One by One Page 15

  “Come now. There’s no reason at all that two colleagues shouldn’t be seen in public together taking in the glories of a Washington afternoon.”

  “We might have met at a club. It’d have been a damn sight more convenient.”

  “And a bit too conspicuous. We need to discuss this Greg Moss situation.”

  “I hardly think—”

  “That is the problem, George. You hardly think.”

  The congressman swallowed several times. He wished he could see the eyes behind those glasses, but the low, monotone voice chilled him. He made one last attempt to clarify the situation. “Greg’s death is under investigation. It’s being handled. It’s just that there’s a reporter involved.”

  “A local reporter?”

  “Yes, local. Dan Ryan. He’s not important.”

  Robert Harlan’s mouth thinned to a tight line. “Did they remove part of your mind when they rearranged your face? Daniel Ryan was my son-in-law. What does he think about Greg’s death?”

  “I don’t know.” The congressman felt the blood draining from his face. “He and Greg went to school together. Greg spoke to him before he died.”

  “Is there something about Greg’s death I should know about?”

  “I don’t know why Greg was killed. He was getting threatening text messages. It was insane.”

  “Text messages?”

  “Bible quotes. Weird stuff. It might be related to some other murders of his former classmates. That’s all I could find out.”

  “We can’t afford to have people looking too deeply into Greg’s business dealings, George. It could become ugly.”

  “You mean Cromoca.”

  Robert Harlan waved his hand in disgust. “If it was just that, we could cut our losses and get out. It’s a thread. You pull the thread hard enough and who knows what you unwind?”

  “Ryan’s not looking into Cromoca.”

  “Not yet. But he will. He’s crossed me twice.” He looked at Crossman for a long moment. “He doesn’t get to do it a third time. Do you understand, George? Not a third time. He needs to be dealt with.”

  Crossman sighed. He wasn’t about to stand here and argue with Bob Harlan about the fate of one journalist. Accidents could be arranged if it came to it, but he preferred that things not come to that. Accidents caused undue scrutiny. They had nothing to worry about. Greg Moss was most likely the unfortunate victim of a random serial killer. It was inconvenient, but it could be managed.

  For now, Crossman was willing to let things drift along, but he nodded and said in his most placating voice, “Of course, Bob. If necessary. Trust me.”

  Crossman turned his head to look out over the reflecting pool. To the west, the Washington Memorial rose up, a white finger pointing to the evening sky. In the distance, he could hear evening traffic, the chatter of tourists, the twitter of birds. His heart beat against his throat.

  “Don’t worry, Bob. We’ll deal with the journalist if and when we have to.”

  “Don’t screw it up.”

  31

  The lobby of the Ritz Carlton was pleasantly cool. Housed in the old Girard Bank Building, the hotel sat on the corner of Chestnut and Broad across from City Hall and featured an impressive domed lobby complete with marble columns. For a moment Danny stood, getting his bearings and listening to the clicking of women’s stilettos on the shiny marble floors before he headed for the Lobby Lounge to wait for Michelle. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing her again. Once she’d occupied his thoughts to a ridiculous degree, but the memories had grown fuzzy after twenty-odd years.

  He supposed she’d always be his golden girl. At the very least, she was his first serious girlfriend.

  Danny walked into the lounge, crossing the soft brown rug with its pink-and-gold design. It matched the booths and complemented the rich mahogany bar. He gave a cursory glance to the occupants spread out among the tables. A couple huddled close together at a table near the bar while an older man with a Wall Street Journal was ensconced in a booth; a hipster with a man-bun, sporting tight red skinny jeans, lounged at the bar, and a slim blonde clad in white and pink sat tucked away in a booth toward the back. Danny was about to order coffee when the blonde stood and gave him a jerky little wave.

  “Daniel? Danny Ryan?”

  He recognized her, sort of. She still had that glow, the well-bronzed look that came from spending a lot of time on the tennis courts; her mother had spent a small fortune on lessons. He recognized the wide hazel eyes, though her nose looked different—narrower, less Roman. She’d lightened her hair to a frosted blonde and cut it chin length to emphasize her long neck. When she held out her hands, he saw that her wedding ring was an eye grabber—maybe three carats. It looked only slightly smaller than Beth’s, but it was hard to judge. She had such fine, small hands.

  One thing was clear: Michelle had married up, just like her mother wanted.

  “My God, you haven’t changed at all,” she said in a too-bright voice. She looked at him with a wide smile, as if waiting for approval.

  “And you’re still beautiful,” he said. “Coffee?”

  “Oh, no. I limit myself to three cups a day. I’ve already had my first.”

  “Shall we sit?” He took her arm, and they walked back to her secluded booth. He found himself searching for the girl who taught him to curse in French and who liked sneaking up to his bedroom to rock the bedsprings while his old man lay passed out on the sofa. This version of Michelle seemed almost alien to him. Brittle and somehow false.

  “You keep looking at me so strangely,” she said. “Do I look that bad?”

  “No, not at all. I think . . . I was just remembering. It was a long time ago.”

  “I’m a very different person now. Aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. Am I? Older, certainly. A little wiser, perhaps. “Everyone changes.” If he had changed so much, why did he keep making the same mistakes? Did that make him stupid or insane?

  “That’s right. I have this very normal life now,” she said. “A husband, three kids, and a dog. I just don’t understand why anyone would send me these texts. Look.” She whipped out an iPhone in a gold case and scrolled through pictures. Three handsome boys in their early teens, one tall blond husband in a pink polo shirt, hugging said kids, and a huge Bernese Mountain Dog. She was right. An all-American family—just like he used to have. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.

  “You have a nice family,” he said. It sounded so lame.

  “Mom told me about—”

  “Yeah.” He held up his hand. “It’s fine. I’m working. I’ve gotten through the worst of it.”

  “Danny, I’m so sorry. Your little boy.”

  He wanted her to stop talking so he could cough free the shards of glass that had lodged in his chest. They were always there. Some days he felt them more keenly than others. He had gotten to a point where he could go for weeks without noticing them, but this morning, the pain was fresh and sharp.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “For so many things.” When she reached up and touched his cheekbone, he almost flinched. “Who gave you this?”

  “An old friend. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Danny, I didn’t know you’d written to me until yesterday. Mom never gave me your letters. She destroyed them. I wrote to you, and she was supposed to forward my letters, but she never did.”

  “Please don’t. You don’t have to apologize for anything,” he said. “I’m not . . . I just want you to be happy.”

  Michelle shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. I should have called, but I was afraid of your dad. So I just waited. I guess I always hoped you’d come to New York.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it. “It wasn’t meant to be. You have a good life. Better than I could have given you, I’m sure. Things worked out. I’m glad.”

  She was looking for forgiveness, and he gave it to her. Maybe she had even missed him for a week or two, but she hadn’t mourned for long. In late Ju
ly that summer, he had gone to New York to find her, only to find that he was too intimidated to knock on her aunt’s door. He’d ended up following her from her aunt’s house in Brooklyn to Midtown where she’d met up with friends dressed in clothes he couldn’t afford and headed for a club where there was a rope line he could never pass through. He’d told himself she’d become a snob, but he’d never given her the chance to reject him outright.

  He’d walked back to Pennsylvania Station and come home, crashing for the weekend with his sister, Theresa. He’d never said a word to anyone about his ill-fated trip, just filed it away under lessons learned. He’d never to written Michelle again, though he’d filled quite a few notebooks with heartsick garbage.

  Her eyes filled, and she fumbled in her purse for a tissue. “Damn it. I have this wonderful life. A beautiful family, great husband, and some days I sit in car pool, and I just don’t know what I’m doing in Connecticut. I didn’t think it would hurt so much to see you again.”

  What did he say to that? It did hurt, because looking back was futile. Once you’d passed through a door, you couldn’t undo what was done. You could only keep going. It wasn’t profound. It was real and harsh, but life was harsh.

  “I guess it’s what might have been,” he said at last, “and that’s what breaks your heart.”

  “No, we had something. That’s what breaks my heart.”

  Regret did neither of them any good. What difference did it make now?

  She blinked and wiped her cheeks with the tissue. Then she took a breath. “I—these texts. I keep getting them. I haven’t told Paul. I’m afraid he’d get upset.”

  “When did you start getting them?”

  “A while ago. I don’t know how this person got my cell number. I’ve tried blocking him, but it doesn’t matter. He just changes his number.”

  “And it’s the same message?”

  “Kind of. Weird stuff.” She held out her phone. The latest message read, “Proverbs 13:15.”

  Danny stared at it for a moment. “A quote,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a Bible quote. Proverbs is an Old Testament Book.” He was already looking it up. “‘The way of transgressors is hard.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you should talk to the cops.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. Paul will be upset I didn’t tell him. He’ll—”

  “Would he prefer you dead?” Danny took her by the shoulders. “Because people who get these little messages have a way of ending up dead.”

  She slid her arms around him, and he realized she was sobbing now. So he held her, patting her back, and murmuring nonsense until her shaking subsided. If nothing else, he made a good towel. At length, Michelle pulled back and gave him a wan smile.

  “So I just made a fool of myself.”

  “No. But you do need to talk to the cops. My brother Kevin is a Philly detective. I can take you to see him. He’ll be discreet. I promise.”

  “All right.” She wiped her face and sniffed. “I must look like hell. I’m going to run to the ladies room and pull myself together,” she said without looking up. “Will you wait here?”

  “Of course.”

  She twisted the tissue until it began to pull apart. “I never forgot you, Danny. Never.” She leaned over and kissed him on the lips, and then she was up and hurrying across the lobby.

  *

  Fifteen minutes later, Danny had made a call to Kevin and was still waiting in the lobby when his phone vibrated.

  It was a text from Michelle that read, “Sorry, Danny. Drowning in a river of tears.”

  He shoved his phone into his pocket and ran to the reception desk. “I need someone to check the ladies room,” he said to the startled woman.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My friend went into the bathroom fifteen minutes ago, and I think there’s a problem. Please.”

  “I need to call security.”

  “Please. Right now.”

  She waved a guard who stood discreetly near the entrance. “Charlie, this gentleman says his friend went into the ladies room and didn’t come out. I need you to come with me.”

  The guard raised his eyebrows slightly but followed. Danny tagged along behind. Bathrooms in hotels could be dangerous. He knew from experience.

  They walked in, and he heard the receptionist give a small gasp. “Charlie, call the police.”

  He pushed past the guard. Michelle sprawled on the floor, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle, her forehead bleeding where she must have hit it against the sink. Her purse lay open on the ground beside her, its contents strewn on the marble floor. The iPhone with its gold case was missing.

  32

  A pigeon landed on the window ledge and settled in as Alex stared at her blank computer screen. She typed, “City Council met today and did nothing.” Then she looked at her notes and sighed. The council members had bickered for a while. No fistfights though.

  Her editor, Tim Gluckman, walked up and dropped a file on her desk. “Yo, Burton, stop daydreaming. You need to get down to Penn’s Landing. Senator Harlan and Congressman Crossman are making some kind of announcement along with . . .” He scanned a piece of paper. “Oh, yeah, the mayor.”

  She looked at him, left eyebrow raised in question. “About?”

  “A new interstate development initiative. It’s all about jobs, you know.” He grinned, and she knew he absolutely believed it was not at all about jobs. “Go sniff around and see what’s up.”

  “You don’t believe in interstate development?”

  “Not when those two are involved.”

  He was probably right. Alex leaned back and stared out the window for a moment before she started to pull up information about the new project. Her cell phone rang.

  “Burton,” she said.

  “Ms. Burton, it’s Rachel. Rachel Jeffords.”

  Alex sat up straight and grabbed a pen. “Mrs. Jeffords. What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if we could meet. You said you wanted to talk about Jenna yesterday?”

  “Yes. Yes, I would.”

  “Because I changed my mind.”

  “That’s wonderful, I’m so glad. But why if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Rachel hesitated. “Well, you’re a woman, so I thought you’d understand. About Jenna, I mean. Why she was special. So you’ll come today?”

  Alex looked up at the clock. Even if she got this damn article finished, she had to be out the door in an hour for the second press conference. “I have a press event this afternoon. Tomorrow might be better. I’ll head out tomorrow morning.”

  Rachel hesitated. “Oh, tomorrow? Well, I guess that’s fine. You just get here when you can. It’s a little hard to find. I’ll give you directions. Please.”

  Alex wrote down the address and directions carefully, but she didn’t think she’d have a problem. Straight out 30 West, then turn right. That wasn’t so hard, and she had a decent sense of direction. She tucked the directions into her purse and went back to her article.

  Across the newsroom, she heard Eric Thompson talking about something at the Ritz Carlton, but she paid it no mind. She wanted to get this article put to bed ASAP. She’d deal with Robert Harlan and George Crossman, and tomorrow, first thing, she’d be out the door and on her way to Lancaster.

  33

  Kevin slumped in his desk chair and listened to the bustling squad room. Phones were ringing, and voices chattered around him. He heard the rapid fire of Detective Patterson’s fingers on her keyboard, and he could smell the aroma of fresh coffee wafting toward him. His gut ached as he ruminated about the call from Danny this morning, and he paused to take a swig of Maalox.

  “Could you maybe apologize to Alex?” Danny had said. “You really hurt her feelings.”

  “Jesus Christ. Didn’t we already have this conversation? It’s the black thing, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s the you-actin
g-like-an-asshole thing.”

  “That’s one hell of a way to ask for my help.”

  Danny had sighed, the way he always did, and Kevin had pictured him taking a moment to cool down. It had taken him two beats, but Danny had said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m trying to figure out this whole Greg Moss situation. His death may have been tied to that senior week party, or it may have been about his ties to a land development company named Cromoca Partners. I can’t make the pieces fit together.”

  “And you’re looking for a connection.”

  “I’m looking for anything that ties them together.”

  “Maybe there is no connection. Maybe it’s one or the other.”

  “Maybe, but I still have to figure it out.”

  Given Danny’s disdain for cops in general, Kevin hadn’t pointed out that it was a police matter. It wouldn’t have made any difference. Theresa liked to call Danny “Pighead,” though she felt free to apply that name to both of them. Their sister had inherited the Ryan tendency for trash talk.

  “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t get your hopes up. Tell me what you know about a cop named Ollie Deacon. He was in my class.”

  “Killed on the job?”

  “No. I don’t think so. South Philly kid. Made the wall of honor at the Shamrock.”

  “And this is connected to Greg Moss?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Danny paused and then added, “Did Eliot have anything to say about that tongue?”

  “Nothing relevant,” Kevin said. “I’d say it points to a different killer, but this is one screwed-up case. Who the hell knows?”

  Long after he had hung up on Danny, Kevin had listened to the chaos in the squad room as he pretended to read the file on his desk. He stared at the coffee cup Kelly had made him for Father’s Day years ago. She had drawn him as a big stick figure holding her hand. She gave them both oversized grins and put them inside a heart. Kevin used to be her hero. Now he was just another asshole. Danny was the cool guy.

  “Watch after your brother,” Ma would say to Kevin when she was lying in her sickbed. “You’re my sweet, strong boy.”