One by One

by Sarah Cain

  “Except you might have been his dealer.”

  That was a fast leap. Danny rocked back in his chair. So that was what Eliot had been doing when he ran to get coffee. It hadn’t taken long for the cops to make the connection to the good old days. Why would it? He’d written about his adventures in drug dealing.

  Danny’d been an idiot. He’d sold weed and pills in high school, though he’d never thought of himself as a dealer—more like a friendly supplier. His father hadn’t seen it quite that way.

  “I was never charged with dealing. I spent one night in a juvenile facility and was released.”

  “Because of your father.”

  “I was put in because of my father. Just because my father was a cop doesn’t mean he ever went easy on me.” That was the understatement of the year. Danny maintained eye contact with Eliot. This guy had done his research, but Danny wasn’t about to give him family history.

  “I think we both know your father got those charges dropped. Your sister, Theresa, was involved with Vic Ceriano, a known trafficker. You must have been aware of that. He did time for the distribution of marijuana and cocaine.”

  Danny almost smiled. He was more than aware of Vic Ceriano’s reputation. Vic had been his supplier. He expected the detective already knew that. Danny said, “I understand marijuana’s legal in a lot of states now.”

  “So it is. But marijuana and cocaine are still illegal in New Jersey. You’ve led an interesting life, Mr. Ryan.”

  Danny remained silent. What was coming next? A family history? A review of his marriage to Beth? A discussion of the accident that killed her and Conor? A snake of anger began to coil inside him, and he forced himself to breathe slowly.

  “Can you account for your time between, say, Wednesday and this afternoon?” asked the detective.

  “I spent Wednesday evening at my brother’s house celebrating my nephew’s birthday. Like I said, my brother’s a Philly detective. His name is Kevin Ryan, but I’m sure you know that already.” Danny kept his voice even and pleasant. He wasn’t sure if he was a suspect or only a tiny thread for the detective to grasp. Maybe Eliot thought he’d break down and confess to a murder he hadn’t committed. But this whole interrogation had grown tiresome. Danny leaned back in his chair and shoved his hands in his pockets. He was tired of playing.

  Eliot nodded. “Okay, Mr. Ryan. We won’t be much longer. Just a few more details to check out.”

  “Do I get to make a phone call?”

  “Certainly. You aren’t a suspect.”

  I feel like a suspect. Danny was glad he hadn’t mentioned the anonymous texts he’d been receiving. Better to discuss those with Kevin.

  “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Eliot said and left the room.

  Danny put his feet up on the table as if he were relaxed. If the cops were watching, let them get a good look. He had nothing to hide. He could sit on this hard chair as long as it took. The Ryans were a stubborn bunch if nothing else. He closed his eyes and laced his fingers behind his head.

  8

  It was after eight before Eliot let them go. He’d agreed to release them after Danny had placed a discreet call to his brother.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Kevin had said. “Jesus Christ. I really don’t need this crap. I’m about to walk into a crime scene.”

  “I’m sorry, Kev. Your secretary didn’t give me your schedule. I’d call my lawyer, but I thought that would look like I had something to hide. I’m here in Bellmawr with Alex, and I just want to get home.”

  “Alex Burton? Jesus. You all hate cops till ya need one.”

  “Okay. Just forget it. I’ll call Sam Goldsmith. His firm has a branch in Jersey.”

  Kevin had given a pained sigh. He took his time, or maybe the Jersey cops took their time, but eventually Danny and Alex were driving home.

  They’d switched from Top 40 to jazz on WRTI, and Alex leaned against the window as they headed back over the Walt Whitman Bridge, her brow wrinkled in a small frown. Twilight painted the city soft purple, and Danny could see South Philly stretching out before him. His old neighborhood didn’t bring on any pangs of nostalgia.

  “You get into some weird situations, Ryan,” Alex said at last.

  “I hope Sam won’t be pissed at you.”

  “He’s been getting home late all week. I think I’ll skip telling him about this episode for as long as I can.”

  Danny nodded. Greg Moss had been dead about eighteen hours when they had arrived on the scene, according to the preliminary reports. That was as much additional information as the detective was willing to share. Danny had asked Kevin to find out what he could, but Kevin hadn’t agreed to anything beyond the phone call.

  Eliot said he considered Alex and Danny persons of interest, but he had no reason to suspect them of anything.

  “It’s just peculiar,” Alex said. “Don’t you think it’s a little obvious? Greg gets Bible texts. Now you get weird texts. Who would do that? What’s the connection?”

  Danny gripped the wheel a little tighter. “Someone wanted my attention?”

  “Or someone wants to tie you to Greg Moss?”

  “Yes.” He tapped on the steering wheel. “Maybe. Except that seems ridiculous. I spoke to him Wednesday—yesterday. We found him around two today. The ME got to him around four. The ME thinks he was killed Wednesday night. I had an alibi for last night.”

  “Not all of Wednesday night. You didn’t spend the night at Kevin’s.”

  “Okay. But the cops could check the videos on either the Ben Franklin or Walt Whitman Bridge. They could check my E-ZPass.”

  “If you’d really wanted to get Greg, you could have taken another bridge and not used your E-ZPass.”

  “But I have no motive.”

  She sighed and twisted her head back and forth as if trying to relax. “That is a problem.”

  “And what was the point of sending me those texts at all?”

  “I don’t know. It’s weird.” She looked out the window as they crossed into Philadelphia. “I don’t know about Ted Eliot, but his partner gave me the creeps.”

  “All cops give you the creeps.”

  She shrugged. “Kevin doesn’t. I mean I know he thinks I’m a bitch and all, but he’s straightforward.”

  Danny concentrated on driving. The expressway was clear, and he headed down toward the I-95 bridge. “How was the cop weird?”

  “A lot of it was about how well I know you. Were we involved? What were we doing before we came over today? Were we together last night? That kind of thing.” She let her fingers brush against the lightsaber charm dangling from his rearview mirror. “I just have the feeling they found something in that house because that cop kept asking about Wednesday night.”

  “It isn’t what they found. It’s what they didn’t find. Greg’s cell phone is missing.”

  “Well, excuse me. Mr. Policeman didn’t mention that to me.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They were fishing because they don’t have anything. You wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t dragged you along. It’s over. Can we put it behind us?”

  “I guess we have to.”

  He hated the way she wouldn’t look at him. He should have come alone today. He should have known something would go wrong. “Didn’t you ever meet Officer Friendly when you were a kid?”

  “Officer Friendly?”

  “You know, Officer Friendly comes around to your school and tells you how cops are your friends and how you should be happy to see cops in your neighborhood.”

  “Officer Friendly shot my cousin Delroy.” She scrunched down in the seat, arms folded, and he sighed. She looked like a kid trying to enclose herself in a shell.

  “You don’t have a cousin Delroy.”

  “I know.”

  He cut across two lanes of traffic and parked on the shoulder of 95 South. By now, the sky had gone dark purple and the city glowed pink and yellow. Planes rose from Philadelphia International, their red-and-white
lights flickering.

  “Hey.” He put his hands on her shoulders, and he saw the gleam of tears she blinked back. “I’m sorry, Alex. I’m so sorry.”

  “No. It’s okay. I’m fine now.” She was trembling, and she let him pull her against him, the emergency brake uncomfortably between them. Cars zipped past, and the heavy, humid Philadelphia air weighed down on them. But he closed his eyes and blocked it all out. She smelled of coffee and jasmine, and he knew as sure as the sun rose in the east that Alex Burton wouldn’t cry in front of anyone until he felt her body shaking against his.

  “I’m sorry.” Somehow he always managed to hurt the people he cared for the most.

  “Can we just sit here a few minutes?” Her voice was muffled against his shoulder.

  He stroked her hair and ignored the console digging into his ribs. “We can sit here all night,” he said.

  9

  Danny couldn’t sleep. Rain thundered onto the roof, trickling down the windows. Something, a tree branch or a loose shutter, banged against the side of the house. He’d done a great deal of work here, but the place always needed something. Maybe the “it” Mr. Rebus had left tucked away was a card reading, “Gotcha, Sucker!”

  When they’d gotten back to his house, they had picked at the chicken and salad Alex had brought earlier, and then she’d gone home looking more than a little haggard. He’d gone online to revisit the article “Emergency Call Goes Wrong: Philly Surgeon and Wife Get Bad Medicine at Miami International.”

  It’d happened a few years ago. A guy had keeled over in the men’s restroom in front of Sam, who’d tried to revive him. The cops thought Sam had attacked the cardiac victim after a citizen told them a black guy was mugging someone in the men’s room. Sam had remained calm. Alex hadn’t. At least they hadn’t been shot, but she’d taken a public flogging for it. “Uppity” was the word used in a number of articles. The talk radio hosts had been less charitable.

  Danny hadn’t thought about the incident when he’d invited her to go with him today, because Alex never would discuss it, and anyone who brought it up received her patented ferocious glare. NPR had wanted to interview both Sam and her, but they had declined.

  Danny hadn’t been there for her. It had happened in the foggy time after Beth and Conor’s accident, and he hadn’t been able to see past his own pain. What a miserable specimen he’d been.

  He’d stared at the photograph of Alex frozen in black and white—face defiant, her slender arms bent backward by a burly white cop—until points of light had begun to dance around in front of him.

  Kevin always said, “We’re not all like that.”

  Danny knew Kevin never would have burst into a men’s room and assumed that the black man in a polo shirt and khakis administering CPR to an overweight white man lying prone on the floor was a mugger. He also knew his father had a shoot-first-and-regret-it-later policy when it came to “the goddamn apes.”

  When you dealt with urban crime, you saw a lot that made you doubt basic humanity. It tended to beat your compassion to a twitching pulp. Tommy Ryan’s compassion for most people dried up the day he buried his wife and took up drinking as a competitive sport.

  Danny swallowed a pill from a little foil packet. No more needles for the most part. Now he had little stacks of foil packets and a bottle of Valium to induce sleep when the migraines came. He reserved the heavy-duty painkillers for nights when pain sliced his head in two like a melon, and evil gremlins smashed at the pulpy insides with spiked clubs. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. Maybe he’d forget holding Alex on the side of the road. At the moment, it didn’t seem likely.

  Lightening cracked, followed by a great boom of thunder, and the house seemed to shudder. Danny almost thought he heard something near the front door. The mail slot protesting? Maybe it was a shutter creaking. He stood to look out his window in time to see a branch from one of the oak trees on the side of the house break free and crash to the pavement.

  He wandered back to bed and picked up the long piece of polished jet sitting on his nightstand. Someone had given it to him a while back. It was supposed to protect against evil and bring comfort to the grieving. He didn’t believe in magic stones but couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. Lightening illuminated the room. Thunder shook the house.

  On nights like this, he used to read to Conor, who would curl tightly against him, convinced that only the sound of Danny’s voice would protect him from the monsters that waited in the closet and under the bed. He still kept Conor’s favorites lined up on the bookshelf across from his bed: his Star Wars paperbacks, The Wind in the Willows, Harry Potter. Sometimes he’d run his hand over the books and could almost hear Conor begging for one more chapter.

  “I miss you,” he said aloud and pressed the stone against his palm. The rain continued to beat down.

  *

  Bright sunlight filtered through the windows, and Danny sat up, groggy. He hated the damn pills. They left him half a step out of sync with reality. Even after a shower, he walked into the wall on his way to the stairs.

  Gripping the railing, he shuffled down the steps and stopped in the foyer. Someone had pushed a small package wrapped in white paper inside the front door through the mail slot. What the hell? Usually the mail was delivered to the box that sat on the curb. Danny walked over to it. A prank?

  Across the back of the package there was a note written in red ink: Had a great time yesterday.

  It had to be from Alex.

  Danny picked up the package and shook it. He carried it to the kitchen and pulled off the paper. Inside was a small cardboard box. Danny weighed it in his hand for a moment before he lifted the lid.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  He dropped it into the sink.

  Inside, wrapped in plastic, was a human tongue.

  10

  Kevin Ryan almost dropped his mug of coffee when he answered his brother’s phone call. He slammed the mug down on his gray metal desk and groped about for a pad of paper while Danny relayed the tale of his morning gift.

  “Jesus Christ. What is it with you, Danny? Did you say a tongue? Are you shitting me?”

  “No. Someone slipped it inside my mail slot.”

  “Give me an hour.” Kevin slammed down the phone and waved at his partner, Jake Martinelli. “Yo! I’ve gotta run. Family emergency.”

  “Not Jean or the kids?” Jake’s brows twitched. He’d lost the ability to frown about six months ago, just about the time his hair had gone a few shades lighter and his tan had become permanent.

  Ever since his divorce, Jake had put himself through a self-improvement regimen. Kevin wouldn’t have cared, but Jake insisted on leaving him helpful tips on dieting and workouts. It pissed him off. Everything pissed him off these days.

  “Danny,” Kevin said.

  Jake nodded. “How long do you need?”

  “I figure at least half a day. Can you cover?”

  Jake grinned. His teeth were blinding white. “You got it. Though with your brother, you’d better take the whole day.”

  *

  Kevin pulled up in front of Danny’s place. Set back from the road, it was a simple stone house with a big weeping willow in the front and a twisting slate path leading to the red front door. Small compared to the giants that surrounded it, the house looked like something out of a storybook—a good place for Danny, whose head seemed in another world half the time.

  Jean always said life had ground the sharp edges out of Danny. Kevin didn’t believe that. Danny still had some edges left, but his need to give the finger to the world had lost its urgency. For the most part. He still had the same knack for getting himself in trouble.

  Kevin noted the branch from one of the trees that lay across the front yard. It had barely missed taking out part of the roof. Kevin would have cut those bitches down before he moved in.

  The front door opened before he got halfway up the path. Not too long ago he and Danny would have started the day hurling insults at each other, b
ut this morning, his brother looked like a kid in his oversized black shirt and beat-up jeans. It didn’t matter that silver was just beginning to thread through his too-long dark hair or that worry had cut groves between his eyes, Danny would be forever frozen at age ten. A big-eyed kid with a broken left arm, six cracked ribs, and a fractured skull, courtesy of their old man.

  “Kevin, thanks for coming,” Danny said.

  “You need to cut back your trees.”

  Danny’s eyes widened for a moment as if he was considering a smart-assed remark, but he smiled instead. “I’ll get on it.”

  “Where is this gift?”

  “In the sink.” He ushered Kevin toward the house and held open the door.

  “Jesus.” Kevin sniffed the air. “You made coffee?”

  “A nice dark blend reinforced with rocket fuel. You won’t sleep for three nights, guaranteed.”

  “I mean, you’re reasonably calm.”

  “Did you want me to stand and stare at it till you got here? Would that make me seem less suspicious?” Danny grinned at him.

  “Don’t be an asshole.” Kevin followed the scent of coffee into the house, down the hall to the kitchen in back.

  The tongue was lying in the sink, still encased in plastic.

  Kevin leaned closer to examine it. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Does it belong to Greg Moss?”

  “If I were betting, I’d say yes. Though Detective Eliot didn’t mention that it was missing yesterday.”

  “Christ on a one-legged crutch,” Kevin said at last. “Well, I’m calling your friend, Detective Eliot.”

  Danny’s mouth tightened. “Can’t you handle this?”

  “I’ll be here, but this case isn’t my jurisdiction. You didn’t do anything, so chill out. Ted Eliot seems like a decent enough guy.”

  “You weren’t shut up in a room with him for six hours.” Danny leaned back against the counter, trying to appear casual, but Kevin could see the tension in his posture, the way his eyes grew darker, and the way the muscle in his left cheek twitched. “He might have mentioned that Greg was missing part of his anatomy.”