One by One
Page 1
Also available by Sarah Cain
The 8th Circle
ONE BY ONE
A DANNY RYAN MYSTERY
Sarah Cain
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Sarah Cain.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-087-7
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-68331-088-4
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-089-1
ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-68331-090-7
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-091-4
Cover design by Melanie Sun.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: March 2017
To
Howard, Alexandra, Michael, and Mary
Be sure your sin will find you out.
The Fourth Book of Moses, called Numbers, 32:23
Contents
June 1992
Present Day
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Acknowledgments
June 1992
The fireball shot up, shattering wood and splitting asphalt as it roared toward the heavens. The redbrick row house seemed to draw a breath, willing itself to retain a last moment of normality before exploding outward, glass shattering, flames bursting in streams of heat so intense that metal beams began to bend and curl. The houses on either side ignited, and the windows split apart, smoke and flames flaring out as the fire ferociously gulped oxygen.
“Jeez, what the hell was that?” Papa Joe said as he watched the flames shoot skyward. “Sounded like a bomb.”
“It does sound close.” The heavy woman in the turquoise dress paid for her groceries: a Diet Coke, a bag of Cheetos, and six packs of Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets. She glanced out the window at the people running down the street. “I’d better get home.” Collecting her change, she hurried to the door of Carlino’s Deli. “Take care, Papa Joe.”
She scuttled out the door and down the street, pushing through the crowd. Approaching sirens cut through the babbling voices of the people huddled together to watch the spectacle, and she took a minute to catch her breath when she saw the row of burning houses.
“Did ya see what happened?” a woman in a yellow sundress was saying.
“That house went boom, like a bomb hit it!” a young man in an Eagles T-shirt replied. “Jeez, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it!”
“It’s just like that other fire.”
An older man stood at the corner waving. “Step back! Step back! Those houses are gonna take the whole block with ’em.”
The fire trucks had made their way down Second Street, and the woman in the turquoise dress clutched her grocery bag in her sweating hand and ran to the end of the block. The fire captain shouted into his intercom, “Everyone, get back. Let the men do their work.”
“My baby!” The woman burst through the crowd and grabbed the fire captain, pointing to the middle house, her voice barely audible over the wail of the sirens.
The fire captain was shaking his head, and she collapsed against him.
“You don’t understand.” Her voice rose to a high-pitched keen. “My daughter’s in there. You have to save my daughter.”
News helicopters were filling the sky, and on the ground, a tall man with a Leica snapped pictures as the fire raged.
*
The fireball shot up, shattering wood and splitting asphalt as it roared toward the heavens. For a moment, the sky over South Philadelphia glowed bright gold.
In an office four blocks down and several blocks to the west, a man looked up from his site plans when the explosion rocked the ground. He poured himself a whiskey and strolled to the window as the sirens blasted through the quiet afternoon. Even from here, he could see the fire leap from roof to roof as it roared through the adjoined homes.
“Here’s to urban renewal,” he said as he watched the dark smoke rise into the sky and obliterate the light.
Present Day
1
All the old familiar faces haunted sad, forgotten places.
The thought skittered through his mind as Danny Ryan stared at the “Going Out of Business” sign on the Shamrock. The old, familiar face he was meeting belonged to Greg Moss. Danny hadn’t seen him since high school and found the sudden request for a get-together odd enough to be intriguing. They hadn’t been old pals, more like acquaintances, but Greg had been a loyal customer back in Danny’s days as a minor-league dope peddler.
He crossed the wide stretch of Oregon Avenue. A South Philly institution, the Shamrock was a neighborhood tappie, a cop bar where small celebrations took on a larger importance and sorrows were dulled, if not drowned, in a pint and rowdy camaraderie. It had been his father’s refuge after a long shift, Detective Tommy Ryan’s favorite place to tie one on before he came home to break a few teeth, if not bones.
A crooked yellow sign nailed to the side of the building announced that the Shamrock was the future home of Exxotic Eats, one of those restaurants that served up deep-fried crap with a side salad and perhaps a lap dance. A local wit had added “Shit” to the bottom of the sign in black spray paint. Danny smiled and took a couple of pictures with his phone.
Change crept up on you or slammed into you like an eighteen-wheeler, but you couldn’t stop it.
Danny pushed through the door and was greeted by a blast of frigid air bathed in the aroma of stale beer. The glow of neon tinted the dim room emerald, and the silent television b
roadcasting ESPN cast a blue-white flicker over the bar. Photographs of dead cops lined the walls. His father. His oldest brother, Junior. Christ, there was Ollie Deacon. They’d gone to high school together. Ollie had dreamed of being a cop from the time he was three, but he’d gotten himself killed the first year on the job. Now he was a souvenir.
Some Irish dirge played loud enough to augment the gloom.
At the bar, three old men hunched over shots of whiskey with pints of Guinness beside them. They looked almost like triplets with their white short-sleeved shirts and shiny bald heads. A quartet of younger guys were shooting pool in the back, cursing and waving their bottles of Pabst. At a corner table, a great mound of a man with stubble blooming like gray moss over his triple chins slouched back with a glass of whiskey.
No sign of Greg.
“Yo, fella, how are ya?” the bartender called, his voice neither welcoming nor hostile. Tall, thin, with steel wool hair and narrow, hooded eyes, he had the stoic look of a man who’d witnessed more than his share of weird occurrences. In a cop bar, the ability to keep one’s mouth shut and listen was an excellent survival skill.
Danny recognized him. Eddie Dougherty. His father, Sean, had owned the Shamrock for as long as Danny could remember, and Eddie had tended bar since he was eighteen.
“Yo,” Danny said. “I haven’t been in here for a long time. Thought I’d come pay my respects. My dad was a regular.”
Eddie peered at him, his eyes squinting as though he was trying to get a handle on Danny’s face. “Can’t place you, fella.”
Danny stepped closer to the bar. “Last time I was here, I was ten. I sat on the bar right there.” He pointed to the space in front of the middle bald man.
“Jesus Christ. You’re Tommy Ryan’s boy.” He waved Danny closer. “Sit down and have a drink on the house.”
“No, I—” Danny started to explain his lack of drinking expertise but stopped. One last round for the Shamrock. You might never be able to go home again, but you could never escape your past. It sounded like something from a novel.
“Whatever you have on tap,” he said.
Eddie set down a mug of beer in front of him and gave Danny a pained smile. “Your old man was one of our best customers.”
“Why are you closing shop? You’re still a young guy. Business dropping off?”
Eddie shrugged. “I’m not as young as you think. Got a good offer on the place.”
“From Exxotic Eats?”
“The developer. Cromoca Partners. You ever heard of ’em? It’s like that line from The Godfather, y’know? They made me an offer.”
The door squeaked open, and Danny shifted in his seat. He would have recognized Greg Moss even if he hadn’t bothered to look him up on Facebook. In twenty years, Greg hadn’t changed much. He was the quintessential all-American quarterback. He’d put on some pounds and his features had softened, but he still had that leader-of-the-pack look about him.
“Dan Ryan. Long time, right?” Greg flashed a big shark grin, grabbed Danny’s hand, and pumped it. He waved to Eddie as if they were old friends and ordered himself a beer.
“What’s up, Greg?” Danny asked.
“I got this problem, and I thought maybe you could help.” Greg pointed to a table in the corner.
“What kind of problem?”
“This is gonna sound strange, but I think someone’s stalking me.”
“Stalking you? And what? You want me to write a story about it? Don’t you think that’s a matter for the police?” It was possible that Greg believed Danny had followed his father and brothers to the Police Academy instead of the pages of the Philadelphia Sentinel, but Danny figured Greg had taken the time to do some homework. He had arranged this reunion for a reason, and it had nothing to do with sentiment.
Greg picked up his beer, and Danny followed him to a table tucked into a corner near the glowing neon shamrock. Greg slouched down in the creaking oak chair and sighed. He drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t know that I’m ready for the police. Not yet. I been getting these text messages.”
Danny pulled out his notebook. “What kind of messages? Threatening?”
“Kind of. Yes and no.” Greg waved his hand, trying to seem dismissive. His mouth tightened, and he gripped the edge of the table. “Okay. It’s gonna sound weird. I been getting these Bible quotes. Like this one.” He pulled out his phone and squinted at it. “‘It is better to go to the house of mourning than the house of feasting.’ What the hell does that even mean?”
“I don’t know, Greg. It sounds ominous. Are they all like that?”
Greg looked around and leaned closer. “Yeah, they’re all kind of like that. Bible quotes. I’m not a preacher. I don’t read the Bible. The most recent one was this one: ‘Better is it that thou shouldest not vow, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay.’ Freaked me out.”
“When did they start?”
“I don’t know. A while ago.”
“What’s a while ago? A week? A month? A few months?”
“I don’t know. A few months. At first I thought it was some kind of prank, y’know? But now, I’m not so sure.”
“Why aren’t you so sure?”
Greg took a swig of his beer. He ran a hand through his hair and drummed his fingers on the table a few more times.
“Look, I’m a realtor, okay? I’m involved in a massive development project. Massive. It might be someone trying to fuck with me.”
“And why would that be? What the hell are you into?”
“It’s politics. A Jersey–Philly venture. That could be all this is.”
“Or?”
Greg’s face seemed to sag, and his vigorous charm deserted him. In that moment he seemed to age fifteen years. He leaned close. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
2
“You remember Ricky Farnasi?” Greg asked, and Danny tried to dredge up a face to go with the name. Ricky Farnasi played football in high school. If Danny tried hard enough, he might even remember what position.
“I remember the name, yeah.”
“He moved to Boston, but we kept in touch—until a couple years ago. Now he’s dead. Chris Soldano, the same.”
“He was getting Bible texts?”
“They’re dead. And so is Nate Pulaski. You gotta remember Nate. Huge guy. Offensive lineman. We called him Penis Head. What do they have in common?”
“Football, right? They were part of the, uh . . .”
“The Awesome Eleven. We all were.”
Greg sighed, and for a moment his face went still. Danny knew he was remembering the glory days. The Awesome Eleven—the starting offense for the Furness Eagles led by none other than Greg himself.
“So you guys were all getting these Bible quotes?”
Greg’s face hardened. “I guess. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“So is there a connection between high school and maybe your real estate deal?” Danny wondered what Greg wasn’t telling him. “Because this makes no sense. You really should talk to the cops.”
“I can’t. I mean I just wondered if—for old time’s sake—if you’d just look around. Maybe talk to your brother. Kevin’s still a cop, right? I don’t want a formal inquiry. I can’t afford that. The publicity. Just—it might not be anything connected. But it might be. Look, Danny, you were always a good guy. Would you do it?”
Danny considered for a moment. Greg and he had never been best buddies. They had no “old time’s sake” to consider, unless Greg figured that the bonds of dope ran deep.
“You know I’m a reporter, right?”
“You don’t work for the Sentinel anymore.”
“I still write freelance.”
“I’m asking for a solid. I won’t forget.”
“What the hell am I looking into? What are you involved in?”
“Like I said, I’ve got this big deal. It’s political. Lots of threads. You know how it is.” Greg’s voice insinuated that Danny enjoyed rolling in the dirt.
&nb
sp; “No, Greg. I really don’t know how it is. You haven’t told me much of anything.”
“Just ask some questions. Maybe check out what happened to Ricky and the others. I mean, maybe they were just coincidences, right?” Greg was pleading now. Like he wanted to convince himself as well as Danny.
“Just tell me a little more about this land deal.”
“I’m just—it’s a political thing. A Philly–Camden federal initiative with this group I’ve been working with. Cromoca Partners. Trying to bring new business to the area.”
Danny felt a small niggle of unease as he wrote down “Cromoca.” “They’re the same people who bought this bar.”
“Cromoca has bought some property in South Philly, yeah.”
“You make some enemies along the way?”
“It’s complicated. Danny, please. I’ll send you all the info you want. Just say you’ll look into it.”
Every instinct was telling him to walk away, but Danny nodded. “All right, Greg. I’ll ask around. I don’t know what you think I’m going to find, but I’ll ask around, and I’ll talk to Kevin.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you.” Greg stood. “I’ll send you info today, and next time you’re bored, give me a call. If you’re up for a party.” He winked.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Danny said. He didn’t think he was up for one of Greg’s parties, though he suspected that’s where the story might be. He shook hands.
Danny watched Greg head out the door, brushing past a young guy in an Eagles hoodie who was sauntering into the bar. When Eddie nodded and asked for ID, the guy glanced at Danny and gave him a conspiratorial smirk.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and Danny looked away.
3
When he walked through his kitchen door, Kevin Ryan hadn’t expected to find his brother Danny seated at his table, chatting away with Jean. Then again, he should have known when he saw the black BMW parked at the far end of the cul-de-sac. He was sweating and tired and feeling every one of his forty-four years, but he should have been paying attention.
“Jesus Christ,” Kevin said. “Where did you come from?”