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Wow!“Wow!”
John checked his phone. “Anyway, I have work to do. Can you take that thumb drive and call Andre?”
“Sure, but I have to do something for Gabby. You’re here for the rest of the day, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t go anywhere.” I didn’t want to worry about John being followed, but he was already typing into his phone.
“What are you doing for Gabby?”
“She’s suing on behalf of inmates at Holmesburg during the sixties. They were used for medical experimentation.”
“That’s a loser,” John said absently, reading his phone.
Chapter Twenty
I left the office and hurried out to the parking lot, scanning for the Volvo or the Hyundai. I got in the car and took off, troubled. Now that I knew how much Runstan stood to gain with the acquisition, it made sense that Stan didn’t want to go to the police about Lemaire. But if Lemaire had been murdered, John and I were obstructing justice and putting ourselves in the crosshairs.
I satisfied myself that I wasn’t being followed, so I focused on driving to meet Joe Ferguson, the first person on the list for Gabby’s lawsuit. Cars and tractor-trailers clogged the road, and I entered Marcus Hook, a small town at the southernmost border of Delaware County, birthplace of the Philadelphia Accent. We had grown up in nearby Norwood and still had its bona fide flato’s and droppedg’s, to my parents’ consternation.
I passed a Wawa and a Fireworks Supercenter, then turned onto a street lined with modest two-story brick homes, their low-profile roofs dotted with satellite dishes. The front yards were small, and American flags flapped in the sunshine with Flyers banners. None of the houses had driveways, so along the curb were a lineup of older cars. I could have made a fortune flipping them, but today I was on a mission.
I parked in front of the Ferguson house, got my messenger bag, and knocked on the door. Its wood trim alligatored in grimy patches and its brickwork needed repointing. White shades covered the windows. The door was opened by a middle-aged Black woman in maroon scrubs with a pin-on tag that readdelco homecareabove her name, Pam.
“Can I help you?” she asked from over the chain lock.
“My name is TJ Devlin, and I’m here to see Joe Ferguson about a lawsuit over Holmesburg. My sister, Gabby, called about our contacting you?”
“I remember, but this isn’t the best time—”
“Let him in!” a man yelled behind her, presumably Ferguson.
“Come in.” Pam smiled, unlocked the chain, and I entered the small living room, surprised to see that Joe Ferguson was a very sick man. He lay in a pleather recliner with a crocheted afghan covering his short, thin body. Cigarette smoke wreathed his grizzled head, and his dark skin had a grayish pallor. His eyes and cheeks were sunken, but his aspect was sharp as he fixed a frown on me.
“What are you lookin’ at, son?”
I felt like I was intruding. “Are you sure this is an okay time? I can come back—”
“There’s no other time!”
“Okay, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Call me Joe!”
Pam shot him a look, picking up a handbag and keys from a side table. “I have to go to the store, and I’ll leave you two alone. See you later.”
“Siddown.” Joe motioned to the plaid chair beside him, which faced an old television on a wooden cart. A tray table held a box of Kleenex, brown medicine bottles, and a crowded ashtray.
“Thank you.” I took a seat, setting the messenger bag on the floor. “My name is TJ—”
“I’m dyin’, not deaf.” Joe sucked on his cigarette, drawing his cheeks. “You didn’t know, did you?”
My mouth went dry. “No.”
Joe snorted. “Don’t worry. You’re dyin’, too.”
“I know.”
