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  “Why would they do that?”

  “The property might be attached to a larger parcel of federal or state land. It might become part of a larger project. Who knows? Also, I don’t know what properties are being sold so I don’t know what, if any, environmental impact studies have been completed.” He looked at her. “You need to find out where these properties are.”

  “Could properties be sold without environmental impact studies?”

  He nodded. “They could. Probably not all the properties, because it would raise too many red flags, but they might sneak in some. They use an ‘As Is, Where Is’ clause. Say you have a property that might have some problem—maybe PCB contamination—you sell it and set a fast-closing date with an ‘As Is, Where Is’ clause, which means the people you sell it to buy the property as it is without doing any due diligence and hope for the best. They might get a great piece of land, or they might get a boatload of PCBs.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  He shrugged. “The owner can claim ignorance. If you get caught, you’re screwed, but otherwise? It’s buyer beware.”

  “So we don’t know if Cromoca is planning on selling questionable property to the city.”

  “They probably won’t attempt to do it in Philly. There are just too many rules and regulations. But in Camden? It’s a poor city with a majority African American population. Therefore . . .”

  “Therefore, nobody gives a shit.” Alex sighed. “If you were a realtor, you’d be able to scope out property easily.”

  “Especially property that looked good on the surface, but you’d have to be careful. As a realtor, you have to disclose everything you know about the property you’re selling, or you’re liable.”

  Alex nodded when the magnitude of the Camden–Philly initiative hit her. In a huge project, it would be possible to hide questionable properties for a while given the pace of government. “That’s the thing, Steve. You have to disclose everything if you know. What if you claim to know nothing?”

  “It’s tricky. You might get away with it, or you could get in a lot of trouble. Depends on who you sold to.”

  Alex let his words sink in.

  “Depending on who you sold to, you could get dead.”

  36

  Kevin was already seated at a window table at the Famous Fourth Street Deli when he saw Ted Eliot turn onto Bainbridge and find a parking spot at the end of the block. Kevin had chosen the place because it was a popular eatery among tourists and those who enjoyed giant sandwiches filled with pastrami or turkey or ham so huge you’d have to unhinge your jaw like a snake to take a bite. That guaranteed it would be crowded.

  Danny had introduced him to Famous Deli. It was a political hangout on election day, but Kevin didn’t care about that. Let Danny socialize with the politicians and their egos. He lived in the real world and dealt with the sad problems that entailed. Kevin eyed the pastrami on rye that a waiter plopped down at the next table and decided that would be his lunch. Fuck the diet.

  Kevin turned back to the window. Eliot had come alone as far as Kevin could tell. He strolled toward the restaurant with his hands in his pockets, trying to appear nonchalant, but Kevin knew that behind those mirrored shades, Eliot was scoping out the area. That’s what you did when you were entering unfriendly territory. He watched Eliot make his way past the takeout aisle and move toward the back of the restaurant. A waiter led him to the table.

  “Detective Ryan,” Eliot said.

  Kevin looked up. “Detective. Have a seat.”

  “I only came today because I felt like I owed you an explanation.”

  “Oh?” Kevin almost smiled. This promised to be interesting. “Would it have anything to do with the late Greg Moss?”

  “It would.”

  “Is there any reason you didn’t say anything at the beginning of this investigation?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you might have information that would be useful to solving Greg Moss’s goddamn murder.”

  Eliot made a sour face, and they both paused to order coffee and sandwiches when the waiter reappeared. Kevin ordered his pastrami while Eliot went for the turkey breast.

  “I knew Greg. I didn’t say anything because it didn’t seem to be relevant.”

  “It didn’t seem to be relevant?” Kevin held up his hand. “Don’t tell me everyone knew Greg Moss, because I’ll call bullshit on you. Tell me what’s really going on. You dress like you stepped out of some New York showroom. You got on a real expensive watch I had to look up. Those shoes of yours are handmade Italian jobs. What the fuck are you doing playin’ police?”

  “I’m not playing at anything. I became a cop because of my father.”

  “Your father was a cop?”

  Eliot shook his head. “My father is Congressman George Crossman.”

  “Jesus Christ. Are you kidding?” Even Kevin had heard of George Crossman, the majority whip. Was this going to turn out to be another one of those kinky sex cases after all? Danny sure could pick ’em. “What’s with the name?”

  “I took my mom’s maiden name after the divorce. She went back to New York to get on with her causes.”

  “So why aren’t you using your family connections to do something more lucrative than police work?”

  “Yeah, I often ask myself that. I could have. I won’t bore you with my good intentions, but it just didn’t work out.”

  Kevin digested that information as the waiter set down two cups of coffee. It didn’t compute. Here was a guy who had everything. Money, looks, connections, and he chose to become a cop. Who did that kind of thing?

  “I don’t understand. How you go from being you to being a Camden cop?”

  Eliot gave him a bitter smile and held up his hands in a weary gesture. Kevin had often seen Danny use the same gesture. It was somewhere between a shrug and a dismissal, as if he was tired of trying to contemplate the answer, or maybe for him, there was no answer. Whatever had driven Ted Eliot away from his father and into the Camden PD wasn’t something he cared to discuss, which made it very, very personal indeed.

  “Why don’t you ask something relevant?” Eliot said.

  “Okay. How did you meet Greg?”

  Eliot poured some cream into his cup and stirred. Delaying. Kevin watched patiently. At this point, it was important not to jump on this guy. Let him feel comfortable. Kevin could almost see the weight pressing down on Eliot.

  “I needed a house. Greg was recommended. It wasn’t anything big or secret. He knew who I was. Knew I wouldn’t have trouble getting a mortgage, that sort of thing. He used to throw parties for privileged clients.”

  “So he knew you were a cop?”

  Eliot looked out of the window. “Yeah. And he knew who my parents were.”

  Kevin nodded. Eliot had more to say, and Kevin didn’t want to let on that he was fishing here. “So did he ask you for favors?”

  “I’m not like my father, okay? King of the Hill? Master of Favors? Or my brother and sister, for that matter. I was a cop, but a good one, you know? I took it seriously. Doesn’t get more serious than Camden. Then I got hurt on the job. Screwed up my back—I won’t bore you with the details.”

  Kevin was trying to work out what Eliot wasn’t saying. He knew how his story ended. It was a quick slide from popping one oxy to numb the pain to gulping five or six or ten a day. Once you couldn’t get enough pills, where did you go? Kevin didn’t want to hear the story of Eliot’s sad life. He had enough sad stories of his own. He just needed to know what was relevant.

  “So you developed a habit?”

  “I was in pain,” Eliot said. “I fell down a flight of steps and cracked a vertebra in my back. The doctors thought it was just a herniated disc. You know, rest for a few days and it’ll get better. And it kind of did. But then I really screwed it up it chasing a perp.”

  “So you were taking pills?”

  “It was the only way to manage the pain, but the pills weren’t enough. I . . . I just .
. . it got bad. Greg said he could help. I don’t even remember how it all happened. I just ran into him, and he was like, ‘You look awful. What’s the matter?’ And I ended up at one of his parties.”

  “And what? You started using?”

  “Not much at first. Just enough to get by, but I saw a lot of shit go down. Prostitutes, drugs. I looked the other way, yeah. Because no one was getting hurt. It was all consenting adults. I mean, I was fucked up.”

  Kevin nodded. He did understand the daily parade of horrors that slowly pulverized you. He’d looked the other way not so long ago to protect his family. It still made him sick. Against his will, he felt for Eliot. Somehow he doubted that his meeting with Greg Moss had been an accident. “So what was your drug?”

  “Heroin. Didn’t mainline. Shot up between my toes. I thought I had it under control. Just enough to keep myself, I don’t know—what’s that Pink Floyd song—‘Comfortably Numb’? That was me. It was pretty much a nightmare, but I got into a program. Got straight. My father pulled strings. It’s the only time I ever asked him for a favor. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve stayed straight since.”

  “Did you stay in contact with Greg?”

  “Just marginally. He understood. He was fine with it. He wasn’t a pusher. I guess more like a facilitator. I don’t know. He was a decent guy. He drove me to goddamn rehab.”

  “But a dealer.” A dealer who knew all about Ted Eliot’s addiction and probably had proof.

  “He wasn’t a dealer, but his partner was. Maybe more of a trafficker.”

  “You know his partner?”

  “No.”

  “This person was involved with Cromoca Partners as well?”

  “I don’t know. I only know Greg was into different things.”

  “And then he died.”

  Eliot paused and took a breath, and Kevin saw something in that pause. It shifted before he could put a name to it, but Kevin filed it away. He’d consider it later.

  “And I catch the case,” Eliot was saying. “At first I thought no big deal, but then I thought maybe your brother was investigating because he knew something about Greg and his parties. I thought maybe someone killed Greg to shut him up.”

  “But now you don’t?”

  “I never ran into any of these dead guys at any of his parties.”

  Kevin slid him a photo of Barb Capozzi. “How about her? Does she look familiar?”

  Eliot picked up the photo, his face turning pale. “Barb? She’s part of this? I know she catered the parties. She was Greg’s ex.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Let’s just say she was good at recruiting.”

  “She brought in the girls.”

  Eliot shrugged. “Barb was one of those people who had connections. She and Greg both. She just knew how to bring people together. Get clients what they wanted.”

  “They were dealing a lot of dope?”

  “Not exactly dealing, but if Greg was closing a deal with a major developer, he might spring for a casino weekend and top it off with a party at his shore house in Wildwood. Greg didn’t live large on paper. He was careful, but he had money. A lot of money. Most of his property was tied up in LLPs and holding companies that were in offshore accounts.”

  “So Greg the Saint wasn’t such a saint.”

  “Greg was a genuinely nice guy, but he was a player. I’m sure of that.”

  “And Barb?”

  “I don’t know.” Eliot shook his head. “Barb catered parties, but she wasn’t a dealer. She didn’t have anything to do with the drugs. No, Greg had a partner. They went way back.”

  “Back as far as high school?”

  “At least.”

  “But you don’t have a clue who he is? He never made an appearance?”

  “If he did, Greg never introduced us. But whoever he is, he’s big time.”

  “If this got out, you could be in a world of hurt,” Kevin said.

  “In the larger scheme, that doesn’t really matter, does it?” Eliot gave him a tired smile. “If this guy is a high school buddy, your brother may be the only person who can ID him.”

  37

  The morning was barely over, and the day had already turned surreal. Danny couldn’t get the image of Michelle out of his mind. Whoever had killed her wanted to make sure that Danny always remembered her as a victim. That creep had stalked her online and harassed her.

  There was a certain petty vindictiveness to it that reminded him of high school bullies and their chosen prey. The relentless taunting. The pack mentality that led tormentors to swoop in on their victims like rabid animals and tear them apart, emotionally, if not physically.

  For Valentine’s Day, Jenna had given him a copy of her opus, Jenny’s First Love, which she’d signed and bound in a red cover. When she’d handed it to him in the middle of the cafeteria and kissed him to the jeers of Frank Greer and his band of cohorts, Danny had stood, unable to move. He’d spent high school trying to fly under the radar only to have Jenna shine a bright spotlight on him. But he’d pulled on his armor.

  He took Jenny’s First Love to his lunch table and read passages aloud in a breathless voice that sent his friends into spasms of laughter. It was only after lunch when he saw Jenna in the hall that the weight of his own cruelty smacked him.

  “I think you should give this to someone who deserves it,” he’d said, holding the book out to her. He didn’t want to tell her he felt like shit.

  She’d surprised him by smiling. “Oh, Danny. Aren’t you sweet! You do deserve this. I wouldn’t have written it if it weren’t for you.” She’d squeezed his arm and walked away.

  Danny had kept that damn book, though he had no idea what had happened to it. Poor Jenna. She deserved better than to die like a trapped animal in a house fire.

  Now Danny headed for the city morgue. When he’d covered the crime beat, he’d spent a fair amount of time hanging around the morgue. Bodies had never bothered him until he’d been forced to identify Beth and Conor after the accident in Chester County. Sometimes he still dreamed of Conor lying still and white on the table. Sometimes the lingering odor of formalin seemed to coat his skin and fill his nostrils until he thought he was drowning.

  He parked and took a few deep breaths, forcing air into his lungs, ignoring the shredding pain in his chest, before venturing into the building.

  Rita Perry sat waiting, perched on the edge of her seat, her eyes dry, her mouth compressed in a grim line. She gripped her purse against her lap and stared at the door leading into the main autopsy room. For the moment, her police minder seemed to have disappeared.

  “Mrs. Perry. Rita,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “They said you were with her,” Rita said. Her face was expressionless and gray.

  “She wanted to talk to me. I met her at the Ritz Carlton.”

  “Why didn’t you stay away from her?” The words hissed out like steam, burning him with their intensity.

  “I—she asked me. How could I say no?”

  He wished he could roll time backward, but that was impossible. The “if onlys” of his life had grown into a mountain of refuse. All those bright, shiny promises lay stripped and abandoned.

  Rita’s eyes filled with tears. “She was so happy. She had the perfect life.”

  Maybe Michelle had found the perfect life. She’d seemed so brittle when he’d met her, so on edge, but he understood that. She was a South Philly girl who had cast herself into the perfect Connecticut housewife and mother. She’d earned her degree from a prestigious school and had a high-achieving husband and an attractive family. The American Dream. She hadn’t wanted to jeopardize that.

  Danny knew all about that dream.

  “Rita, she called me. She was afraid.”

  Rita bent over, small strangled noises coming from her throat as she fought to hold back her tears, and Danny sat beside her. He put his arm around her, and she beat her fists against his chest until the bitter, silent tears finally came.

 
; A policewoman stepped into the room. She looked at Danny in alarm for a moment, but Danny waved her off as he held Rita and rocked her as if she were a child.

  “My baby,” Rita said. “My beautiful baby.”

  “I know.”

  “Will you take me home? That policewoman was going to, but I don’t want her. At least you knew Michelle,” she said, and he nodded.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  The policewoman came to take Rita to identify Michelle’s body. When Rita returned, her shoulders were slumped, but she had stopped crying. She twisted the tissue in her hands as if she were strangling it.

  “They cleaned her up and combed her hair, so you couldn’t see where she hit her head so much.” Rita’s lips were white, and her body trembled like she had palsy. “She looked asleep.”

  Danny put his arm around Rita’s quaking shoulders. “I’m glad.” He knew it didn’t matter what they had done to Michelle. He’d seen her lying on the floor of the bathroom. It would have taken a miracle to make her look like she was sleeping. Maybe grief allowed Rita to imagine Michelle as she had been, to reassemble her. Danny hoped so. The policewoman handed him a cup of water, and he offered it to Rita. “Let’s sit down for a minute so you can get your bearings.”

  “I don’t want to sit anymore. Not here. Not in this place. I don’t want to think about her in this place.”

  “No. I know you don’t. I’ll take you home.”

  Danny drove Rita back to South Philly and sat with her in her spotless living room. This house, just two blocks from his old home, was a shrine to Michelle.

  Her high school graduation photo sat next to Rita’s Blessed Mother statue along with Michelle’s baby shoes, which had been lovingly dipped in bronze. The flowered walls were decorated with plaster plates featuring Michelle’s handprints and a succession of photographs from birth to high school graduation. A portrait of Michelle on her wedding day with her new nose and blonder hair sat behind the blue sofa. Danny shuddered a little.

  He was surprised that Rita had bothered to keep any pictures of the two of them together, but she had kept a whole album of senior prom photographs that sat on the coffee table.