The 8th Circle (6 page)

I
n the morning, Danny threw his research in a satchel along with the camera. He figured he could work out of the Penn Law Library for a few hours after he returned the camera. Beowulf lay by the door, his head between his paws, and watched him with his sad eyes. Had he always done that or had Conor taught it to him? The sad eyes, the silent plea for more dad time.

“I wish I knew his secret,” Beth once had said.

“What secret is that?”

“How to get your attention.”

“You always have my attention, Beth.”

She had slumped a little. “I used to.”

Danny had put his arms around her. He’d watched her try to blink away her tears before he gathered her against him. “The day you said yes to me was the happiest of my life. I’ve never regretted it. Maybe you have, but not me.”

“I don’t regret it,” she’d said against his chest. “I miss us. I miss the way we were.”

“We’ll get it back,” he’d said. And they had, to a point. Some weeks were good, especially when her workload eased, and he would see his Beth, sunlit and smiling. She’d spend hours with Conor, reading and playing with puzzles. Later they would make love like they had in the early days.

But those other weeks, when the stress had worn her down, Beth’s temper would turn stormy, and Conor quickly learned to pack up his toys and head to his room when she pulled into the driveway. Danny knew she hated sitting home; he wanted her to go back to work, but Beth had begun to believe he worked against her with Conor, as if parenting was a competition to be won.

Danny looked at Beowulf and grabbed his leash. “Come on, you win. We’ll go to the park, but not for long. I have work to do today.”

*

Novell swallowed a cup of black coffee and refilled it. It tasted like hell, but at least it was real coffee. He eyed the young blonde sitting in the metal chair, swinging her right leg over her left. Sean entered with a soda and handed it to her with a smile, which she returned.

“So, Ashley, you worked as a nanny for the Ryans for a year?” Sean asked.

“I did. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about the accident. Conor was such a sweet little guy. He was just like his dad. So adorable.”

Novell filed the information away. Maybe Beth Ryan didn’t like the nanny gushing over her husband and son.

Sean leaned in. “I’m sure it was a great place to work. Would you say they were a happy couple?”

“Oh my God, yes. I mean I wasn’t there all the time, but they seemed happy. I think Mrs. Ryan sometimes got upset because Conor would miss his French lessons, so I started working with him. Like I’d go with him and his dad to the park and all and go over French.”

“And Mrs. Ryan didn’t mind?”

“No. She was fine. One time someone thought I was Conor’s mom. Can you imagine? And then Conor started kindergarten not long after, and Mrs. Ryan let me go.”

Novell looked at Sean. Had Ryan cheated on his wife? Did it matter?

Sean said, “Did you know Michael Cohen?”

She frowned. “The creepy fat guy? Yeah, he used to come over. Mrs. Ryan didn’t like him. She told me to keep Conor away from him. Even Mr. Ryan agreed with that, and he was always so laid back.”

“So she was afraid Michael Cohen would hurt Conor?”

Ashley took a sip of soda and considered. “I don’t know what she thought exactly except that he was creepy. Real creepy. If a kid went missing where he lived, he’d be the first person I’d suspect.”

*

Danny had gotten a later start than he planned, and it had been frustrating. He was still trying to trace the owner of the house in Gladwyne but had only a name: John Smith, whom he had traced to a holding company and then nowhere. One holding company led to another and another until his eyes were burning.

When he pulled into his driveway, Beowulf wasn’t barking. Odd. He walked straight to the back door. Unlocked. The kitchen in disarray.

The drawers and cupboards gaped open, their contents strewn on the floor. Danny stepped over the mess. Every room downstairs was ransacked, but he ignored the shattered crystal and broken china, opening doors and trying to subdue his growing panic.

“Wolf?”

He didn’t care about the mess. Where the hell was Beowulf? He ran back to the kitchen. Danny opened the door and stared into the growing darkness. His breath blew out in cloudy puffs, and he found himself making childish bargains with a God he knew wasn’t listening.
Please let him be all right. I’ll go back to church. I’ll do goddamn anything. Don’t take him too
.

Then he noticed the footprints. Dark against the gravel driveway, they led to the garage.

“Wolf!” Danny tried to force air into his lungs, but they wouldn’t expand.

If he didn’t move, everything would be all right. He knew that.

Never open that one door. It’s always the thing you fear: the state cop with his kind eyes, the blue-and-red lights reflecting against the falling snow. “Mr. Daniel Ryan? There’s been an accident.”

He found himself walking to the garage and pulling the door open. In the dim light, he could see boxes pulled from shelves, his old college yearbooks scattered amid the tools and odd bits of Christmas decorations. Beowulf lay in the middle of the floor, still as if he were asleep, but a pool of blood encircled his shattered head.

*

Cops swarmed through his house, taking pictures of the destruction, pawing through the downstairs, upstairs, his bedroom, and Conor’s room. They questioned Danny about his substantial cache of prescription drugs, each bottle untouched. They made him account for his time over and over, like maybe he’d trashed his own house and killed his own dog in some kind of psychotic break with reality.

Danny leaned against the kitchen door and gripped Beowulf’s tags until the metal dug into the skin of his palm. The pain kept him focused. Kept the surge at bay.

Let go and feel, Danny. Pain is good. It’s a first step
.

His right hand was bleeding.

By the time the cops left, it was after eight. Only Novell remained.

Danny turned to him. “Did you forget something?”

“Thought I’d help you bury your dog,” Novell said, his voice mild.

“Forget it.”

“No. He’s big.”

“Thank you.”

Danny couldn’t stand to look at Novell, not with tears burning his eyes. Christ, his old man would have a good laugh if he could see him now.

The phone rang, and Danny tripped over a pile of silverware lying on the kitchen floor. He kicked at it and grabbed the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Danny Boy, you sound out of breath.” The voice was little more than a whisper but full of malice.

“Who is this?”

“You got our message. That’s good.”

The phone slipped against his bloody palm. “What do you want?”

“This was a warning. You understand? Keep out of what don’t concern you. Be smart. Give us the package and walk away.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The package Michael Cohen brought you.”

Danny looked at the crap on the floor. Michael had a package? But he didn’t. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. “Look, asshole, I don’t have any goddamn package—”

“Wrong answer.”

The phone clicked.

N
ovell watched Ryan stand at the kitchen sink and run water over his hands. His shirt and the front of his suit jacket were stiff with blood, and if Novell hadn’t seen it, he wouldn’t have thought Ryan had it in him to heft that dog and stagger with him down to an area near the duck pond surrounded by willow trees. They buried him there, neither of them speaking. It wasn’t until they got back to the house that Novell realized how ripped up Ryan’s hands were.

His first thought was soft city boy, nothing like his old man. His second was maybe strength came in different packages.

“Would you like a drink, Detective?”

“Sure, I could use one.” Novell wanted to forget burying that dog. He wanted to forget a lot of things.

Ryan wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face Novell. Silver lines of tears cut through the dirt on Ryan’s face, and Novell thought of the book of martyrs again.

“You’re a scotch man,” Ryan said.

“Good guess.”

“My father was a scotch man.” Ryan pointed to a doorway. “I don’t think they completely trashed the bar.”

Novell followed him out of the kitchen into the family room and stepped over a couple of shattered crystal vases. Expensive.
Was there anything in this house that didn’t cost a fortune? Books were scattered across the floor, and someone had pitched the family photographs throughout the room like Frisbees. Novell wanted to straighten the oil portrait that hung at a crazy angle from the wall. The perfect family—young, attractive, too good to be true. Novell turned away and surveyed the room.

It was three times the size of his condo—new construction made to look old with its exposed beams, high windows with leaded glass, and cathedral ceiling. The fancy furniture was all earthy greens, deep reds, and rich golds with matching pillows, now tossed helter-skelter. A mahogany bar stood in the corner. It appeared intact.

“Whoever was here left with all the beer and most of the vodka.” Ryan held up a fifth of Chivas. “This okay or are you a single malt man? I’ve got a case of Glenfiddich.”

“Chivas is fine.”

“Straight okay?”

Novell nodded. “You don’t drink?”

“Never was much good at it.” Ryan poured a double shot of Chivas and handed it to Novell. He opened a bottle of club soda for himself. “Now I bet your partner McFarland’s an imported beer man. Heineken. Guinness. Or maybe Dos Equis with a wedge of lime.”

“And you know this because?”

Ryan gave him a half smile. “I grew up around cops and drunks. Haven’t you done your research on me?” He laughed when Novell didn’t answer. “Yeah, you have. You’re too thorough a cop not to have checked me out. What were you before this? Secret Service? DEA? FBI?”

Novell swallowed his scotch and tried not to be impressed. “Door number three.”

“Ah, big time. So why’d you leave?”

Ryan’s quiet voice invited him to lean a little closer, assured him he was a sympathetic listener, and intimated it was safe to open up, but Novell wasn’t fooled. Ryan focused on his face, like
he was trying to look inside, and Novell knew he wanted to take notes. Treacherous fuck. All reporters were the same.

“I put in my twenty. It was time.” Novell shifted. He didn’t like the half smile that played on Ryan’s lips.

“You don’t strike me as a guy who puts in his twenty and quits.”

Novell set down his glass on the bar, and Ryan refilled it. It was a beautiful sight, that scotch, like liquid amber. He breathed it in. “You trying to get me drunk, Ryan?”

“You drink too much, Detective?”

“Your phone call. Tell me about it.”

Ryan shrugged. “Nothing to tell. I’ve been asking some questions about Michael, and my visitors took offense.”

“That was them on the phone?”

“Sure.”

“You weren’t gonna tell us? Didn’t it occur to you that that’s the sort of thing the police are for?”

“To protect and serve? Not really.” Ryan gave him that half smile, his face white, fatigue pinching the corners of his mouth. But those dark blue eyes burned with a reckless determination. Novell knew that look. It usually led to some messy ending. Guys on missions were dangerous.

Still, Novell was damned if he didn’t feel an odd kinship with him. Tommy Ryan’s kid was on a mission. The elder Ryan would get a grim laugh out of that.

“Was Michael carrying anything that night?” Ryan said.

“Like?”

“Like a package.”

Novell frowned. “No package.”

“Still, maybe there’s something—”

“This is a police investigation.”

“You don’t seem to be making much progress.”

Novell stiffened. “All right, smart guy. You said Michael wasn’t an investigative reporter. Why do you think he got killed?”

Ryan’s expression remained bland. “Michael was doing a story on Philly nightlife. Maybe he stumbled upon something.”

Novell could tell that Ryan chose his words carefully. Did he risk pulling him in for questioning and have him lawyer up? No. Not yet. Ryan was the best lead to Michael Cohen’s murder they had. If he wanted to dangle himself as bait, that was his choice. For now.

“What would he stumble upon?” Novell asked. “Drugs?”

Ryan shrugged. “As far as I know, Michael’s drug use was recreational. He did clubs too. Have you looked into that?”

“We’ve made a list.”

“Could I see it?”

Novell almost choked. “Damn it. This isn’t the Hardy Boys. You don’t go running off like you’re some kind of storybook detective.”

“Christ, if you’re going to make me a detective, at least choose someone interesting.” Ryan grinned, and for the first time, he looked like the man whose face lit up the sides of all those buses. Then the grin disappeared, and his face turned distant. “I knew Michael. Let me see his notes. I can help.”

“You looking to win another big writing prize?” When Ryan winced, Novell looked away. Michael Cohen might have been his friend, but for all he knew, Ryan was planning his comeback on this case.

“You think winning a prize will make everything better?” Ryan’s voice sank to a hoarse rasp. “I don’t have anything left.”

“And I can’t take responsibility for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Losing that dog wasn’t enough? If you keep this up, maybe next time they’ll go after the rest of your family. I know you’ve got a brother. And a sister.”

“Fuck you, Novell.”

“No. You’re the one who’s fucked.”

Novell watched Ryan cradle inward to absorb the impact of his words. He swallowed the second scotch and poured himself a third.

D
anny knelt on his office floor and combed through the debris. It was after three. Maybe he couldn’t face bed tonight.

Danny shuddered. He salvaged his Pulitzer from its broken frame. He’d been twenty-four years old and got it for local beat reporting. The ongoing investigation of the Sandman. His father’s last case.

The Sandman killings. Over a period of ten months, the cops had found twenty-two teenage girls strangled with red ribbons in the Northern Liberties section of the city, and the strangulation had been the kindest thing done to them. Tortured over days and partially skinned, none of the girls had ever been identified.

The lost girls. Who wept for the lost?

His life had changed after that case. He’d become a star in Andy Cohen’s universe, while his father had fallen into the abyss.

His father had brought down the Sandman, a derelict named Paulie Ritter, and then resigned. He had walked away after forty-two years on the job without an explanation and had gone back to their house in South Philly.

When Danny had tried to talk to him, the old man had told him to get lost.

“Give it up, you fucking vulture. I’m done. I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Don’t you want to tell your story?”

The old man’s face had flushed crimson. “You don’t give a shit about my story. You want to make a name for yourself. This is how you get your pound of flesh.” Swaying from side to side, his father had stood in the middle of Third Street. He’d needed a shave, and his shirt was splotched with grease stains. “Stay away from me. Go suck up to that Jew and his cokehead friends you like so much. You make me sick just to look at you.”

By then Danny had learned not to show weakness in front of his father. “So you’re going to go crawl into a bottle and die? That’s fitting.”

The old man had spat in the street. “I am dead, boy. Can’t you hear the banshee wailing? Don’t come back.”

Danny pressed his hands against his forehead. His right eye socket ached as if he’d been punched. Growing up, he’d learned how to take a punch. No choice there. He was the youngest, the runt of the litter.

He pulled out the black-and-white card. It was clearly a membership to a club of some kind. Now he needed to find the club. He turned the card over and stared at the red teardrop. On closer examination, it could have been a flame.

Under the Pulitzer was a broken frame with a picture of Conor staring out. Danny lifted it carefully and carried it back to his desk.

Often at night while working, he’d look up to find Conor standing in the doorway, his left hand stuck in the front of his pajama bottoms and his right hand clutching his blue lightsaber.

“There’s a monster in my closet, Daddy,” Conor would say. “I can’t go to sleep.”

It didn’t matter how many nightlights he’d bought or how many times he’d checked the closet; Danny would end up lying on the bed that always seemed a little too narrow and holding Conor until they both drifted off to sleep. He’d wake up at three in the morning with Conor’s hands twisted in his shirt and a light saber jabbing his gut, and he’d wonder why the monster couldn’t take a night off.

Danny ran his fingers over the edge of Conor’s picture. Now he had the king-size bed to himself and would give everything to feel the weight of his son’s head against his chest again, to untangle those palms from his shirt and breathe in the light sweat and shampoo smell that was Conor.

He draped Beowulf’s tags over the picture.

Before he had a wife and son, Danny had Beowulf. He’d rescued him from a dumpster, a mass of sores and cuts, and Wolf had repaid him with unquestioning love and devotion. Danny picked up a crystal paperweight Beth had given him and hurled it across the room. It smashed against the fireplace, showering chips of glass to the floor.

Who wept for the lost? Weeping wasn’t enough. Someone needed to give a damn. Danny didn’t care who these people were. He’d expose them. He’d lied when he told Novell he had nothing left. There was the black Irish anger he’d inherited from his father. That was enough for now.