One by One Page 16

  She’d looked like a wax doll, and he’d trembled when he took her cold hand in his. He’d wanted her to get up and tell him it would be all right, that of course she’d be better in time to make the pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. She’d always made a special little pie just for him because he’d always stayed to help her in the kitchen.

  The old man and Junior had always mocked him. They’d said he was doing women’s work. Danny would be hiding someplace with his face in a book, and Theresa would always be locked in her room with the hall phone. But Kevin would help Gran and Ma measure out the spices and crack the eggs. He’d wash the pans, clean the floor—anything to be closer to her, to breathe in her warm scent of rosewater and fresh-washed linen, baked bread and something indefinable. That familiar scent had been buried with her.

  Now he sat here in the grimy squad room, pushing papers and sucking down Maalox, to what end? Junior was dead. Theresa tolerated him, and Danny? Who knew what Danny really felt. They had a connection, but it had never been easy. Certainly it had never been what Ma had wanted, but all he could do was soldier on.

  Kevin shoved his files aside and began to search through the records for Ollie Deacon. The file wasn’t hard to find. It might be a cold case, but Deacon was a brother in blue. It never stopped being a priority. Deacon had been hit by two shots. The first bullet penetrated the liver. The kill shot was a direct blast to the heart. The perp used a nine millimeter. Eyewitnesses had described the killer as a stocky black male, a stocky white male, and a clown, though one guy thought it might have been a woman with red hair. So much for eyewitness testimony. Ollie had been shot right outside his home. No security footage available.

  “Kevin.” Jake appeared at the front of his desk and dropped a file in front of him. “A little paperwork on your friend Ted Eliot. It’s interesting.”

  “Incriminating?”

  “Weird. He was working in Camden proper for about six years. Good record. Fine upstanding cop. Commendations up the wazoo.”

  Kevin frowned. “Not helpful.”

  “Right. So he gets hurt on a domestic. Nothing earthshattering. He got shoved down a flight of steps and fucked up his back. Bad. He’s out for six weeks. Comes back. Continues, but—here’s where it gets interesting—his production starts to drop off. A lot. Eventually, he goes out on extended leave supposedly for his back. It turns out he’s got a fractured vertebrae.”

  “And this is important why?”

  Jake shrugged. “My guy says the hot rumor is Eliot had a substance problem, but nothing was ever proved. He went out on long-term disability. He then comes back a year later, and with his glowing recommendations, everything’s just peachy. He’s been a straight arrow for the last three years.”

  “But something happened.”

  “Something happened.” Jake pointed to the file. “Look at that. It’s so perfectly clean it sparkles. He’s got connections somewhere, Kev. My guy doesn’t know where, but they’re heavy duty, so watch your back.”

  “You think he’s dirty?”

  Jake pointed to the file. “I think he’s fucked up, and that might be worse.”

  *

  Kevin had finished reading the ridiculous file on Ted Eliot and was busy with Ollie Deacon when his phone buzzed.

  “Ryan,” he said.

  “Kevin? It’s Ted Eliot.”

  Kevin reached for his bottle of Maalox. This was going to be interesting.

  “I assume you’re calling about the ballistics?” Kevin took a swig of Maalox and grimaced.

  “I had to browbeat our lab guy, but here’s the info you wanted. The gun that killed Greg Moss was a nine millimeter. We recovered the bullet. Nate Pulaski, Christopher Soldano, and Richard Farnasi were all killed by someone using a nine millimeter. Bullets and casings were recovered for all three murders, but if it was the same gun, someone changed the barrel. We can’t get a ballistics match on any of them, so there may or may not be a connection. What’s your thought here?”

  Kevin wasn’t about to tell Eliot that Danny was trying to make some strange, possibly nonexistent, connection to a twenty-year-old murder. Danny didn’t need any more suspicion thrown his way. “We have a cold case here that might be connected. The victim was shot in the heart by a perp using a nine millimeter.”

  “All we can say is all these murders were committed by someone using a nine millimeter. All the victims were shot in the heart.”

  Kevin took another swallow of Maalox from the bottle on his desk. “Damnit, I was hoping we’d have something more to connect these murders. Any texts?”

  “That would be helpful, but if there were texts, nobody noted them, except for Pulaski. He mentioned something about a Bible verse.” Eliot’s voice cracked out each word. “They were all shot in the heart. Point blank. However, at least three of them had other wounds. And well, you know about Moss.”

  “Not enough to pull in the FBI at this point.”

  “Not yet, but it raises a red flag. Like I said, I don’t know if they were all getting text messages, but you should warn your brother.”

  Kevin sighed. As if he didn’t know Danny’s propensity for painting a target on his back. “Believe me, he knows how serious this is.”

  “This information is for you only,” Eliot said. “One cop to another.”

  “Don’t worry,” Kevin said. “And there’s no connection beyond high school?”

  It was Eliot’s turn to pause. At last he said, “Not so far as we can see.”

  “No chance it could be connected to Greg Moss’s development activities?”

  Kevin swore Eliot dropped his phone, but his voice sounded calm enough when he said, “Not that I know of.”

  “How about his client parties?”

  “What parties are you talking about?”

  “Are we going to play games, Detective?”

  “Who told you about Greg’s parties?” Eliot’s voice went from neutral to semistrangled in about two seconds. Interesting.

  “Do you think I’m going to give up a confidential source? Why don’t you tell me what you know?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s been a shitty morning, and I don’t feel like playing games. Tell me about your connection to Greg Moss.”

  “Wait. You trying to jam me up, Ryan?”

  Kevin took a breath. Not quite the reaction he expected. Maybe this whole thing had nothing to do with Danny’s high school days. He was grasping at straws here, but he had to sound more confident than he was. “I need information. If you’ve got it, you need to talk to me. One cop to another.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “I’m assuming you want to solve this case.” When Eliot didn’t answer, Kevin added, “Meet me this side of the river. Famous Deli on Fourth. One thirty.” Kevin figured the restaurant was a spot that was well populated enough that Eliot couldn’t pull anything if he were so inclined.

  Be safe was his motto.

  Long after he hung up, Kevin sat with his bottle of Maalox. What to do? This whole case had just bent in a very unpleasant direction. This either led back to the past or forked into a very new and unpleasant direction.

  “Déjà vu all over again,” he said.

  If only the feds were taking over; Kevin had a few contacts who would keep him informed. But there wasn’t enough evidence to draw in the FBI. All they had was a series of peculiar murders and a very questionable cop. Sometimes his brother got it right.

  Kevin looked back at Ollie Deacon’s file. The detective who originally caught the case was Vic Ross, but he was out on call. Something about a dead woman at the Ritz Carlton. Kevin would have to wait until he got back with Newgate. At least that was one murder that didn’t involve his brother. Kevin turned back to Ollie Deacon’s file.

  34

  Danny sat with his head in his hands and waited for the cops to finish with his phone. Somehow he had a feeling he wasn’t getting it back anytime soon, but it was easier to focus on the phone than to think about
Michelle lying on the floor of the bathroom in her white dress. She’d hit her head on one of the porcelain sinks by chance or design, leaving a fairly horrific dent in the side of her skull.

  Michelle had been placed in a body bag and discreetly wheeled out of a service entrance. The CSU people were processing the scene.

  He looked up and stared around the lobby, wondering if someone was watching him now. He hoped so. Danny hoped whoever was watching recognized that killing Michelle was pointless. “I’m still going to find you,” he said. One of the cops glanced around.

  Michelle hadn’t been part of Greg’s group. She hadn’t even been inside Greg’s house that night. Her only connection to anyone in that house was through Danny. Was that what made her a target? And why was her murder so vicious?

  The guys in his class had been shot, but the women were singled out for particularly horrible retribution. Jenna was burned. Barb was almost asphyxiated. And now Michelle.

  Did the murderer think that Michelle and Barb knew something about that night? And what about Jenna? Had she seen something? How could the murderer have known Michelle was meeting him at the Ritz Carlton? Nobody knew about that, not even Alex.

  The police were getting the security footage, and maybe Kevin could get him in to see the tape. For now, all he could do was keep digging. He could do that much for Michelle.

  “Mr. Ryan? I’m Detective Newgate.” The bald detective hovered over him. “How’re you holding up there?”

  Danny shrugged. He was the goddamn angel of death. Women beware. He said, “She was going to meet her mother at one down at HUP. Her mother’s a nurse. Rita Perry.”

  “Can she ID the body?”

  “Yeah. She can.”

  A few hours ago, Michelle had been a person. Now she was “the body” in a black plastic bag. The detective put a hand on Danny’s shoulder. He had big square hands and looked in decent shape, like maybe he was once a lineman. His shaved head gleamed like polished mahogany, and flickers of light danced around it. Danny blinked.

  “You sure you’re all right? You look kind of shook up.”

  “I’m okay. I’ll be okay.” If he kept telling himself that, it would become true. Maybe. “I know Michelle’s mother. Would it help if I went out to Penn to talk to her?”

  Newgate sighed. “I know you want to help, but you need to let us handle this right now, Mr. Ryan.”

  Danny understood that Newgate wanted to protect him. It was difficult enough to get news about the death of a loved one from a cop. He knew all about that. Danny also knew Rita Perry’s wrath would be substantial, but he didn’t want to shield himself. He deserved it.

  “Hey, you’re Kevin Ryan’s brother, aren’t you?” Newgate said.

  “I am, yeah.”

  Newgate gave the thumbs up to the other detective, and for a moment he regarded Danny with something akin to bemusement. “You can go, Mr. Ryan. You’re not a suspect. You are a witness, however, so I’ll ask you not to leave the area. We also will have to hold onto your phone. Sorry about that. I’ll give you a receipt, but I wouldn’t count on getting it back any time soon.”

  “Yeah, I know the routine.”

  “I guess you do.” Newgate handed him a receipt with a little flourish. “I’m gonna ask you not to approach Mrs. Perry on your own. You let us take care of that. You want to talk to her later, that’s your right. But right now, you let the police handle the situation. You understand?”

  Danny nodded.

  Newgate patted him on the back. “Good. You take care of yourself, Mr. Ryan.”

  35

  A slight breeze stirred the air as the small crowd of press gathered around the staging area at Penn’s Landing. Sun sparkled off the Delaware River, and Alex watched a bright-red motorboat cut through the water. Across the river, Camden actually looked inviting. Everything depended on perspective.

  The mayor had arrived, along with two city councilmen and three state reps, when a silver Jaguar pulled up. Congressman George Crossman stepped out. Alex had seen him a few times on television and in the paper, of course, though she didn’t handle Jersey politics. In person, the congressman looked better than his photos: tall, trim, blond, with a good square jaw. In his sleek gray suit he seemed to almost radiate light as he bounced up the steps, smiling. Wow. Talk about movie-star looks. He was probably in his late fifties, but he didn’t look it. Plastic surgery? Good genes?

  Senator Robert Harlan’s limo pulled up at last. He waited until his driver opened his door and then slowly emerged. White-haired, tanned, he had an electric presence, and Alex could almost feel the heat of his dark eyes scanning the crowd before he began his slow ascent. The senator wore his usual navy suit with a crisp, pale-blue shirt and a bright-red tie. He grasped his cane, though he barely leaned on it. He didn’t quite smile but surveyed the assembled crowd with a studied disinterest. He was the king. Everyone was here at his leisure.

  Alex couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  The mayor began to talk about the new initiative that would bring federal money to the Philadelphia–Camden area and was thanking the senator and congressman for their efforts.

  “In these partisan times, it’s really gratifying to see that two of our most prestigious representatives from the US Senate and House of Representatives have come together for the good of the region,” the mayor was saying. “Their bold initiative will bring hundreds jobs to the area. Good-paying jobs!”

  The press conference droned on. Congressman Crossman thanked the mayor, Senator Harlan, and some fellow named Eldon Jones, a slim black guy who was the president of Cromoca Partners LLP. That name again. The company that was buying and selling property in the cities of Philadelphia and Camden. Interesting. Alex circled the name in her notes. She took a picture with her cell phone and nudged Santos.

  “Make sure you get a few close ups of Eldon Jones,” she said.

  “Already done.” He moved a little closer and aimed. “Tell Danny I got a juicy close-up of his buddy the senator. He looks pretty good.”

  Alex smiled. She pushed to the front of the crowd. “Senator Harlan,” she called. “What’s the deal with Cromoca Partners?”

  The senator turned and pinned her with his gaze. It was like being hit by a laser, and Alex held up her notebook against her chest in defense.

  “Cromoca owns the land we wish to develop, and they are selling it at a very reasonable price. They are working with us toward a greater good, Miss?”

  “Burton. Ms. Alex Burton.”

  “Yes, Ms. Burton. From the Sentinel. Because Cromoca has agreed to sell the land at a much-reduced cost to the cities of Camden and Philadelphia, we will be able to build new sites for light manufacturing as well as for condominiums and recreational use.”

  “But this is prime real estate, sir. Why are they selling it at a reduced price?”

  “It is in the public interest,” the senator said.

  “How much in the public interest? What’s the incentive?” As Alex scribbled “cheap land?” in her notebook, the congressman stepped in.

  “It sounds a little too good to be true, but it isn’t. Cromoca owns land that we wish to buy. They have agreed to sell it, and we will develop it with federal assistance. We share a common goal, which is a stronger Camden and Philadelphia. Cromoca owns other properties in the area that they are planning to develop. If the area improves, it’s good for business.”

  “Why these properties? Where are they located? What condition are they in?”

  “They are scattered throughout the area,” Eldon James said as he stepped up to the microphone. “Several parcels are in prime locations, particularly those along the Camden waterfront.”

  “How can Cromoca afford this?”

  The congressman smiled. “Cromoca is being a responsible corporate citizen. They aren’t selling at a loss. Moreover, this venture is about bringing jobs, restoring our cities, and rebuilding infrastructure, isn’t it?”

  This made no sense. Nobody sold millions of
dollars’ worth of land at a very reduced cost just to be a good corporate citizen. Even if they weren’t selling at a loss and even if they were developing land nearby, Cromoca wasn’t making much profit. Certainly tax breaks were involved, but even so, it didn’t add up, not for the amount of property involved. Something was amiss.

  “Could you be more specific about where the properties located?” Alex called.

  “You’ll be getting a list at a later date,” Congressman Crossman said.

  Alex rocked back on her heels. The congressman reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t quite think of whom. He dressed well. He and the senator could have had a dress-off. Those were two high-profiling show ponies.

  She started to follow up, but someone from the Business Journal cut her off, and after that nobody would acknowledge her. Why would they? The business press was lobbing softballs.

  When she got back to her cubicle, she started to put together her piece, but something nagged her. Cromoca Partners LLP. That seemed odd. She was about to put it aside for later, but instead she walked over to Steve Chen’s cubicle. The business reporter was still laboring away at some piece about rising interest rates and consumer confidence.

  “Steve? I need a favor.”

  He glanced up and grinned. “I knew this day would come.”

  She rolled her eyes. He was cute behind his nerd glasses, but ten years too young. “Please. I was down at a press conference with the mayor and some other luminaries—”

  “The big Philly–Camden initiative?”

  “That’s the one.” She appreciated a guy who kept up on current events. “A name came up. Cromoca Partners LLP. You ever hear of them?”

  He frowned. “Cromoca. Cromoca. Oh, yeah. Been buying up land in Camden and South Jersey.”

  “They’re now selling properties cheap for that new business initiative. Real cheap.”

  “Did they say where?”

  “No, but what would be the incentive?”

  Steve frowned. “Well, tax breaks for one. Cromoca might be selling property in return for a cheap long-term lease.”