"You want to ask me stupid questions," she said. "That is what you
want to do. I'm right?"
"I only--"
"I know nothing," she said. "Nothing of any kind." She closed her
mouth and stood regarding him as if he were a particularly repulsive
statue. Malone looked past her into the living room beyond the door.
It was faded now, but it had once been bright and colorful. There was
an old rug on the floor, and tables were everywhere. The one bright
thing about the room was the assortment of flowers; there were flowers
everywhere, in vases, in pots, and even in window boxes. There was
also a lot of crockery statuary, mostly faded, chipped, or worn in
some way. The room looked to Malone as if its last inhabitant had died
ten years before; only the flowers had been renewed. Everything else
had not only the appearance of age, but the look of having been cast
up as a high-water mark by the sea, which had receded and left only
the tangled wreckage.
The woman cleared her throat, and Malone's gaze came back to her. "I
can tell you nothing," she said.
"I don't want to talk to you," Malone said again. "I want to talk to
Mike."
Her eyes were very cold. "You from the police, and you want to talk to
Mike. You make a joke. Only I don't think the joke is very funny."
"Joke?" Malone said. "You mean Mike's not here?"
Her gaze never wavered. "You know he is not," she said. "Ten minutes
ago the policemen were taking him away to the police station. How then
could he be here?"
"Ten minutes ago?" Malone blinked. Ten minutes ago he had been looking
for this apartment. Probably it hadn't taken Lynch's men ten minutes
to find it; they weren't strangers in New York. "He was arrested?"
Malone said.
"I said so, didn't I?" the woman said. "You must be crazy or else
something." Her eyes were still cold points, but Malone suddenly saw a
glow behind them, the glow of tears. Mike was her son. She did not
seem surprised that the police had taken him away, but she was
determined to protect him. He was her son.
Malone's voice was very gentle. "Why did they arrest him?" he said.
The woman shrugged, a single sharp gesture. "You ask me this?" she
said.
"I'm not a cop," Malone said. "I'm from the FBI. I don't know anything
about why the cops might have arrested Mike."
"FBI?" the woman said.
"It's all right," Malone said, with all the assurance he could muster.
"I only want to talk to him."
"Ah," the woman said. Tears were plain in her eyes now, glittering on
the surface. "Why they take him away, I do not know. My Mike do
nothing. Nothing."
"But didn't they say anything about--"
"They say?" the woman cried. "They say only they have orders from this
Lieutenant Lynch. He is lieutenant at police station."
"I know," Malone said gently.
"Lieutenant Lynch wants to ask Mike questions, so police come, take
him away." Her English was beginning to lose ground as the tears came
closer, as she slowly lost control.
"Lynch asked for him?" Malone said. He frowned. Whatever that meant,
he wanted to be there himself. And perhaps he could help the old woman
in some way. Anyhow, he would try. She stared up at him stonily.
"Look, Mrs. Fueyo," he said. "I'm going down there to talk to Mike
right now. And if he hasn't done anything, I'll see that he gets right
on home to you. Right away."
Her expression changed a trifle. She did not actually soften, but
Malone could feel the gratitude lurking behind her eyes as if it were
afraid to come out. She nodded gravely and said nothing at all. He
stepped away, and she closed the door without a sound.
He stood staring at the door for a few seconds. Then he turned and
punched the elevator button savagely.
There wasn't any time to lose.
He walked back to the precinct station. Knowing the way, it took him
about five minutes instead of the fifteen it had taken him to find the
Fueyo residence. But he still felt as if time were passing much too
fast. He ran up the steps and passed right by the desk sergeant, who
apparently recognized him; he said nothing as Malone charged up the
stairs and around the hall to Lynch's office.
It was empty.
Malone stared at it and started down the hall again without knowing
where he was heading. Halfway to the stairs he met a patrolman.
"Where's Lynch?" he asked.
"The lieutenant?" the patrolman said.