One by One Page 8

  Danny figured the same kinds of groups got together in LA. Special parties for special clients. High-class escorts, dubious actresses. Anything to please a client who paid. He said, “Escorts and drugs?”

  “Yeah. No doubt, but that wasn’t my scene.”

  “Did you ever get a text with Bible quotes?”

  “Hell no. But some of them others did.” Smokes held up his hands as if he were warding off evil spirits. Of course he knew about the texts. It made sense. Greg would have talked to him. “I never got a text. Swear to God. But Babs did. It worried Greg. He was afraid they was bein’ targeted, but then he found out that other folks was gettin’ them, too.”

  “Targeted by whom?”

  “Don’t know. Greg never did say.”

  Smokes leaned forward, staring into Danny’s eyes, and for that moment, he seemed more alert than he had the entire visit. “Greg threw kinky parties, but they were for clients, and it was business.”

  Greg was providing a service for clients who could pay. Jesus. Why did that sound familiar? Except these appeared to be consenting adults. Greg was in the vice business, but his clients could afford it. Unless the women were being forced to have sex, where were the victims? Except these parties were happening in New Jersey, not Nevada, and who knew for sure whether the women were consenting or not.

  “You’re sure about the women?” Danny asked.

  “I’m sure they weren’t being forced. They were getting paid good, and I’ll let you in on a little secret. Some of them weren’t even shes, but that was okay, too.”

  Greg apparently catered to a wide range of tastes. “No kids?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Mos def.”

  “Greg never hosted a reunion, did he?”

  Smokes shook his head. “Sometimes informal shit. Like he an’ Rick and Nate and some others. I was playin’ back then. I don’t think he had anything more recent. I’d have heard. Someone would’ve posted it somewhere.”

  Smokes was right. Someone would have posted photos. There were none on Greg’s Facebook page, none on Barb’s. Maybe this had less to do with high school and more to do with one of Greg’s parties, but if that was true, why the hell was Danny getting texts?

  “Hey, Smokes? Were you at Greg’s house for senior week?”

  Smokes laughed. “No way, man. I had to be in Mississippi for a special get-to-know-you program. My life was football.”

  “You were a talented guy,” Danny said. He meant to add, “and lucky.” He wasn’t sure Smokes would agree with that, but not going to the party might explain why no one was texting him. “Was Quintel Marshall there?”

  “No. He enlisted right after school, and I mean right after.”

  “So of the Awesome Eleven, who’d have been at the senior week party?”

  “Just Ricky, Chris, and Nate. Oh, and the water boy. That goofy motherfucker. Stan. The juniors wouldn’t have been invited.”

  “How about Sherman Goode? He was one of the Awesome Eleven and a senior.”

  “Yeah, but he was a squirrel. He lit out for LA, man. Said he was gonna be a star. Who the fuck knows what happened to him? He probably got shot along the way.” Smokes rubbed his head as if he were trying to extract memories from some deeply buried vault. “Y’know, it’s weird. If it’s got to do with high school, why’s it happening now? Don’t make sense.”

  “Maybe whoever’s doing it was away.”

  Smokes sat up straight and shook his head. “Hell, yeah. I shoulda thought of that. You oughta look at Frank Greer, man. Greg told me. He did something like seven or eight years in the slam. Hard time for drugs, I think. He got out something like five years ago.”

  Danny nodded. “That would explain some of the time, but what was he doing before he went away? The timeline doesn’t quite match up.”

  Smokes finished his Stoli and shrugged. “Man, who says he’s workin’ alone?”

  16

  Barb Capozzi’s staff had arrived at the Academy of Natural Sciences, and they were setting up for the book signing when she entered. She liked the purple-and-blue-tinged ambiance of Dinosaur Hall, with the huge Tyrannosaurus Rex dominating the room. She’d chosen purple linen tablecloths for the occasion—an excellent decision. It was the small touches that made a difference.

  These creative types always wanted to have fancy receptions and seldom had the bucks to do it right. Barb liked arranging corporate events where the budgets were big and the venues were first class. She got plenty of nice perks out of those gigs, even if CEO Clarence or Executive Edward grabbed her ass. So what? It was all part of the job. Those fools tipped well, and all those big tips went right into her portfolio.

  Now that Greg was gone, she couldn’t count on making that lucrative side money unless she heard from his partner, and so far, she hadn’t. She expected he’d already hooked up with a new front man, which was a shame, but Barb could handle it. Her business was good, better than good, and she’d taken Greg’s advice: don’t live large, hide your money offshore, and be patient.

  Greg was right about the real estate license, too. It was important. Her mother couldn’t carry on forever, and soon Barb would get her share of the family business. More than her share, if she played it right.

  Barb still lived in South Philly, but not for long. In a year, two at the most, she’d be completely secure. Her business was humming, and she could hire another assistant. Then she’d have some time to take off. She had a killer bod that she maintained with religious fervor. Maybe she’d travel a little. She’d definitely buy herself a new place to live. Greg always warned her about showing too much wealth, but she had her heart set on a sweet little house off Rittenhouse Square. She’d earned it.

  “You look like a twenty-something,” everyone always told her.

  Barb knew that wasn’t true. She’d lost that fresh bloom of youth, but she was a hell of a lot smarter than when she was twenty.

  “Hey!” She waved at a woman in a frumpy blue suit. “Nancy. Where are you setting up the bars? I told you we need one on each side.”

  Nancy Aikens, the liaison from the museum, paused. “Oh, Barb. You’re here.” She clutched her clipboard. “Mr. Geiger wanted to set up closer to the door.”

  “Well, he’s not in charge,” Barb said. “I am. He’s just the writer. I’ve got the floor plan. If we set it up his way, we’ll have a huge line of people trying to get to get to the books and then the line for him to sign the damn things. I’ve brought in extra people to help your staff.”

  “But we don’t—”

  “It’s all right, Nancy. The museum will get be compensated as agreed. But if we have a table in the lobby, your gift shop won’t be swamped—plus less opportunity for theft and breakage, right? Don’t worry, I already cleared it with your boss.”

  Barb produced the appropriate paper and smiled, enjoying the look of confused annoyance on the older woman’s face. It was good to establish dominance early. She placed her slim black leather bag against the wall behind the bar where it wouldn’t be noticed.

  “Let’s get moving, shall we?” Barb said.

  *

  Barb paced the floor, Diet Coke in hand, and watched the crowd. So far everything was flowing. Ron Geiger had arrived on time and meandered through the guests, chatting and shaking hands. A slightly built guy with a full head of silver hair, he’d been a Philadelphia political reporter. Barb supposed that’s what his book was about. She didn’t care about politics. It was all the same blather.

  But she recognized some of the people in attendance. There were a couple of style reporters she’d seen at some of the corporate bashes she’d organized. There was an attractive black woman with her husband. She looked familiar, and Barb would have killed for her gorgeous honey-colored skin. The husband looked like an athlete: tall, slim, and muscular with close-cropped hair and intelligent eyes.

  Barb clutched her glass. She’d thought Danny Ryan might be here. It was odd that he’d popped
back into her life again. Well, not so weird, all things considered. She wished now that she’d told him she’d gotten more than one text. She would. It would be a good reason to call him.

  He’d aged nicely. Hadn’t packed on the pounds or lost his hair. He dressed well. At dinner he’d worn a white button-down with black jeans and a blazer, but Barb knew designer when she saw it. Danny Ryan always had been a little too much of a smartass for her in high school, but Barb didn’t hold grudges—not against attractive men, especially if they had money.

  Maybe it was just as well he hadn’t come. Barb didn’t like to mix with the clients. Not very professional. Her job was to make sure everything ran smoothly. She tapped her bright-red nails on the empty glass. She hated these book signings. The food was usually on the lower end of the scale, but she’d thrown in some extra tonight because Mrs. Geiger had been so pleasant and easy. Plus, reporters were friends with other reporters. Barb figured someone from the style section might show up. Maybe she’d give the business a promo.

  “Another Diet Coke?”

  Barb handed off her glass to the waiter and took the second drink. She gulped the soda and shuddered. A lime floated in the liquid. She hated limes. Why did bartenders throw random pieces of fruit into drinks? She always insisted that her waiters ask before foisting fruit on the unsuspecting consumers of diet soda. This waiter should have known that, and she turned to go after him.

  “This is going very well, don’t you think?” Nancy Aikens appeared at her elbow, her plain, pinched face contorted in a smile.

  “It’s going very well,” Barb said.

  “The spread is lovely. That style reporter took one of your brochures.”

  “Did she?” Barb smiled as if she expected no less, but she wanted to jump up and down. Maybe she’d casually wander over toward the reporters. “I think we have a few more people than we anticipated.”

  “It is very lively.” Two red spots appeared on Nancy’s cheeks. “I had to chase a couple out from our North American exhibit. Can you imagine? I don’t know how they got in.”

  Barb started to laugh. A little sex on the prairie. A cough welled up in her chest, and she couldn’t get the words out. She couldn’t get anything out. Or in. She stumbled toward the lobby where the bright lights burned her eyeballs.

  “Barbara!”

  The glass slipped from her hand and shattered as she clawed at her chest and tore at her throat. Air. She couldn’t breathe. God almighty. She fell to her knees. A great polar bear stared down at her. Voices swirled around.

  “We need a doctor!”

  “Somebody call nine-one-one!”

  “Help us, she’s turning blue! She can’t breathe.”

  “Does anyone have an EpiPen? Please!”

  Don’t let me die. Don’t let me die. Don’t—

  17

  The nightmare of Barb Capozzi ran like a horror film on an endless loop in Alex’s mind.

  She’d watched Sam push through the crowd and call out for an EpiPen. Someone had offered him one, but Barb was in such horrible shape, he’d been forced to perform an emergency tracheotomy to open her airway. By the time the EMTs had arrived they were able to hook her up to oxygen, but Barb was barely breathing.

  “Severe anaphylaxis,” Sam had said. “She must have consumed something that triggered the reaction.”

  The EMTs had started an IV and wheeled her out.

  The police had collected the shards of Barb’s broken drinking glass and conducted brief interviews, but for now, her anaphylaxis was being treated as an accident.

  Alex watched them rush her out. Barb wasn’t dead, but it didn’t look good. It was a weird coincidence that she had dated Greg Moss back in the day, but all the cops could do was wait for the toxicology reports, gather the security footage, and hope that Barb’s brain wasn’t fried.

  Sam shook his head at that. “I trached her,” he said as they waited for the police to finish up. “But she was cyanotic, already in respiratory failure. By the time the EMTs arrived, she barely had a pulse. Under those conditions . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Sam was a damn good trauma surgeon. He knew his percentages. If he believed Barb was doomed, her odds of survival just shrank from bad to negligible. Still, Barb seemed like a fighter. Alex wanted to believe that she had a chance.

  Danny had said she’d been one of the popular girls in high school. Greg’s girl. They’d been a golden couple. This afternoon, she’d seemed quietly competent; not trying to interfere with the guests, just overseeing the flow.

  “Did she say anything?” Alex asked Sam.

  “She couldn’t breathe, Alex. I was able to get her airway open, and I asked them to take her to Penn. I’ll follow up with them.” He watched her for a moment and sighed. “Okay. I see where this is headed. Drop me off at the ER. I’ll take the train home tomorrow.”

  Alex hugged him. “You know I love you.”

  “Because I don’t say no to you.”

  “That is part of your charm.” She hugged him again. “You come around tomorrow night, and I’ll show you how much I love you.”

  “Oh, Alex. Tomorrow, there’ll be something else.” He shook his head before going over to talk to yet another police officer, and she absorbed the sting for a moment. It wasn’t bad, just a little one.

  Alex scanned the room. People were still milling around as the police tried to get a sense of what happened. Alex walked over to the bar. A guy who looked like he’d escaped from a Latin boy band blinked his sad dark eyes at her. A waiter or server of some kind.

  “Hey,” Alex said. “Weird night, huh?”

  “I don’t know what happened. One minute she was talking and then she hit the floor.”

  “Did you make her a drink?”

  “Miss Barb never drank liquor when she worked. She only ever had Diet Coke.”

  “Did you give her a Diet Coke?”

  “When we first got here, yeah.” His eyes filled with tears. “But she had a fresh one. I didn’t pour it for her. At least, she didn’t ask me for one. The bars were crowded.”

  “You mean she didn’t come to the bar for a drink.”

  “No, but when she . . . when she passed out, her glass was at least half full. I heard the museum lady say she had a drink.”

  “And you didn’t give it to her.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe she ate something.”

  He gave a little bark of laughter. “Miss Barb doesn’t eat. Especially not at these parties. She calls them cheezers.”

  “Cheezers?”

  “Yeah, she says they’re cheesy and cheap, and the clients are usually slow payers. But if the client is nice or extra easy, Miss Barb throws in extra. Like she threw in extra fruit tonight and some fancier hors d’oeuvres ’cause the client and his wife were real nice, plus they paid everything up front.”

  Alex nodded. Barb Capozzi appeared to run an organized and efficient business.

  “Miss Barb wouldn’t eat anyway. Not on a client’s dime,” he added.

  “She’s particular, huh?”

  “She always keeps watch at parties. That’s why she doesn’t eat. She really watches the staff, makes sure no one makes off with the shrimp or anything, ’cause the client paid for the food. But she’s really good about tipping. Like she’s strict, but it’s okay ’cause we get paid good.”

  “So she’s a good boss. No one has a beef with her.”

  “No. Most of us been with her for a while.”

  “Thanks. What’s your name?” The waiter hesitated, so Alex brightened her smile. “Come on, I don’t bite. I’ll give you my card. Call me if you think of something.”

  “Carlos.”

  “Just Carlos?”

  “For now.”

  “Okay.” Alex handed him her card. “If you think of anything, give me a call, Carlos. Your boss seems like an okay lady. It’s a real shame this happened.”

  “She’s a good person. She has to be tough, but she’s a nice person underneath.
She says she has a lot to make up for.”

  “What do you think she means by that?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s a good lady. We all like her.”

  Alex nodded. She looked around. The police were talking to other members of the staff. “Did you pour a Diet Coke for anyone else?”

  “All night. Like I wasn’t the main bartender. I was mostly pouring soda. There were two bars and two bartenders for each bar, you know.”

  “I know. But she was standing closest to yours. Did you pour any Diet Cokes near the time she passed out?”

  “I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”

  He was fidgeting. If he had poured one, he wasn’t going to tell her. Not now. The cops had one of the other bartenders and were questioning him. She wanted to get closer, but every reporter in the room was trying to get in on that conversation. The cops eventually walked the bartender from the room into an office. A second set of officers came to claim Carlos and lead him to the gift shop.

  When he moved out from behind the bar, she noticed a woman’s black bag with the initials BC stamped in gold sitting on the floor. Alex glanced around before she sauntered behind the bar and picked it up. She could see a cop talking to Sam and wondered whether she had time to run to the ladies’ room to examine the bag when Sam shook hands with the cop and came toward her.

  “Are you ready, Alex?”

  “Sure thing.”

  She slipped her arm through his. Were the cops going to notice? Nobody stopped them as they walked through the doors. It was still sunny and warm out, though purple clouds were starting to fill the sky. Alex walked down the steps, her heart throbbing. She opened the purse and pulled out the wallet inside to examine the ID—just to be sure.

  “Sam, we need to go to the hospital,” she said once they had reached the car.

  “Are you all right?”

  She held up the rectangular black leather purse. Its gold handles glinted in the setting sun. “Barb’s bag.”

  “Oh, Alex. You stole her bag? What were you thinking? We need to return it at once.”