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  “Chief scale man?”

  “It’s an important job.” Frank scowled. “And you don’t need to enlighten him about the details, either. You got me?”

  Danny looked up from his notes and smiled. “Sure, Frank. You always did watch out for him.” He didn’t miss the flicker in Frank’s eyes. Something between contempt and relief. If he were writing a real story, Danny would have jumped all over him, but he already knew who owned what at G and R.

  “Yeah, well. We grew up together, and like I said, he ain’t completely right in the head. But his old man was a stand-up guy.”

  “You have a third partner. Cromoca Partners? Who is that?”

  “Cromoca is just an investor. We’re taking G and R across the river into Jersey, and they fronted us the money. We got a feeder yard. We’re looking for a bigger property to build another shredder.”

  “So this was part of the congressman’s investment incentive?”

  “Well, yeah.” Frank hesitated. “Greg Moss was involved. You remember him, right? He helped us hook up with Cromoca.”

  “Greg Moss? Is he tied in with Cromoca?”

  “They’re clients, I guess.”

  “Have you found property?”

  Frank hesitated, and his mouth tightened. “Well, the scrap market ain’t as booming as it was four years ago. It’s gonna rebound, but for now, it’s in kind of a slump. We bought a small parcel, but we’re holding off expanding.”

  “That seems smart.” Danny didn’t ask if Cromoca Partners was putting pressure on Frank to expand or pay back their investment. It didn’t seem wise, though he was curious. A thick haze of dust filled the yard, and Danny wondered how to phrase the next question. There probably wasn’t an easy way to phrase it. “Then I guess you know about Greg.”

  Frank stared past Danny to the cars zooming down I-95. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I heard he’s dead. Why do you care?”

  Danny shrugged. “Greg was a realtor. I wondered if he was helping you find Jersey land. Wouldn’t that be kind of a setback?”

  “Umm, I talked to Greg, but like I said, we were in a holding pattern. He knew a lot of people.”

  That was bullshit. Greg Moss had more than a casual relationship with Cromoca Partners somehow. Maybe he was putting pressure on Frank. Maybe not.

  “It’s weird to find out someone from your high school class is dead. It makes you feel old,” Danny said. He needed to ease back, not push. Maybe Greg’s death had nothing to do with high school and everything to do with land development. Maybe he didn’t want Greg’s death to have anything to do with high school.

  Frank squinted at him, and Danny knew he was looking to see if it was a bullshit line. It was, but it was also true. Greg’s death had made him remember and rethink his own choices. The opened and shut doors in his life. There were so many.

  “Greg was okay,” Frank said at last. “You know he visited me in prison? Him and Stan.”

  “That was nice. You stayed in touch?”

  “No. That’s the thing. Stan called him for a lift one day because his car broke down, and Greg gave him a ride. He couldn’t even come in to see me that day. Had to fill out special paperwork and all, y’know? But he gave Stan a ride up and back, and he filled out the goddamn paperwork. Greg was okay.”

  “What were you in for?” Danny asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “Possession with intent to distribute a controlled substance. Heroin.” Frank laughed bitterly. “I did seven years. Guess I shoulda had your lawyer, huh?”

  “You mean my father.”

  “Your old man was one scary dude.”

  “He’s one dead dude.” It was getting frustrating. Frank wasn’t going to give him any information. He was too careful. The only thing he’d learned was that Greg was a better guy than he’d seemed at the beginning of the day. That wasn’t helpful.

  “Is it true Greg was whacked?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyone got any theories?”

  Danny shook his head and considered how much to tell. Maybe a slightly altered version of the truth. “I got this text message.”

  Frank swiveled around, and he leaned in close, the muscles in his face twitching in anticipation. “What kind of text message?”

  “‘Do you remember me?’”

  “What the fuck kind of message is that?” The color slowly drained from Frank’s face, and he stood completely still for one moment, hands clenched, a bead of sweat running down his left cheek. The old hatred filled his dark-blue eyes, and he said, “I don’t have any more time for this shit. I have work to do. You need to leave now.”

  He almost ran back to the office.

  Danny watched him disappear through the door and headed for his car.

  24

  Alex shifted in her seat at the mayor’s press conference. He stood with the head of the service workers union and announced that they had reached a contract agreement. Alex dutifully wrote down the terms. It seemed like it was based on the most fragile of assumptions: the city would get more money from Harrisburg and the city’s own cost-cutting measures would actually be effective.

  She raised her hand and asked, “What if Harrisburg cuts the city’s funding?”

  The mayor chuckled and said they already had assurances that wouldn’t happen. She wanted to follow up, but someone else shouted a question that led in another direction. She let it go.

  In truth, she knew she wasn’t pushing herself today. She was just taking up space. Her mind kept traveling back to Sunday night and whatever had possessed her to slither all over Ryan like a snake. It had been catching.

  Maybe she’d needed to know if he’d felt anything for her, but now that she did, what was she supposed to do with the information? Once sex entered into the equation, it inevitably messed up friendship, and they had a fine friendship. Some days she could just kick herself.

  When the press conference ended, her photographer said, “You okay? You hardly said anything.”

  “I’m fine, Santos.” She patted his arm. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

  “I guess. You went real easy today.”

  “Does it matter?” She headed back to the paper.

  Fifteen years ago, the Sentinel had moved its printing operation to the suburbs, and the rumors constantly circulated that any day now, their flagship building on Broad Street would be sold to help prop up sagging revenues. Danny used to talk about the low rumble of the presses as they started, the feeling that his words were rolling off the big machines onto paper that would be cut and stacked and piled into trucks to be consumed, discussed, and debated. Those vibrating presses would have added a fiercer sense of urgency to the newsroom—the height of the glory days, when Andy Cohen was in charge and Sam Westfield was the city editor.

  Excellence. Honor. Integrity. The words were engraved in gold on the black marble wall in the front lobby, where plaques displayed the Sentinel’s Pulitzer recipients by year. Photographs of the winners adorned the walls.

  Danny’s picture always made her smile. He looked like a teenage heartthrob, with floppy dark hair and a smile somewhere between shy and cocky. Damn if he didn’t have movie-star cheekbones. Alex stepped into the elevator. She wanted her picture on that wall. She wanted her own column. It was looking less and less likely to happen in Philadelphia. The elevator reached her floor, and she stepped off.

  Alex made her way through the maze of cubicles that was the newsroom. A few people were busy typing, and phones were ringing. In an hour or so, as the deadline grew closer, the cubicles would fill. Along the far wall ran a series of glass-enclosed offices housing the various editors. She ignored them and slipped into her cubicle. She was lucky. At least she sat by a window.

  Alex filed her story on the union and then started pulling up everything she could on Jenna Jeffords. Jenna didn’t pertain to the city or politics, but Alex was involved now. This whole story was beginning to feel a little too personal. Besides, she was helping a friend—wh
o might be something more than a friend. Alex shoved the thought aside.

  Jenna had died in 1992. Her death didn’t seem related to any of these texts, but Alex figured it was worth spending a few hours researching. Jenna had been at Greg Moss’s house that night in June. Maybe she had seen something. She could have been the first in a string of murders, however unlikely.

  The fire that had killed Jenna seemed straightforward enough. The investigators had ruled out arson, though Alex knew arson was difficult to prove. There was a leak in the gas main, and a terrible explosion destroyed three homes and damaged six more. Jenna was so badly burned, her mother had identified her by a necklace she wore and a few scraps of her clothing that remained intact. Afterward, Rachel Jeffords had moved out of South Philadelphia to live near Lancaster.

  All Alex knew about Lancaster was that it was west of Philly, surrounded by a bunch of outlet stores that had sprung up along Route 30, and that it was Amish country. She’d always thought the juxtaposition of retail paradise and reclusive Amish made for an interesting culture clash. Even the souvenir shops hawked model horse and buggy sets. If the Amish objected, nobody seemed to care.

  Rachel Jeffords had received an insurance settlement as well as an undisclosed seven-figure settlement on Jenna from the gas works and the city. That was to be expected. Rachel had agreed not to disclose the terms of the agreement, which was interesting but not unusual.

  Rachel had moved west of Lancaster, where she had bought a small farm. Alex wondered if it was worth giving her a call. Maybe it would be better to drive out to talk to her in person, though she wasn’t quite sure what she’d ask her. Maybe she’d just take all the information and show Danny, though Jenna didn’t seem to fit in with the other victims, even if she was connected, however vaguely, to them.

  Alex went through her notes. Everything seemed straightforward, but she was sure she was overlooking something. She needed to look at the autopsy, but she really wanted to talk to Rachel Jeffords.

  Alex stared down at the information. How awful would it be to relive all this? Would it be worse or better not to know the truth, if there was a different truth? Alex hesitated another five seconds before she picked up the phone and dialed.

  25

  Stan Riordan had morphed from a skinny kid with jug ears and small teeth into a mountain of flab with a bald head and triple chins. He still had that high-pitched voice and the uncomfortable habit of standing too close. Danny edged away from him to no avail. Stan continued to fill the space between them.

  “Danny,” he said, prolonging the y into a grating squeal. “What are you doing here? Do you have scrap? That’s my business. Scrap. Me and Frank. It’s really mine, but I let him manage it. I own it.” When he grinned and leaned closer, Danny could smell garlic and onions and the faint aroma of alcohol on his breath. Did Frank know Stan was drinking on the job?

  “I hear business is good,” Danny said.

  “Business is great. I’m the chief scale man here. Well, I really own the place, but Frank says he can’t find anyone who can do the scale like me. So he hired a guy to do the day-to-day stuff. I like being outside.”

  Stan had no clue that he’d been cut out of the business. Or rather maneuvered out. With Frank running things, it was hard to tell. He had possibly manipulated Stan’s father into signing away his business. Even if Stan’s father had made an arrangement for Stan, Frank was capable of taking over in Stan’s “best interests.”

  “It’s nice that you and Frank stayed friends,” Danny said. “Did he tell you I’m writing a piece on your business?”

  “You are? He didn’t tell me.” Stan’s face fell and for a moment his eyes narrowed.

  “I just spoke to him today. Maybe he was going to tell you later.”

  Stan nodded. “That must be it.”

  A man emerged from the office—tall, wiry, with lanky black hair and close-set dark eyes. He yelled, “Hey, Stan. Who you talking to? We got trucks unloading.”

  “Is that your boss?” Danny asked. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “I don’t have a boss. I’m an owner.” Stan frowned and turned to the intruder. “I’m on break, Len. This is a friend.”

  The man hesitated, eyeing Danny, before he walked over. “Len Piscone, the manager. You’re a friend of Stan’s?”

  Danny nodded. This guy also had a tattoo. It was the king of spades, but it was a professional job on his right bicep and in color. Interesting coincidence or a connection to Frank? He was sure Frank had called and told Piscone to watch out for the asshole reporter.

  “Dan Ryan,” he said. “I’m writing a piece on Philadelphia industries.”

  “Frank said he already talked to you about the company.”

  Danny appreciated predictability. “He did, but he mentioned there was a second yard. When he said Stan here was his partner, I thought I’d stop by to say hello. After all, we went to school together.”

  Piscone’s brows drew together as he looked from Danny to Stan. “You and Stan?”

  “That’s right,” Stan said. “Me and Frank and Danny was all in the same class.”

  “You got ten minutes,” Piscone said.

  Stan’s eyes darkened, and his hands curled into fists. “I’m an owner.”

  “It’s okay, Stan. I know you’re busy,” Danny said. “I really just wanted to see how you were.”

  Piscone gave them one last scowl and headed back toward the office.

  “He gets kinda grouchy some days,” Stan said.

  “Well, he is the manager.”

  “I’m the owner.”

  Danny figured Piscone was calling Frank right now. He didn’t have time to be subtle. Stan wouldn’t get subtle, in any case. “Look, Stan, I have to ask you something important.” Stan’s eyes widened a little, like no one ever asked him anything important. “Have you gotten any weird texts lately? Has Frank?”

  “What kind of texts?” Stan rubbed the back of his neck. “Like something scary?”

  “Well, maybe a little peculiar. Like from someone you might have known a while back. Like a ‘remember me’ kind of thing. Or maybe Bible verses?”

  Understanding lit Stan’s face. “Oh, that kind of text. We got a bunch of Bible verses.”

  “Do you remember when?”

  “Me and Frank did.” Stan smiled and nodded.

  “When, Stan?”

  “You’ll never guess who sent those texts.”

  “No. I probably won’t.”

  “Come on, try to guess.”

  Danny fought the urge to grab Stan by his ears and scream, “Give me the goddamn name!”

  The office door opened, and Len Piscone stormed out. His face was bright red, like he’d just taken a verbal ass kicking, and he raised his hands in the air.

  “Who was it, Stan? Tell me.” Danny grabbed Stan’s arm hard enough that Stan’s goofy grin dissolved into a slack-jawed gape of surprise.

  Stan blinked. “It was Greg Moss. He’s been sending them for a while,” he said, jumping when the red Caddy swerved into the yard, sending up a spray of gravel. It jerked to a halt, and Frank Greer emerged, hands balled into fists, looking angry enough to kill.

  “You fucking asshole!” He shook off Len, stomped over, and before Danny could react, leveled him with a punch to the left side of his face.

  26

  “Mrs. Jeffords?” Alex grabbed her purple pen when a high-pitched woman’s voice answered the phone. She explained who she was and why she was calling as quickly as she could. She hoped Rachel Jeffords was willing to talk.

  “Why do you want to know about Jenna?” Rachel asked. Her voice had grown tight with suspicion and something else that Alex couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t exactly anger. Fear? Was that possible?

  “I’m working on a piece on development in Philadelphia,” Alex said. “I had questions about Jenna. Whether she knew someone named Greg Moss.”

  Silence.

  “Mrs. Jeffords? I’m not trying to damage Jenna
’s memory.” Alex knew she had to say something soothing to fill the void. “It’s just that I think her death might be connected to something.”

  “I don’t have anything to say about that.” Her voice was hard and flat now.

  “What if I were to come out to talk to you in person? Do you think maybe you could just talk to me?”

  “Jenna’s dead. Why can’t you let her rest in peace?”

  “I’m not sure she’s resting in peace,” Alex said. It was a gamble. Either Rachel would hang up or she’d open the door.

  “I don’t want to talk about Jenna right now.”

  “Later?”

  “I can’t talk about the settlement.”

  “I know. I wanted to talk about high school.”

  “What? I don’t understand. I can’t talk now.”

  Alex knew when to stop pushing. She gave Rachel her phone number. “Call me if you change your mind,” she said. She wasn’t done with Rachel Jeffords, but first, she wanted to look at Jenna’s autopsy. Jenna’s mother didn’t want to talk to her for some reason, and Alex was going to figure out what that reason was.

  She sat tapping her pen for a moment and staring out the grimy window at North Broad Street before she decided to make a quick call to the medical examiner’s office. Jenna’s file should still be there in some form. It was an official death that had been investigated and recorded by the city. She was reasonably sure someone would give her access.

  Her phone rang, and she grabbed it, hoping that Rachel had changed her mind.

  “Alex Burton,” she said.

  “Ms. Burton, it’s Carlos.”

  She paused, trying to remember who the hell Carlos was. Then the sad, dark eyes of the bartender came back to her. Latin boy band Carlos, from the book signing. “Carlos, I’m glad you called.”

  “You said I could. Is Miss Barb okay?”

  “She’s in intensive care, but she’s hanging in there for the moment.” Alex didn’t want to give too much away, so she added, “It’s early. The doctors will know more tomorrow.”

  “I called, but no one would tell me anything.”