One by One

by Sarah Cain

  “I’ll give you my number,” Danny said. “You think about it and let me know. You may not think much of me, Mrs. Perry, but Dr. Burton will vouch for me. I’m not sending messages to your daughter.”

  He set his card on the counter, and after staring at it for a moment, Rita took it. After she called Sam’s office to announce him, she said, “I’m worried sick.”

  “How long has she been getting these texts?”

  Rita’s eyes filled. “I’m not sure.”

  “You said Bible quotes?”

  She nodded.

  Danny saw Sam approaching him and waved, but he looked at Rita. “Tell her it isn’t a prank. I’ve gotten texts. Other people have, too, and now some of them are dead.”

  *

  Sam’s office was painted a soothing shade of green, and photographs of the ocean from various vantage points covered the walls. Sunsets, a tranquil harbor, a lighthouse—all were designed to set the visitor at ease, because visitors to Sam’s office were seldom there to hear good news. Trauma surgery tended to leave deep and lasting scars behind even if the outcome was successful.

  Now Danny faced a man who had hosted him for dinner more nights than he could count and with whom he’d shared plenty of enjoyable conversations. He leaned back and put on a neutral face. Good old Danny Ryan, the would-be adulterer. How was that for Catholic guilt? He told himself that Alex and he hadn’t done anything. Much. They had smoked some dope and what? He still hadn’t figured that out. Maybe it was just the dope. They were both having a bad day. That’s what he was going to tell himself for now. Even if it wasn’t quite true.

  “So what can you tell me about Barb Capozzi?” Danny asked.

  “Officially, nothing,” Sam said. “Except she’s very lucky, and she’s doing better than expected. She might pull through this with nothing to show but a minimal tracheotomy scar.”

  “So I can visit her?”

  “I believe they moved her from the ICU last night. She was breathing on her own.”

  “I’m not writing a story about this, Sam. She might be here because of me.”

  Sam sighed. “She’s here because she’s highly allergic to naproxen. We found traces of it in her blood, and Alex found a medic alert card in her purse. She’s apparently allergic to kiwis and naproxen. An interesting combination.”

  “There’s no way this could have been an accident?”

  “It’s highly doubtful. I suppose it’s possible a bartender could have taken naproxen before he handled the lime or ice in her glass. Ms. Capozzi is so allergic that just skin-to-skin contact would set off a reaction, and the amount of naproxen in her system wouldn’t have set off alarms in a toxicology test. It wouldn’t have been notable if we hadn’t found that card. If it was intentional, whoever gave it to her must have known she was highly allergic.”

  Danny shifted in his seat. How would someone know Barb was allergic to naproxen? Presumably her staff had worked with her for a long time and knew. He said, “Her staff would probably know about her allergy.”

  “It seems likely. She worked with food. The police were interviewing her staff.”

  “So someone slipped it into her drink, and she had a reaction.”

  “It seems so, yes. With allergic reactions, successive exposures generally increase their severity. She was lucky someone had an EpiPen. It slowed the swelling.”

  “She was lucky you were there.”

  Sam waved his hand and smiled. “She was lucky that my wife is an incurable snoop. It was interesting explaining to the police how I came into possession of her purse. They were somewhat less than pleased.” The smile wavered, and Sam leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the desk. He had large hands with long fingers. Danny could see him slicing open Barb’s throat in a desperate effort to open her windpipe. He then imagined Sam wrapping those large hands around his own throat and throttling him for attempting to sleep with his wife.

  Sam said, “Tell me the truth. Alex isn’t in any danger, is she?”

  Danny shook his head. “Whatever this is, it has nothing to do with Alex. But tell her to keep her distance if it makes you feel better.”

  “As if she’d listen. She doesn’t listen to much these days. Or talk much.” Sam cleared his throat. “I know you’re close. Perhaps she’s said something to you?”

  Danny managed to open his eyes wide. “Said something to me about . . .”

  “She doesn’t seem very happy.”

  “Honest to God, Sam. She hasn’t said anything to me.” That much was mostly true. “We generally talk about work.”

  “You seem so close.”

  Danny clenched his hands together. “We are, but in a weird way. It’s personal, but not.” Danny no longer knew what they had become. Alex and he had tangled together, and this morning he realized just how complex life could be.

  “We’ve talked about children, but she—well, she doesn’t seem interested in children right now.”

  Danny stared down at his hands, unsure how to respond. He and Sam usually discussed books and politics and sports in passing. Danny had read up on medical practices so he could hold a reasonably coherent conversation about the state of the modern emergency room and medicine around the world in general. They had an affable relationship, not a deep one.

  “I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Sam said.

  “No, I just never discussed that with Alex. She talks about work and you and that’s about it.” Danny thought he might burst into flames—the Irish guilt was working overtime—but he managed a wan smile. “The only thing she’s said is she wants a column. My old one. She has ambitions.” That much was true.

  “I understand.” Sam sighed. “I can’t say that’s what I wanted to hear, but thank you.” He picked up the phone. “Let’s see if I can’t get you in to see Ms. Capozzi.”

  22

  Barb was corpse-gray, and she lay so still, Danny would have believed she was dead if it weren’t for the persistent beeping of the heart monitor, the gentle suck of the blood pressure cuff, and the slight gurgling of the oxygen humidifier. Her bright hair flamed around her head. She looked fragile lying in the bed in her pale-blue hospital gown. The sharp odor of antiseptic and alcohol mingled with the more basic aroma of blood and sweat. Danny could almost see her body fighting to survive.

  “Hey there,” Danny said. He walked over to her and took one of her icy hands.

  Her eyes rolled open, and she swallowed. Her neck had been bandaged, and she sucked oxygen through the nasal canola. When she looked up at him, tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

  “No, don’t cry,” he said and touched her cheek. “You’re going to be okay. Swear to God.” He’d wanted to question her but knew it would have to wait. “I would have brought flowers, but I wasn’t sure if you were out of the ICU.”

  The corners of her mouth lifted for an instant and her fingers tightened against his. She licked her lips and made a gurgling sound.

  “Bad drink,” she mouthed.

  “Just try to rest,” he said.

  “Dinner?” she whispered.

  He smiled. “That’s a date.”

  Barb closed her eyes for a moment before she motioned with her hand. “Paper?”

  He handed her his notepad and a pen. She labored to write a few words in the pad, hands shaking with the effort, and Danny watched in silent admiration. Barb was a fighter.

  She handed the notebook and pen back to him.

  “You need to sleep. I’ll come back to see you soon. Okay?” He leaned close and kissed her cheek.

  Her head was drooping to the side. When he paused in the doorway, he could see she had already drifted back to sleep. Outside, Danny opened the notepad to see what she had written. It was a single name: Frank Greer.

  *

  Frank Greer wasn’t on Facebook. Either his phone was unlisted or he had moved out of Philadelphia. But there had to be a reason Barb had given Danny his name.

  Danny sat at a small café on Rittenhouse S
quare, drinking coffee and watching people meander through the square with their dogs. It was a curious mix of business people, upscale residents of the surrounding luxury apartments, and the odd homeless person huddling on the edge of a park bench looking like someone in the old Sesame Street song Conor used to sing: “One of these things is not like the others.”

  He turned back to his computer. Why wouldn’t Frank be online? He could be dead, and Barb might not have heard. He could have turned into a recluse. He could have changed his name. More likely he was back in prison. Danny could find that out easily enough, and he didn’t have to bother Kevin. At least not yet.

  An hour later, he’d located Frank and his place of business—G and R Scrap, up on East Tioga Street in Port Richmond, the industrial section of the city that ran northeast along the river. The company was owned by Francis Greer and Stan Riordan. Frank and Stan must be working together because Frank always needed an ass to kick, and Stan . . . God only knew what Stan got out of that relationship. G and R appeared to have a third partner who had gotten involved five years ago: Cromoca Partners LLP.

  Cromoca. That was the development company working with Greg Moss, the company that had bought out the Shamrock.

  When he ran a quick check, Danny found that Cromoca owned a lot of riverfront properties in New Jersey and had been buying land on the Philadelphia side as well. It might or might not be significant, but Danny had a feeling tracking down the partners would be as difficult as catching smoke.

  *

  Danny headed north on Delaware Avenue, passing under the Ben Franklin Bridge. He could have taken I-95, but he preferred the slower route. It gave him a better feel for the area. Hotels quickly turned to industrial facilities as he drove north, and he remembered that Philadelphia had at one time been a thriving industrial city. Manufacturing was all but dead now, and Philadelphia was trying to reinvent itself. Danny wasn’t sure the city would ever quite figure out what that identity was. Trapped like the awkward sister between New York and DC, Philadelphia lingered in the shadows, self-deprecating yet filled with what the neighborhood folks called “attytood.”

  Danny made a left onto Tioga Street and took a deep breath. He was about to get smacked in the face with some “attytood.” Frank Greer had never been shy about expressing himself, especially when he had a cheering section.

  He turned into G and R Scrap. Life was about to get unpleasant.

  Danny pulled up the driveway. It forked left toward the scale and right toward a parking lot and a low-slung, beige, prefabricated office building. Slightly beyond the office sat a beat-up, gray metal trailer from which a video camera protruded. He swung right, passing an idling dump truck, to slide into a space in the small lot near the side of the building and took a moment to observe the activity in the scrapyard.

  Dump trucks rumbled into the yard, filled with everything from copper pipe to old refrigerators to aluminum siding, while smaller cars and people with shopping carts maneuvered with their own treasures. Peddlers. Some of them were addicts looking for enough cash to score a fix; some were people looking to get by cleaning out homes or scavenging from construction sites, ripping off whatever they could find. They all waited in line to weigh their goods on the scale in front of the trailer about two hundred yards inside as exhaust choked the hot, grimy air. In the very back of the yard, a metal shredder growled as workers fed its conveyor belt hunks of scrap that would be shredded, sold, and shipped out of the country.

  It was a living.

  Danny walked to the administrative offices and hoped the red Caddy in the reserved space with the SCRAP U license plate belonged to Frank. When he opened the door, a rush of stale, frigid air greeted him, and he found himself in a long corridor that branched off in the middle like a cross. The floor was covered in beige linoleum.

  A skeletal receptionist with spiked black hair and a pierced nose glanced at Danny with disinterest. Her desk was piled high with manila folders and knickknacks—troll dolls with orange-and-purple hair and a large bowl of silver-wrapped Hershey kisses that sat by her keyboard. She pulled her red fleece jacket tighter. “Who’re you?” she asked.

  “I’m Dan Ryan. I’m writing a piece on the scrap industry,” Danny said, holding up his ID. It was a temporary one, given to him when he’d helped out with the elections last November, but it was authentic enough. “How small scrapyards are keeping alive. How they compete against large operations. That kind of thing. I was wondering if I could talk to your boss.”

  “You got an appointment?”

  “I sure hope so. My secretary was supposed to set one up. She’s on vacation this week, and I’m using a temp. I hope she gave me the right day.” He gave her an innocent smile.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I know Frank. I went to school with him.”

  She pulled her jacket zipper up and down a couple of times. “Okay. Let me buzz him. What’s your name again?”

  “Dan Ryan.”

  She pushed a button. “Frank. Some guy named Ryan is here. He wants to write about the business. You want to see him?” She listened for a few moments before she hung up the phone and pointed. “Make a right and go straight down the hall.”

  “Thanks.”

  She shrugged. “You got lucky. Frank’s in a good mood.”

  “I’m a lucky guy.”

  23

  Frank Greer’s office was an oasis in the great beige desert that was G and R Scrap. It was almost luxurious—spacious, with a bright-blue carpet and light wood paneling on walls covered with large photographs. They were of scrap, but someone with some proficiency with a camera had taken the photos. Danny liked the wide shot of three bright-orange valves lying against a mountain of silver-gray rubble.

  The usual pictures of VIPs lined the wall behind the desk. Danny recognized the mayor and a couple of city council members. There was a photograph of Frank, in a shiny green suit, standing with a tall, distinguished, and oddly familiar blond man. A politician? On Frank’s other side hunched a wizened fellow in a blue hoodie and spotted jeans. Danny started to look away, but the photo drew him back. The little guy in the hoodie had Stan Riordan’s small teeth and jug ears. He must have been Riordan Sr.

  Then it hit Danny. The blond guy was Congressman George Crossman from New Jersey, the House majority whip. Danny was sure of it. What the hell was the congressman doing in a Philadelphia scrapyard?

  Frank sat behind a wide oak desk in a black leather chair. His desk was covered by a large desk calendar on which laid an assortment of odd bits of scrap—some railroad spikes and oversized bolts, a large iron key, and a smooth black marble paperweight shaped like an egg. Frank didn’t stand but gestured to one of the leather chairs in front of the desk. He looked the same, yet harder, with bluish bags under his dark-blue eyes and deep lines around his downcast mouth. His hair was a little thinner, and he now sported a moustache, but he was still Frank the Ferret, shifty eyed and sneering. Danny noticed the prison tat of the ace of spades on his left hand.

  “Danny Ryan.” Frank spoke his name like it evoked a particularly bad memory. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m doing a piece on new enterprises in Philly. How manufacturing is holding on.”

  “Yeah? I thought you only wrote about sex these days.” Frank leered at him. “You not getting enough so it pisses you off or what?”

  “I’m a reporter. I report.”

  “You don’t report for the Sentinel no more.”

  Danny shrugged. Frank was going to make this as difficult as possible. The only thing he could do was take one breath after another. Stay calm. Remember why he had come. “I work freelance now. I just finished a series for the New York Times.” He looked around the office. “You seem to have done very well for yourself. Tell me about the scrap business.”

  Frank blinked. “You’re fucking serious.”

  Danny pulled out his pad. “I’m serious.” If he came right out and started grilling him, Frank would close up, and he’d get nothing. T
he longer Frank talked, the looser he’d get. In any case, maybe Danny would get some kind of story.

  “What the hell, it’s a slow day.”

  Danny pointed to the photograph. “I see you’re keeping company with Congressman Crossman these days.”

  “We bought a small feeder yard in Camden a few years back—part of our expansion plans. The congressman is trying to get businesses to relocate into Camden.”

  “Helping you get tax breaks and that sort of thing?”

  “Yeah. Making it easier for small business to do business in Camden. He’s big on that.”

  “How so?”

  Frank described the incentives Congressman Crossman was offering in New Jersey, most of which amounted to tax breaks, but one involved reasonably priced land options. Frank was vague on the details, and Danny made a note to check into the program. Danny let Frank ramble about the operations before they wandered out to the yard to watch the trucks pull onto the scale. Afterward, their cargo would be separated into ferrous and nonferrous metal and the driver would be given bar-coded receipts.

  “You can take ’em to an ATM and cash ’em in,” Frank said. “Easy.”

  “How did you get into this?”

  “Well, when I got out—you know I was in the slam—I couldn’t get work nowhere. But Stan—you remember Stan Riordan, right? Stan’s old man had this scrapyard in South Philly. You must’ve seen it down near the I-95 bridge, y’know? So he hires me. It turns out I got a good head for all this, and old man Riordan and I got on good. So when he keeled over, I find out he’s left the business to me with the condition I look out for Stan.”

  “So you’re his guardian?”

  “Kind of.” Frank shrugged. “Stan’s not completely simple. Not really. He’s just strange. Like he don’t exactly know the arrangement. Stan couldn’t run a one-car funeral, but he thinks he’s a big shot. So I don’t tell him the old man left the yard to me and money in trust for him. He just knows he gets money every month, and he’s the chief scale man at the South Philly yard. I told him it was the most important job there.”