The River Killings

THE
RIVER
KILLINGS

MERRY JONES

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously

T
HOMAS
D
UNNE
B
OOKS
.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

THE RIVER KILLINGS
. Copyright © 2006 by Merry Jones. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jones, Merry Bloch.

The river killings : a Zoe Hayes mystery / Merry Jones. — 1st U.S. ed.

     p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-33041-5

ISBN-10: 0-312-33041-3

1 Women—Crimes against—Fiction. 2. Serial murders—Fiction. 3. Rowing—Fiction. 4. Women rowers—Fiction. 5. Philadelphia (Pa.)—Fiction. 6. Schuylkill River (Pa.)—Fiction. 7. Single mothers— Fiction. 8. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 9. Detectives— Pennsylvania—Philadelphia—Fiction. i. Title.

PS3610.O6273R58 2006

813’.54—dc22

2006005613

First Edition: October 2006

10987654321

To Robin, Baille and Neely

I owe thanks beyond words to my agent, Liza Dawson, and to Thomas Dunne, Marcia Markland and Diana Szu at Thomas Dunne Books. They are dream-makers.

Thanks also to:

Vesper Boat Club, Masters Rowing Association and Win Tech Racing, organizations that have made it possible for me to become part of the rowing world.

My first coach, Kay Mac Donald; my first doubles partner, Ellen Carver; my first mixed-quad racing mates, John and Alexis Franklin; my favorite cheerleader, Gus Constant; Chicago River Rowing founder, Susan Urbas; Schuylkill Navy Commodore Clete Graham; renowned boat producer, rower and coach Drew Harrison; relentless Masters rowers Lee Barber, Michael and Patti Glick, Davinder Singh, Maria Raymond, John and Catherine Holdsworth, Red and Sarah Sargent, and the many other awesome rowers, coaches, referees and officials who frequent the Schuylkill River.

My mom, Judy Bloch, and my sister, Janet Martin, for their quiet encouragement and pithy wisdom. Nancy Delman for her dark humor and our scintillating walk-and-talks on the lake. Jane Braun for sharing belly laughs and oldies even in the toughest times.

Lanie Zera, for her insightful reading, her morale boosts, her enduring spirit and her company at too infrequent trips to the spa. Sue Solovy Mulder, Michael and Jan Molinaro, Sue Francke,
Ruth Waldfogel and Steve Zindell for nurturing enthusiasm and precious friendships.

Sam the Corgi for keeping guard under my desk as I wrote.

My daughters, Baille and Neely, for teaching me so patiently in ever-changing circumstances what it means to be a mom. Also, Baille for rowing and racing a double with me and Neely for making her own good choices.

My husband, Robin, for closely reading and commenting on every draft of this book, and for rowing with me in all kinds of weather, moving our boat together along the river of life, one stroke at a time.

My late dad, Herman Bloch, and late brother, Aaron Bloch, for showing a young child the importance of imagining, and for leaving me with so many rich memories.

T
HE
W
ATER
G
LEAMED
S
ILVER
AND B
LACK
L
IKE
A S
TREAM
OF M
ER
cury winding through the night. The almost full moon and the traffic lights on Kelly Drive spilled some light our way, and Susan had clipped a red blinking flash onto the back of her spandex top. Even so, as we shoved off the boathouse dock, we were clearly alone on the inky river, only a thin layer of carbon fiber separating us from the chilly waters of the Schuylkill River.

For June, the night was unnaturally muggy. The weather had been abnormal lately, the air swelling, sticky and humid, with temperatures in the high eighties too early and for too many days. After sunset, the air had begun to cool, but it hung heavily, as if exhausted from the day.

Maybe I was projecting; I was drained, having spent a long, stifling day at the Institute, finishing paperwork and saying goodbye to patients, some of whom wouldn’t be there anymore when I returned from a two-week break. My head was crowded with their incomplete art projects and unfinished therapy programs, and I wanted simply to collapse at home, sorting myself out, chilling under a ceiling fan.

By contrast, Susan had taken the day off, staying in her air-conditioned Center City home, supervising contractors who were putting in skylights and redoing the deck. She’d been desperate to get out of the house and singularly unmoved by my claims of fatigue.

“The water’s completely calm,” she’d promised. “The row will be easy and quiet. The river will be empty—no coaching launches to speed by and wake us. In fact, there won’t be any other boats out at all.”

She sounded pleased, as if being the only boat on the river in the dark was a plus. Frankly, I was uncomfortable rowing at night. The water was too black, too silent. Rowing on it seemed risky

I’d tried to put up an argument. “Susan, we’re still novices.”

“Exactly. That’s why we should go now, while it’s quiet. It’ll be easier water than during the day. Trust me.”

I’d sighed, still resisting. “What am I supposed to do with Molly?” Molly was my six-year-old daughter. So far, she’d usually been at school when we rowed. or, on weekends, she and Susan’s daughters Rollerbladed or rode bikes along the river on Kelly Drive. But at night, what was Molly supposed to do? Nick was working late again, and with Angela off on her honeymoon, I had nobody to baby-sit.

But Susan had been undeterred. She’d offered to bring two of her daughters, Emily and Julie. “They’ll all stay at the boathouse,” she’d said. “They’ll watch TV in the lounge for an hour.”

“What about Tony?” Tony Boschetti was the boathouse manager, and we’d heard that he wasn’t happy about members leaving their children alone there.

“Screw Tony. They’ll stay in the lounge. They won’t bother anybody.”

She’d had me. Molly and Emily were best friends; Julie was older, almost eleven. They’d be fine. After all, we’d only be gone for an hour.

And so, despite my reservations, I’d agreed to go. We’d left the girls in the lounge with sodas and bags of popcorn, then gone down to the deserted dock, gotten into the
Andelai
and shoved off.

Susan was energized. In just a few months, she’d become an avid, if not particularly skilled, sculler, bringing to rowing the same relentless fervor that she applied to the rest of her life. Susan did nothing halfway; if she wanted to swim, she threw herself wholeheartedly, headfirst, into the pool. Somehow, she successfully managed her marriage, her three daughters, her active crimi nal defense law practice, her volunteer work at a homeless shelter, her second term as PTA president, her position with the Neighborhood Town Watch, and her never-ending process of redecorating her home and preparing not just healthful but delectable meals for family and friends. Sculling was merely the newest of Susan’s many passions, and I knew from past experience that it was best not to interfere; for a time, she would be utterly consumed.

It was all Nick’s fault. Nick was the man I’d been seeing, and he’d been rowing since high school. The first thing he did when he moved to Philadelphia the year before was to buy a new sculling shell and join a boathouse. And as soon as the winter ice had thawed, he’d begun rowing. Nick rowed when he was stressed or fatigued, when he needed to think or relax, when he needed to work off frustration or uncertainty. He rowed at all hours, often before dawn, and in all weather. When Susan had complained that her thighs were getting flabby, Nick suggested that she take up rowing. Before I knew it, Susan had signed us both up for a Learn-to-Row class. I’d never have taken the class on my own, but Susan had insisted. Rowing would be good for us— less fattening than going to lunch, less expensive than shopping. Besides, she’d argued, fortyish-year-old women like us needed to take action to resist rolling midriffs and the tolls of time.

In the end, though, I took the class not because of anything Susan said, but because I was curious. What was this sport that lured Nick out of bed before the sun was up? For years, I’d been intrigued by the long, sleek shells on the river, the elegant sway of the rowers, the synchrony of their oars. I’d wondered what it would feel like to be one of them, gliding on the water with silent strength and grace. But I’d been an innocent. I’d had no idea how all-consuming this new hobby could become. or how it would change our lives.

By the time our six weeks of Learn-to-Row classes had ended, Susan had become addicted. She’d urged me to join Humberton Barge, one of the oldest rowing clubs on Boathouse Row, and she insisted that we practice daily, preparing to compete in the Schuylkill Navy Regatta, the first race of the summer.

Susan may have been the instigator, but, in my way, I’d become hooked, too. We’d even hired a coach, the controversial but esteemed Preston Everett, to work with us twice a week. A former olympic champion, Coach Everett had the reputation of being both the most cantankerous and the most capable coach on the river. It had been Coach Everett who’d assigned us our boat, a double named
Andelai
. And it had been Coach Everett who’d assigned us our positions. As “bow,” Susan was to steer the boat and give commands; as “stroke,” I was, basically, to keep quiet and obey her.

This arrangement suited Susan perfectly. She enjoyed talking without interruption on any subject that breezed through her mind. As we rowed, she often commented on the natural environment, the lush foliage along the banks, the egrets and loons, the turtles, the ducklings. Depending on her mood, she would rave or rant about her husband, Tim, and any of her three children. She talked about the clients she was defending, the rabid ferocity of prosecutors, the shoulders of the contractors working on her house, the price of slipcovers for her sunroom sofa, a new chili recipe that was rich with chocolate, the outcome of her impending mammogram, how much weight she’d gained or lost, the burgeoning sizes of her teenage daughter’s bras. She saw her role as bow as a license to speak uninterrupted for as long as she wanted about anything. Mostly, I tuned her out. But buried in her monologue were occasional directions about rowing the boat, so I had to tune in at least marginally.

We shoved off the dock, gliding gently away from the glowing lights of Boathouse Row. The water was smooth and sleepy, a dark mirror for the lights, and the boat slid along smoothly, undisturbed, leaving a rippling triangular trail. Rowing at night, I thought, might not be so bad after all. It was peaceful. Romantic, in a way. Maybe Nick would row with me some evening. I pictured it, the two of us alone on the river under the dreamy moon.