One by One

by Sarah Cain

  Alex tried not to stare as she followed Rachel into the green ranch house. The floors were covered in dark oak, and the overstuffed furniture was pale green and yellow. A mustard-yellow rug covered the floor. Almost every inch of the dark-green walls was covered with embroidered pictures of flowers and kittens and puppies, and Alex could hear the scrabbling of who-knew-what creatures on the roof. In the corner, a cuckoo clock ticked, and dust motes floated in the floral-scented air.

  “Thank you for coming,” Rachel said in a soft, girlish voice. “You came a long way. Let me get you something to drink. Iced tea? Soda? Water?”

  “Iced tea is fine. Thanks.”

  “I bet you don’t eat a thing,” Rachel said.

  “Oh, I eat a lot. I just can’t sit still,” Alex said, thinking of the pancakes she had eaten earlier. “I guess I burn it off.” She hoped that was the right thing to say. “You sure do look young, Mrs. Jeffords. You have such great skin.”

  Rachel was like fresh bread dough. She was white and pasty and threatened to pop out of that orange top at any moment. Alex forced a giant smile. She needed to stop thinking.

  “Aren’t you sweet,” Rachel tittered and batted her eyelashes. “Let me go get refreshments.”

  Alex took a breath and wandered around the living room. She was too hyped. She needed to relax. Pay attention. Here and there were photographs: a baby in a white christening gown, a dark-haired boy of maybe two with fat cheeks and big blue eyes, the same boy at five in a soccer uniform, and older in a succession of Christmas photos. In the bookcase sat piles of typewritten pages, a bunch of romance novels, and at least twenty copies of Danny’s book on class in America. Weird. That book had come out almost ten years ago.

  A pink, cloth-covered photo album sat in the bookcase, and Alex pulled it out. She nearly dropped it. On the front page was a photograph of Jenna packed into a scarlet satin prom gown and next to her stood much younger Danny in a white tuxedo. Something looked off about the photograph, and then Alex realized that Danny’s face had been photoshopped onto another boy’s body.

  Jenna had been slimmed, but the result had twisted her body out of proportion. Her face was thinner, but her head seemed too small for her body. In her yearbook photo, her eyes looked sleepy; here they seemed too wide and the small mole under her left eye was gone. She clutched a bouquet of red carnations and white baby’s breath, and Alex noted the gold Claddagh ring she wore on her left hand, the heart facing outward. Jenna had been substantially altered, but the swan never emerged.

  Alex stared at the photo. Something about it bothered her. Not just the twisted body. Something . . .

  When she heard footsteps, Alex shoved the album back into place.

  Rachel appeared in the doorway with a tray of beautifully iced sugar cookies, Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets, and two glasses of iced tea. Lemons and sugar packets were neatly arranged beside the glasses. It was the picture of creepy domestic tranquility. Alex wondered what went on in Rachel’s mind.

  Why the hell has she constructed some fantasy about her daughter and Danny?

  “I don’t get so much company these days,” Rachel said. “Please sit.”

  Alex perched on a chair. “Your little boy is adorable,” she said. “Your son?”

  Rachel nodded. “He’s my sweetheart.” She paused. “I don’t have much family left.”

  Should I ask about the father? “I thought Jenna was an only child. I must have got my facts wrong.”

  Rachel blushed, and her mouth turned down slightly. “His father and I haven’t been in touch, but that’s about to change. I hope.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not my business. I’m really here about Jenna. I hate to come out here and put you through all that again,” Alex said. “It’s just that we think Jenna’s death might be part of something larger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, could Jenna have seen something in the neighborhood? Would anyone have had reason to do harm to her?”

  “Jenna? Oh, no. Everyone loved her.”

  Alex cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure everybody loved Jenna, but Rachel was entitled to her reconstructed memory. “I’m looking into a development company called Cromoca Partners. They might have had something to do with the fire that killed Jenna. Does that sound familiar?”

  “Cromoca? It sounds like a dance. I’m doing the Cromoca!” Rachel giggled and waved her arms. “I never heard of them.”

  “I’m working with another reporter. We’re trying to trace Cromoca Partners.” Alex took a sip of tea. This place was strange as all hell. Something about that photograph. Something about that little boy. Something about Rachel. Alex’s mouth felt dry, and she swallowed more tea. She was sitting in the nuthouse with the Head Walnut. This was going to be harder than she’d anticipated.

  “Oh,” Rachel said. “I thought you were working alone. May I ask who you’re working with?”

  Alex took another swallow. “It’s actually a weird coincidence. You might even remember him. Dan Ryan? I think Jenna went to school with him.”

  Rachel’s face softened. “Danny.” She leaned closer. “My Jenna was very close with Danny Ryan.”

  “Was she?” Alex considered her options. “Well, Danny remembers Jenna very fondly. He said she wanted to be a writer.”

  “Isn’t that sweet? He remembers that? I always knew there was something special between them. You know he was her first love. Isn’t that amazing?”

  Alex grasped her glass in both hands and then gulped the rest of her tea. “Her first love? That is interesting.”

  “Oh, yes. He took her to her senior prom. They were a beautiful couple.”

  “Well, Danny and I, we, uh, didn’t discuss that. We’re, like I said, trying to get some information about Cromoca and Jenna’s death, of course.”

  What the hell is this? That wasn’t Danny in the original photo. Alex was pretty sure Danny Ryan had never worn a white tux in his life—even to a high school prom. The kid in that photo was built along square lines with thick, short-fingered hands. Danny was slim-built with narrow hips and fine bones, and his hands—she knew all about his hands. Alex took a breath when the room seemed to tilt for a moment. Her own hands shook when she placed the glass back on the coaster. For a moment the glass seemed to split into two before it came back together, and she blinked.

  “I’m sorry. Did I make you uncomfortable? Would you like more tea?”

  “I—no, thanks. I—” Alex stared at Rachel and tried to force her mind to work. It made no sense. Something was wrong. Rachel seemed far away, her voice traveling down a great tin funnel. She stared at her. At the Claddagh ring on her left hand, the heart turned outward.

  “Do you like my ring?” Rachel asked.

  “It’s very pretty.”

  “My first and only love gave it to me, but you knew that, didn’t you?” Rachel’s voice seemed to be slowing down, or maybe there was something wrong with her hearing. Alex just nodded.

  “Are you all right, dear? You look pale.”

  “I’m . . . fine.” Alex pushed on the arm of the chair, trying to stand, but her legs buckled beneath her.

  “Oh, my,” Rachel said. “I think you’d better have a rest.”

  No. No. No. Alex didn’t want a rest. She wanted to get the hell out, but she couldn’t force her legs to obey. She sank down on her knees. The cuckoo clock loomed over her, ticking, but it sounded like it was scolding her: tsk, tsk, tsk. The yellow rug smelled vaguely of mold and something more unpleasant. Alex watched Rachel’s head bob over her like a giant party balloon.

  Something was wrong with the picture.

  “You. You’re . . .”

  “Goodnight, Alex.”

  Rachel held the tray in her hands, and Alex heard a rush of air before it crashed against her face.

  41

  Danny sped up Delaware Avenue, two photographs on the seat beside him. This afternoon, he needed to confront Frank before the bastard disappeared. Alex was right: this ta
ngle of circumstance went back to Jenna Jeffords’s murder. Somehow. He just hadn’t quite figured out the how and the why, but he would. Frank was going to help him—whether he wanted to or not.

  When he pulled into the scrapyard, Frank’s red Caddy sat in its space, and Danny gave it the finger. “Scrap you, you bastard,” he said.

  He marched into the office. “I want to see Frank. Now,” he said to the receptionist. Her mouth dropped open in a red O, and he walked past her. “Just tell him I’m here.”

  “You can’t. He’ll be pissed,” she called after him.

  “I don’t care.”

  The door at the end of the hall opened one second before he reached it, and Frank stood glaring at him. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Answers, Frank!” Danny held up the photographs. “What were you doing at Jenna Jeffords house the day it blew up?”

  *

  Frank waved Danny into his office, his face a mask of disgust. “Jenna Jeffords? Are you shitting me?”

  Danny pointed to the photo. “Jenna Jeffords. Her house blew up. Remember? And look who’s in the crowd.”

  “And based on a photograph of me in a crowd, you think I blew up her house? Jesus Christ, Ryan. It’s a good thing you didn’t pursue law as a career.” Frank sat down behind his desk. He leaned back in his chair, trying to look unconcerned, but Danny saw the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. The muscle under Frank’s left eye looked like it was pulsing to an electric current.

  “Jenna Jeffords. Why would I want to kill that cow?” Frank said.

  “I don’t know. Why would you? Come on, Frank. Tell me what happened at that party. It was over twenty years ago.”

  “As I recall, Greg threw a party, and a lot of people showed up.”

  “And they’re getting killed off.” Danny sat on the edge of Frank’s desk. “Do you want to be the next victim?”

  “Do you?” Frank leaned forward. “Get the fuck off my desk. Take your goddamn photos and get out of my office.”

  “Not until you tell me about that party.”

  “Fuck you and the party.”

  Danny took a breath. They were going in circles, and it needed to end. “Not until you tell me what happened to Jenna at the party.”

  It was a guess, but Danny could see he had hit a nerve. Frank turned ashen, but he pointed to the door. “Get out.”

  “Did you kill her to shut her up?”

  Frank was on his feet. “I didn’t kill her. I lived on the next block, you moron. My mom still lives right there. Why the hell would I kill her?”

  “Because something happened at Greg’s house!”

  “Nothing happened!”

  “Yeah, Frank, it did. Because people are dying, and every one of them was at that party.”

  “The only thing happened at Greg’s house was Jumbo Jen pulled a train. Okay? You got it? She wanted to get laid. She. Wanted. It.”

  Danny grabbed the edge of the desk and leaned closer. He wanted to kill Frank Greer. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh, no? Well, you know who she was hoping would be the caboose? You know who she was calling for? ‘Where’s Danny? I want Danny.’”

  “You’re a lying piece of shit.”

  Frank reached across the desk, grabbed Danny by the shirt, and pulled him close. Danny could smell the metallic grit that coated him and tried to pull away, but Frank shook him like he was made of rags.

  “You goddamn self-righteous asshole!” Ribbons of spit hit Danny in the face as Frank’s eyes turned flat and dead, but Danny saw a horrible sort of truth there. Frank’s version of the truth. “She was hoping for you, Danny Depp, you fuckin’ pretty boy faggot. You with your goddamn Barbie doll wife and little clone son. It used to make me sick to see you in the paper, you useless piece of shit. They probably killed themselves to get away from you.”

  Frank grabbed Danny’s shirt tighter, and Danny’s brain began to fill with red. He groped on the desk until his fingers closed around the marble paperweight. Then he smashed it into the left side of Frank’s head. Frank let go of Danny’s shirt and dropped to the floor, knocking his chin on the desk as he fell, and Danny walked around the desk to stand over him. Frank stared up, dazed. Danny clutched the paperweight, his breath coming fast and hard. He wanted to smash the cold weight into Frank’s temple, and he could see from the way Frank cringed back that he was afraid.

  Danny could hear the old man whispering, “Do it.”

  But he wasn’t his father.

  “Who fucked Jenna Jeffords?”

  Frank groaned and touched his head. A trickle of blood ran down from his scalp, but Danny figured he’d live. The Frank Greers of the world were survivors.

  He kicked Frank and said, “Pulaski? Farnasi? You? I want names, Frank.”

  “I’m fucking bleeding. You probably cracked my skull.”

  “Cry me a river. Names. The Awesome Eleven?”

  “Who?” Frank hunched over like a wounded animal, and Danny gripped the paperweight tighter. Animals were most dangerous when wounded.

  “You heard me.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Pulaski. Farnasi. Stan. Chris Soldano. Some others.”

  “And you. Don’t forget you. Who else?”

  “I don’t remember. Okay? We were high. On your dope. Jenna liked that goddamn dope. It set her free. She wanted to fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “Did Greg do her?”

  “Not Greg. He was boning Barb Capozzi.”

  “How about Ollie?”

  “Ollie? Maybe. Yeah. I guess.”

  “So you gangbang Jenna—”

  “She wanted it,” Frank said.

  “She was high. How the hell did she know what she wanted?”

  “We were all fuckin’ high. She never said stop. She never filed a report with the cops. She never did nothin’.”

  “It looks like someone’s doing something now.”

  Frank coughed. “Fuck you, Ryan.” Blood was running down the side of Frank’s head in a stream now, and he stared at Danny with flat eyes, gauging the distance. Danny was careful to keep space between them and not turn his back.

  “Do you know who blew up Jenna’s house?”

  “No. I’m telling you. I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know she lived there until it happened. That block is part of them new townhomes. That’s all I know.”

  “The townhouses your friends at Cromoca built?”

  “How the fuck do I know? They were built twenty years ago.”

  “You lived right around the corner.”

  Frank turned white. “I don’t know. I had other things to worry about back then. I gotta get help, you sonofabitch. I could die.”

  “We couldn’t get that lucky,” Danny said. “I’m leaving now, Frank. Better get your scalp looked at, though I’m not sure it matters.”

  Frank glared at him. “Oh?”

  “If there’s a hit parade, and there seems to be, you’re on it.”

  Frank wiped his hand against his head, smearing the blood. He sucked air through his teeth, and Danny could see the kid who liked gouging out the eyes of live frogs before he slowly dismembered them. Frank Greer, the human predator.

  Danny glanced at the photograph on the wall of Frank, Stan’s old man, and Congressman George Crossman. Did that matter, or was it just a loose thread?

  “I think you’d better watch your back, Frank. Or maybe get out of town,” Danny said. Greg Moss, friend to all, was part of something big and dirty. Something that went beyond a revenge killing.

  “I think you’ve got it wrong,” Frank said. “I’m not going anywhere. Now get the fuck out and don’t come back, or I guarantee, you’ll be the next victim.”

  42

  Kevin tapped on the door to Barb Capozzi’s hospital room. She was sitting up in bed, hair brushed and, if he wasn’t mistaken, wearing lipstick. Though she still wore a hospital gown and her neck was bandaged, she managed to look put together. Not a bad achievement for a woman who’d almost died o
f anaphylactic shock.

  Lots of flower arrangements stood on the window sill—big ones with balloons, baskets, a vase of roses. A Sentinel lay on the bed, and CNN flashed mute images on the TV. Kevin noted the small black suitcase beside the bed. Barb was ready to get out. She was frowning over her cell phone but looked up when he entered.

  “Are you allowed to use that here?” Kevin asked.

  She tucked the phone against her side. “I don’t know. Nobody said I couldn’t. I know you, don’t I?” Her voice still sounded a bit hoarse, but it enhanced the natural seductive quality. She could have done phone sex. Maybe she had.

  “I don’t think so.” Kevin started to fumble for his ID as she assessed him.

  “I never forget a face. You’re Kevin Ryan. We went to the same high school. I know your brother.”

  “And you’re Barb Capozzi,” Kevin said, holding out his ID.

  She widened her dark eyes and gave him a coy smile. “Am I under arrest?”

  He didn’t return the smile and kept his face neutral. “I’m hoping you’ll answer some questions for me. I had an interesting conversation with Ted Eliot about your friend Greg Moss.”

  She didn’t freeze up, didn’t get hostile. She just gazed up at him as if she were trying to determine how much he knew and how much she needed to say.

  “Is Ted in trouble?” she asked at last.

  “I don’t know. He’s an addict.”

  “And he got clean. It’s been tough for him. His family’s a nightmare. All Ted’s ever wanted was to not be part of that world. I know it sounds weird, but he’s a decent guy.”

  “Is he?” Kevin pulled out a chair and sat. “He likes his fancy clothes. That stupid watch.”