One by One

by Sarah Cain

  Danny sighed, trying to think of something that didn’t sound quite as harsh. “She wasn’t really a literary writer.”

  “That’s one way to put it.” Babs laughed while the waitress brought their bottle of wine. Babs watched him, her eyes glittering with a sort of predatory calculation as he went through the motions of tasting the wine he had no intention of drinking.

  Babs said, “I always thought you were a nice guy. I never thought you’d become a reporter though. Always figured you’d write some big literary novel.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Like a Pulitzer isn’t big deal. Jenna J. was in love with you because you were nice to her.” She chuckled and touched his hand. “And you never were hard on the eyes.”

  “I wasn’t that nice.” He decided to ignore the compliment.

  Babs pulled out her phone. When the waitress came back to take their dinner order, Babs asked her to take a picture of the two of them. “Here’s to us. Survivors. We can be Facebook friends. Isn’t that what people do now?”

  “I guess so.”

  After they had ordered, Babs settled back into her seat, relaxed and smiling. Once again the queen. “I never asked if you like tapas. I like all the dishes. So many little delights.”

  “Not too much of any one thing?”

  “Enough variety to satisfy.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and slid a finger up the stem of her glass.

  He blinked. Babs may have gotten older, but she hadn’t lost much of her appeal. Weird to have her turn it on him. It worked, too. Almost. Did it matter if the chemistry felt slightly off?

  “Have you ever gone to a reunion?” Danny asked, and Babs shook her head.

  “A reunion? Are you kidding? I don’t want to remember high school. Most of those people were losers. Do you go back? How much time do you spend in South Philly?” Babs sipped more wine. “Don’t answer. I’ll tell you. Not much. You got out as fast as you could. Sure, you became a columnist and all that, but you weren’t living in the city. I read all about you.” She fired off her points like so many bullets. She was right, too. He’d run away from his past as fast as he could. Funny how he couldn’t quite seem to escape it. “Hey, I don’t blame you. I couldn’t wait to graduate either. I didn’t get out of the city, but I’ve done okay.”

  “You have your own business.”

  Babs finished her wine and he poured her another glass. “Yeah. Turns out I’m good at planning shit. You know, special events, parties. Greg told me to get my real estate license, so I’ve been studying for that. I used to think about calling you for catering work.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Your wife seemed like she probably had her own list of caterers. Some of the people I called enjoyed slamming the phone in my ear.”

  He nodded. It would have been tough trying to appeal to the generosity of her fellow classmates. There was nothing like a little schadenfreude to make the world go round. “But you and Greg remained friends.”

  “Yeah. Greg was a good guy. He threw me work, and I’m real sorry for what happened to him. Hell.” Her eyes filled, and she used her napkin to dab her eyes. “Damn it. I don’t know who killed Greg. But I hope he rots in hell.” She stared at the table, and Danny gave her a moment to compose herself.

  “Are you sure you didn’t get any weird texts?”

  She continued to stare at the table, and he watched the pulse in her throat jump as she crumpled her napkin. At last she nodded. “I got a text before Greg died.”

  “Just one?”

  “Just one.” She looked up, her face carefully composed. If she was lying, he couldn’t tell for sure, and he gave her grudging points.

  “Do you remember what it said?”

  “I remember it was Ecclesiastes 7:26 and kind of nasty.”

  Danny looked it up. “‘And I find more bitter than death the woman, whose heart is snares and nets.’”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And you have no idea who might send something like that?”

  “If I did, I’d have the police on his ass. Look. If you’re looking for a football connection, you might try reaching out to Smokes Winston. He and Greg stayed in touch. Smokes is living in DC. He owns a bunch of apartments. Maybe he knows something. I think he bought some property in Jersey through Greg. You could also try Quintel Marshall, though I’m not even sure he’s in the US. He’s some big something with the army.”

  Danny nodded. “One last thing. This is going to seem really odd, but do you think this had anything to do with our senior year? I didn’t really come across Greg’s radar until then. He invited me to his shore house. I don’t remember anything happening, but it was a long time ago.”

  Babs held out her empty glass. “You were there. Nothing happened.”

  Danny filled the glass. “I wasn’t really there. I might have spent the night on the porch.”

  “With Michelle Perry. Miss National Merit Perfect. You still in touch?”

  “Not since we graduated.” It was a night for memories, but Danny didn’t care to indulge. He pushed Michelle aside. “Do you remember anything? Anyone stand out?”

  Babs looked at him as she raised her glass to her lips. Something passed in her eyes—that glimmer of unease—but she smiled and leaned close, sliding her hand over his. “Nothing.”

  “You’re sure, Babs?”

  “I think we should do this again,” she said.

  He gazed at her for a moment. Babs Capozzi wasn’t the woman he’d dreamed of spending his life with, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep in touch. Dinner had been more interesting than he’d expected. Maybe she’d turn out to be a little delight.

  “By the way, no one calls me Babs these days,” she said. “Just Barb. It’s old-fashioned, but I kind of like it, and it’s more professional.”

  “You should have said something.”

  “I don’t mind when you do it.” She squeezed his hand. “Will you call me? It would be nice to get together and not talk about Greg.”

  “I’d—yes. I’ll call you after I get back from DC.”

  She smiled. “Wonderful. Next time, you can come to my place. I cook, you know. I’m a great cook.”

  “That is most certainly a date.”

  *

  After walking Barb to her car, Danny headed up North Second Street toward Germantown Avenue. Cheery voices surrounded him, and he could smell the faint scent of barbeque and citronella in the warm air. People were still sitting outside drinking, and Spanish guitar music was playing. Maybe he should have taken some initiative with Barb and invited himself back to her place, but it didn’t feel quite right. It was still too soon.

  Kate still lingered in the shadows. A ghost he reached for at night, a ghost who slipped away from his grasping fingers. His grandmother used to say you only learned how strong you were when your heart was crushed. After Beth and Conor, he was just strong enough to put himself back together, only to find Kate, and he had lost her as well. He wasn’t sure he could risk his heart again.

  On the other hand, Barb Capozzi didn’t seem on the prowl for a long-term commitment. He smiled.

  Barb had given him a number for Smokes Winston, and he’d make a call in the morning. They needed to get reacquainted. Relive old times. Danny had never been particularly friendly with Smokes, but he hoped that, for Greg’s sake, the former wide receiver would talk to him.

  Smokes and Greg had been close. Maybe he knew something. It was, at the very least, a place to start. He’d try to find out about Quintel Marshall on his own.

  “Sorry,” he said when he bumped into a person coming from a side street.

  “No problem, man.”

  Danny glanced at the speaker, who was illuminated by the streetlight. A young guy. Dark haired with bright-blue eyes. He looked familiar, and Danny was about to ask if they’d met before when the kid took off down the street. He automatically felt for his wallet, but it was still there.

  D
anny was tempted to pursue. He didn’t. There was no reason to chase a random stranger, and yet . . . He’d seen that face before. He knew it. Didn’t he?

  A shudder passed through him, and he turned back to his car.

  15

  The drive to DC was tedious. Alex had wanted to come along, but she had a book signing to attend. Danny headed down I-95 on his way to meet Smokes Winston, who owned a new luxury apartment building in northeast DC. The neighborhood was a gentrifying section of mixed row homes and new luxury apartments. Four blocks to the left and you were in the ghetto. Eight blocks south and you were at the National Mall.

  Danny found a spot on the street, fed the meter, and headed toward the lobby. The soppy heat crashed over him, and he could already feel the sweat trickling down his back. He’d forgotten how much he hated the swamp that was the Capital, especially in the summer. After giving his name to the smiling receptionist, Danny sat on a black leather bench and stared at the artificial fire burning away in the visitors’ lounge. The fire burst forth as if by magic from coral rocks behind a floor-to-ceiling glass wall. It was mesmerizing but fake. It was DC.

  He’d always loved the cooler climate of Maine. The Harlan summer house had been a grand retreat, even if he and Beth had to share it with her parents. It had overlooked the rocky beach in Northeast Harbor, and he’d enjoyed the quiet days, the misty evenings with the lonely fog horns calling out, the restless surf pounding against the shore. He’d done some of his best writing in Maine. Here, he’d have to enclose himself in a sealed room.

  “Danny Ryan. Damn, I’d know you anywhere.”

  Danny turned around. He recognized that distinct Philly drawl. Smokes still looked trim and athletic, but he walked with the deliberate care of a man in pain.

  “LeVon Winston,” Danny said.

  “Shit, man. Jus’ call me ‘Smokes’ like everyone else. Can’ seem to shake the name.” Smokes Winston held out his hand and gripped Danny’s. His pupils were pinpoints, and Danny wondered what the hell he was on. He didn’t have the junkie lean, but he had heroin eyes. Is that what you took when pain killers stopped working?

  “Movin’ a little slow today. Goddamn knee.” Smokes led Danny to an elevator.

  “Looks painful.”

  “Yeah. My glory days. Too bad I didn’ play today, right? At least I’d be a multi-multimillionaire. Still. I had a decent manager. Invested my money good.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Danny said, and he was. His high school acquaintances were beginning to take on a maudlin cast, if not a macabre one. Greg Moss, Rick Farnasi, Nate Pulaski, and Christopher Soldano were all dead. Who else? Jenna Jeffords and Ollie Deacon. Danny wasn’t sure whether they counted in the lineup or not.

  They reached an apartment on the top floor. It was spacious, and Danny could see the Capitol Dome in the distance through the French doors in the living room that opened onto a roomy deck. There was a modern kitchen with black granite counters and black cabinets, and the living room featured black leather sofas with red throw pillows and a huge flatscreen. Photos of Smokes in action hung on the walls. He’d been one hell of an athlete. Photographs of a young boy and girl sat on a red lacquered table behind a sofa.

  “My kids. Keshawn and Kenya,” Smokes said. “They’re living with their Mama in California right now. She got the mansion. That hurt. I see them every other month. Some holidays. You wanna drink?”

  “Just water.”

  “You ain’t changed much.” Smokes pulled out a bottle of Pellegrino from the refrigerator and poured a glass. He fetched himself a double shot of vodka from a bottle of Stoli in the freezer.

  On the left, a dining room stretched into a second, more formal, sitting room. On the right, Danny glimpsed an office. The door to the second room stood closed. A bedroom, Danny assumed. Smokes lowered himself onto one of the leather sofas, and Danny sat opposite him.

  “So how have you been?” Danny said.

  “Hanging in there. I got good days and bad days like everyone. Once I get my new knee, I’ll be fine. Just bought a few acres up your way, in fact. Gonna build some luxury apartments. Greg helped me get the property.”

  “Greg Moss?”

  Smokes grinned. “That’s why you’re here, right? Poor old Greg got himself killed.”

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to kill him?”

  “Honestly? No. Greg, he was a good guy, you know what I mean? Like if you got into town and needed a place to crash, you could always call Greg. When my knee got busted up, he called me. Can you believe it? Asked if I needed anything.” Smokes shook his head and leaned back into the sofa. Danny could see the deep lines pain had etched around his mouth, between his eyes. “Sometimes I think Greg was my only real friend. All them others. The hangers-on, the chicks, the power guys—they all like you when you’s a player. Once it’s done, it’s done. Ain’t like I was Jerry Rice, you know?”

  “Yeah, it’s brutal. My brother played. He never made it to college ball.”

  “Your brother Kevin?”

  Danny nodded. Kevin had been a starting tackle when Smokes was a freshman. He’d forgotten that.

  “Kevin Ryan. He was a big mother. What the hell happened to you?” Smokes asked.

  “Runt of the litter?”

  Smokes chuckled. “I guess. Your brother was something else. Man. He shoulda played. He was All-State for three years. Why didn’t he? He didn’t get hurt.”

  “He became a cop.”

  Kevin hadn’t been given a choice. When the old man told him to forget Penn State, Kevin had just bowed his head and acquiesced. What would his life have been like if Kevin had told the old man to fuck off and gone for it? Maybe he would have failed and still ended up in the Philly PD, but at least he would have taken a chance at getting what he wanted.

  “A cop?” Smokes voice was softer now, just slightly slurred. “He lookin’ into who killed Greg?”

  “No, it happened in Jersey. Not his jurisdiction. You can’t think of anyone who had a beef with Greg?”

  Smokes opened his eyes. “Greg was the most solid guy I ever knew.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Not even anyone from high school?”

  “You knew Greg in high school.”

  “Only senior year, and not that well.”

  “Well, I can’t think of anyone. Unless, maybe—who was that guy? Short, real mean-lookin’ dude. Had a face kinda like a rat. Real asshole?”

  “Frank Greer?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one. He was always hanging around. Real fuckhead.”

  “You think Greg kept in touch with him?”

  “Yeah. Probably.” Smokes shook himself and pushed up on the sofa. He squinted at Danny and rubbed his hands against his thighs. “You know, I’m wonderin’ why you want to know. You writin’ the story of Greg’s life? You workin’ with the cops? Why the fuck you asking me all these questions?”

  “I’m a reporter.”

  “So you want to turn Greg’s death into some big story.” Smokes’s face turned hard, angry, and Danny didn’t understand. Why wouldn’t Smokes want to know who killed his friend? But the hostility slammed down like a barricade. “Like maybe win yourself some writing prize?”

  “No, you don’t understand. I found Greg’s body. I think whoever killed him wanted me to find it, and I don’t know why.”

  “That’s fucked up.”

  “I know. It could be something tied to high school, but I don’t know what. I didn’t know Greg that well. You did.”

  “Greg was a regular guy. He wasn’t no saint, but he wasn’t an asshole. He was the kind of guy the girls liked ’cause he looked good and dressed fine and treated people like people.” Smokes paused, his eyes drifting out of focus for a moment. He sniffed and rubbed his nose. He was buying time. Something about Greg Moss made the people who knew him best try to cover for him. So maybe Greg wasn’t so upright, but then again, who was Danny to judge?

  “I talked to Barb C
apozzi,” Danny said.

  “Babs. Yeah. What did she tell you?”

  “Not much.”

  “I’ll bet. Babs is okay though. Loyal.”

  “How so?”

  Smokes swallowed his vodka and swiped his mouth. His eyes didn’t burn with anger any longer, but they regarded him with caution. “Are we off the record? ’Cause I’m not talkin’ if we aren’t off the record.”

  Danny sighed and closed his notebook. “If you want.”

  “I do. Because this is a big deal, and it might or might not be important.” Smokes leaned forward even more until he swayed slightly over the table. “Greg? You know? Greg? He, uh, had a sideline. Greg, y’know?”

  “Greg had a sideline?”

  “He used to set up these parties for clients, y’know?”

  “What kind of parties?”

  “I mean they was for his high-roller clients. ’Cause you know he did a lot of major deals. I mean his clients were real players.”

  “Like you?”

  “Oh, hell no, man. I was just small shit. He was sellin’ to some big, big money dudes. He had connections, ’cause his clients were the kind that keep their money offshore, dig? His parties was like a side business. A way for folks to make connections. Greg was big on connections. He’d get actresses to come in and shit. He took me to one ’cause this one client was an Oakland freak, you dig? Like batshit crazy for the Raiders. Man, this guy wanted to jack me off in the pool. He was willin’ to pay me twenty grand. Can you believe it? It was insane. I told Greg thanks but no thanks to that shit.”

  Danny tried to put this information together with the image of Greg the Saint. “So maybe something happened at a party?”

  “I don’t know. Yeah. It could’ve, but I don’t know. I think I would’ve got wind. Anyway, Greg wasn’t a bad guy. Yeah, he arranged parties, but it was all consenting adults. Them women? They weren’t those drugged-out sex hos you read about, y’know? None of that underage shit.”

  “But they might have been escorts?”

  Smokes’s head drooped down for a second, and Danny wondered if he had nodded off. But he rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, no doubt. Escorts. A lot of them actresses was doing porn. I mean it’s Philly, not LA, right? But that don’t mean you can’t find some high-quality hookers.”