocent by-stander? Just a few days ago, Maria Ruocco tried to push you down a flight of stairs! You’re too close to this case, so you’re not going to help. No arguments.”
“All right,” she said, although she really didn’t mean it.
He fiddled with his cup again. He wasn’t telling her everything. He was trying to protect her, but she didn’t need protection. She needed the truth.
“What is it, Malloy? What aren’t you saying?”
He sighed and looked up again, meeting her eyes with a directness that made her want to turn way. “These women who were your husband’s patients might not have anything to do with your husband’s death,” he said.
She nodded her understanding.
“And even if one of them does, I might not be able to prove it. I’ll do everything I can, legal or not, but it might not be enough.”
“I know,” she said, although she hadn’t let herself admit it before.
“And if I figure out who did it, but I can’t prove it, you’ll have to live with it. Can you do that?”
She didn’t want to hear this, and she certainly didn’t want to think about it. Knowing someone had murdered Tom and had been walking around free all this time was maddening. Knowing who it was and that he would still never be punished would be so much worse. “I don’t know if I could live with it or not,” she admitted.
He nodded once. “That’s what I thought.”
She stared at him uncertainly. “Does that mean you aren’t going to try?”
“No,” he said. “It just means that if I find him, but I can’t prove it, he’ll still pay.”
“Malloy!” she said in alarm. “You can’t . . . You can’t do something like that, not after the way you’ve worked this past year to build a new reputation for yourself. Everyone comes to you now when they have a difficult case or one that requires discretion. They know you’re trustworthy and honorable. You’re just the kind of man Theodore wants on his modern police force.”
The smile he gave her was full of bitterness and regret.
“It won’t always be Theodore’s police force. He’s an ambi-tious man. He won’t be satisfied here long, and when he’s gone, his reforms will go with him.”
“But things could never go back to the way they were before,” she argued.
“No, they’ll be worse. A lot worse. And so will I.”
“No, you won’t!” she protested, reaching out and laying her hand on his. “You were never that kind of man before, and you never will be.”
He looked down at where her hand rested on his and gently pulled his free. “I’m the kind of man I have to be, Sarah. I have Brian to think about, and if it’s a choice between my honor and my son, I’ll choose my son. I have to.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out some money, laying it on the table for their coffee.
“I’ll let you know if I find out anything about your husband’s murder,” he said, rising from the table. “Good-bye, Sarah.”
As she watched him walk away, his image blurred. Only then did she realize she was crying. She dashed the tears away angrily. How dare he try to make her think less of him? How dare he pretend to be something he wasn’t?
And how dare he think that any of that would matter to her? She would, she supposed, simply have to convince him otherwise.
Author’s Note
Writing this book brought back a lot of wonderful memories of visits with my Italian great-aunts, aunts, uncles, and hordes of cousins. I think I was channeling them all to help me create Patrizia Ruocco and her family. I hope you enjoyed this installment in the Gaslight series. Please drop me a line and I will be happy to put you on my e-mail list. I’ll keep you posted on places where I’ll be autographing, and I’ll also send reminders when I have a new book coming out. You may contact me through my Web site, victoriathompson.com.