Whenever he visited, Broome couldn't help but think, It could have been me. One would have thought that would lead to a strong yearning on his part. It did and it didn't. His most immediate and powerful reaction was relief--a there-but-for-the-grace-of-God, whistling-past-the-graveyard sort of escape from his own destiny. But then, well, he looked at Erin's face and all that fell away.
Years ago, he and Erin had started off as cop partners riding together. They had quickly fallen deeply in love and married. That was the end of their riding together--no married couples in the same squad car--and the beginning of their troubles. The marriage, despite the love, was a disaster. That was how it worked sometimes. Marriage builds bonds in some relationships. It destroys everything in others.
He knocked on the door. Erin's four-year-old, Shamus, answered it, a melted ice pop lining his mouth red and coloring his teeth. The kid looked exactly like his father, and for some reason that pissed Broome off. "Hey, Uncle Broome."
Even kids called him Broome.
"Hey, kid. Where's Mom?"
"I'm in the kitchen," Erin shouted.
After he and Erin divorced, they petitioned to ride again together as partners. It took a while, but permission was finally granted. Balance was restored--at least, their version of it. But they couldn't let each other go. Even as they tentatively began to date other people, Broome and Erin continued to sleep together on the side. This went on for a long time. Too long. They would try to make themselves stop, but when you are in close proximity hour after hour, well, as they say, the flesh is weak. They had hooked up several times during her courtship with Sean, even as Sean and Erin grew serious, finally stopping once and for all when the new couple said, "I do."
But even now, even after all these years, the feelings were still there, that undercurrent. Last year, with two kids in tow and twenty-five years on the job, Erin had taken early retirement. Well, semiretirement--one day a week for managerial purposes. Broome remained a part of her life. He came to her for advice. He came to her for help on a case. He came to her because even though she had clearly moved on and her new marriage made her happy and he had blown his best chance at true happiness, Broome was still in love with her.
The computer's wallpaper was a family photo of Erin, Sean, the two kids, and the dog in front of the Christmas tree. Broome tried not to roll his eyes.
"How was your meeting with Cassie?" Erin asked.
"Strange."
"Do tell."
He did. Erin wore a bright green polo shirt and a pink skirt that showed off her legs. She always had great legs. She looked at him the way she always did, and he tried to pretend that it wasn't affecting him. Erin was happy now. She was a mother and in love with Sean. Broome had been relegated to the past, someone she still cared about and loved in a way, but nothing that kept her up at night anymore.
Part of him was glad about that. Most of him was heartbroken.
When he finished Erin said, "So what do you make of it?"
"Don't know."
"Any clue at all?"
Broome thought about it. "She wasn't lying, but I don't think she was telling the entire truth. I need to look into it more." He gestured with his chin toward the laptop and files. "What have you got?"
Her smile said that she found something big. "The surveillance videos from La Creme."
"What about them?"
"I've been going through them."
Erin clicked a button on the keyboard. The Anderson family Christmas picture vanished, thank the Lord, and a still frame from the video appeared. Erin hit another key. The video came to life. There were maybe two seconds of silence and then a group of clearly inebriated men stumbled out the club's entrance.
"Did you see Carlton Flynn in any of the videos?" Broome asked.
"No."
"Then what?"
"Just watch," Erin said with the small smile on her face. "What do you see on the screen?"
"A bunch of drunk idiots leaving a strip joint."
"Look closer."
He sighed and squinted at the screen. She hit another key on the computer. Yet another group of drunks came stumbling out. She hit the key again. Another group. One more click of the key. This time, a couple came out, also clearly inebriated. The woman stopped suddenly, turned to the man, grabbed the beads around the man's neck, and pulled him in for a hard kiss.
Broome frowned at the sight. He was about to ask her what the big deal was when he stopped. Something clicked into place.
"Wait, go back one."
Still smiling, Erin clicked the back button. Broome squinted again. The drunken men were wearing beads too. She clicked back again. The same thing. Broome thought back to his own work with the videos. So much drinking. So much partying.
And so many beads.
"Mardi Gras," Broome said softly.
"Bingo," Erin said. "Now guess what day Mardi Gras was this year."
"February eighteenth."
"And for the bonus points, guess what day Mardi Gras was seventeen years ago."
"February eighteenth."
"Correct answers. Mardi Gras is a different date every year--the day before Ash Wednesday, forty-seven days before Easter. So I checked the other guys you had on your list. For example, when Gregg Wagman vanished three years ago on March fourth... ?"
"It was Mardi Gras?"
Erin nodded. "It pretty much fits for every missing guy you have. I mean, some of the guys were reported missing later--days or even weeks--but when I go through the file, none vanished before Mardi Gras. I'm not saying I can prove they all disappeared on that day--or in some cases, past midnight that night--but it all works into that nice little theory of yours."
"So it isn't a particular day or month," Broome said.
"It is not."
"Whatever is going on," Broome said, "and we don't know what that is--it could be murders or runaways or who knows, but whatever is going on..."
Erin nodded. "It starts on Mardi Gras."
Broome's cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and saw it was from the station. "Hello?"
"Detective Broome?"
"Yes?"
"A photograph just arrived at the station. I think you're going to want to see it."
HARRY SUTTON'S LAW OFFICE OFFERED up the perfect Atlantic City view. In the distance--and by distance he only meant three blocks east--you could see the aging albeit still somewhat grand hotels along the Boardwalk. But between those high-rises and his shabby office building was pretty much a vast wasteland of decay. Whatever wealth or beauty the hotels and casinos gave off, they were self-contained and not the least bit contagious. There is no trickle down. If the hotels are flowers, they remain stuck in the middle of the weeds.
It wasn't just that Harry liked the sex, gambling, and action of this city, though there was no doubt all of that was intoxicating. It was that these people--the native population if you will--were also powerless. In his white-shoe-lawyer days, Harry had helped the most powerful, those who had the game of life ridiculously rigged for their benefit from birth, yet still needed to cheat. The people here were the direct opposite. They had been born with nothing going for them. The only luck they knew was bad. They wouldn't know a break unless it involved a bone.
What they needed, what they deserved, was to know what it was like--at least once in their lives--to have someone on their side. To be respected. Just once. Nothing more. Forget guilt or innocence. Forget right or wrong. Whatever else happened in their mostly pathetic lives, Harry Sutton would make sure that they knew that feeling at least once.
That was why Harry Sutton had stayed in Atlantic City.
That and he loved the sex, gambling, and action.
The phone rang. He picked it up himself and said, "Harry Sutton, Attorney at Law."
"I need to see your client again."
It was Broome.
"Stop wearing me down with the charm and get to the point," Harry said.
"I need to see her right away."
/> Harry didn't like the panic in the cop's voice. "I don't know if that's possible."
"Make it possible."
Sutton was used to cop impatience and intimidation. It didn't faze him much, but something odd was happening here. "What's wrong?"
"There have been new developments."
"Such as?"
"There may be other victims."
Silence.
"I don't see how that involves my client."
"I got a photograph in the mail."
"From whom?"
"I don't know. It came in anonymously. Look, just trust me here. I need to know if she recognizes anyone or anything in it."
Sutton hesitated.
"Harry?"
"What?"
"You notice I'm not making any threats. I'm not, for example, telling you that I could probably track her down now and go to her house and tell her neighbors. I'm not saying I'm going to get a composite sketch of her in all the papers, stuff like that."
"Well, it's reassuring to hear that you're keeping your word."
"I don't have time for games, Harry. We could be dealing with a serial killer here. I'm doing my best to keep her out of it. She came back to do the right thing. Let's let her finish the job."
"I can call and ask her," Harry said.
"A lot of things are breaking so I need to stay close to the precinct. Can you bring her down here?"
"To the precinct? You're joking, right?"
"It'll be fine."
"No, it won't. We'll meet you at the Heritage Diner." It was only a block from the precinct--not perfect but it would be okay.
"I need her here pronto."
"Then let me go so I can call her," Harry said. "If you don't hear back from me, let's assume we'll meet at the diner in half an hour."
Harry hung up the phone and dialed Cassie's cell phone. She answered on the third ring. "Hello?"
He heard noises in the background that strongly indicated that she wasn't driving home. "Where are you?"
"At La Creme."
Harry Sutton wasn't surprised. Broome had seen it too. Something other than righting a wrong had called her back here.
"I was about to call you," she said.
"Oh?"
"I want to tell Broome something important."
"Well, this will work out fine then."
"Why? What's up?"
Harry Sutton explained about Broome's call and his desire to meet at the Heritage Diner. "Is that okay for you?" he asked.
"I guess so," Cassie said. There was a brief pause. "Do you have any idea what's in this photograph?"
"No, but Broome clearly thinks it's important. He said something about a serial killer."
Some men laughed in the background. Harry held on to the phone and waited.
"Cassie?"
"Okay," she said. "I'll meet you at the diner in fifteen minutes."
Harry Sutton hung up the phone. He spun his chair and took another look out the window at the familiar view of his city. There was a knock on the door. He checked his watch. Late. He didn't have time for any more business tonight, but it wasn't his way to send anyone away.
"Enter!" he shouted with his customary gusto.
A young couple who very much didn't belong opened the door and stepped into the office.
The pretty blond girl said, "Good evening, Mr. Sutton!"
They were both clean-cut and smiling and neatly dressed, and for some reason, a reason Harry couldn't put his finger on--a reason that he'd soon learn was primitive and instinctive and absolutely correct--Harry felt more fear than he'd ever felt in his life.
13
STILL AT LA CREME, Megan fingered the "Celeb Experience: Paparazzi for Hire" card. She flipped it over and read "Weak Signal Bar and Grill." A text buzzed her phone. She checked it and saw that it was from Dave: WHERE ARE YOU???
She debated ignoring it, but really, how long could she do that? In the long run, it would cause more problems. She wondered about what to do here, what she should say now--and what she would be forced to tell him in the next few days. That facade she had created all those years ago had become over the years more her than, uh, her. But that didn't mean Dave would understand.
She looked at his simple message again: Where are you???
Facade, Megan knew, was really just a politically correct term for lie. She had lied to Dave the first time they met, at the hotel bar in Boston, a scant four months after she had run away from Atlantic City. She was alone and scared and badly in need of cash. With no prospects and afraid to even work at one of the local clubs, Megan survived by rolling guys. She'd dress in the casual jeans look of a co-ed ("I'm a senior at Emerson," she'd claim), hang out at hotel bars, get guys (preferably married ones) drunk or sometimes slip something into their drink, take them upstairs to their rooms, rob them, and disappear into the night.
On that particular night, she decided to try the Loews downtown hotel for the first time. The pickings in the married category had been slim. A group of Harvard boys stumbled their way in, whooping and hollering. She tried not to hate them with their smug faces and soft hands.
She figured that this would be easy money, though she knew college kids rarely carried cash, and then something surprising happened. Who knew what? Call it fate or destiny or whatever, but she started talking to one of them, a shy, sweet guy named Dave Pierce. Something about him simply drew her. He made her feel warm and comfortable. It wasn't like with Ray. There was no immediate thunder crack. That would come later. But there was something else, something deep and strong and real.
So she lied to him. What choice did she have?
They talked all night, and it was wonderful. He was graduating from Harvard. She claimed to be graduating from Emerson. When they got together for their first real date a week later, she even told him to meet her at the Emerson College library. This was in the days before you needed student IDs to get into every building. She simply stacked a bunch of books on a table and waited for him.
The lies just continued.
She knew plenty about the campus. She told him that she lived in the Colonial Residence Hall but claimed that he couldn't stop by because she had a difficult roommate who hated company. In terms of family, she told him the truth--she was an only child and her parents had died young. She made up a fake, normal, boring childhood in Muncie, Indiana, and acted as though the memories of losing her parents made talking about it too much to bear. Dave was sympathetic. If there were holes in her story--and there were--Dave never looked too closely at them. He was both a trusting soul and in love. If she chose to keep things from him, well, that added to the mystery and maybe even the attraction. In his naive world, it couldn't be anything major. What difference could a few contradictory life details make anyway?
Plus Maygin-Cassie-Megan was an awfully good liar.
But now the facade--read: lies--were in serious jeopardy of crumbling. After all the years, after all the hard work, she had chosen to risk it all. And for what? Righting the past? A little excitement? Or subconsciously, did she want to get caught? Was the mask simply too heavy to wear for the rest of her life?
How would Dave react to the truth?
Megan took a deep breath and texted back:
THE PRESIERS ARE DRIVING KAYLIE'S CARPOOL TODAY.
JORDAN HAS MATH TEST. MAKE SURE HE STUDIES.
There was a brief pause and then another text from Dave:
WHERE ARE YOU?!?!?
Megan stared at the small screen for a moment. Then she typed:
I HAVE SOMETHING I HAVE TO DO. NOT SURE WHEN I'LL BE
HOME. LOVE YOU.
Another pause. Megan waited for the phone to ring. It didn't. Instead she received another text from her husband:
I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
She quickly replied.
IT WILL BE OKAY. JUST TRUST ME.
Ha. She meant it and really, when you thought about it, what a joke. Trust me. Talk about irony. She didn't wait for a reply. Time to visit Broome
again.
She closed up her phone and started to rise from the barstool. The crowd was picking up, and Lorraine was busy. She nodded a good-bye at her old friend, and Lorraine arched an eyebrow in return. She headed to the door, threading through men who openly stared at her. In normal society, men want to stare like this, but we force them to be surreptitious. In here, the cover charge gives them the right to put such pretenses away.
She wondered for a brief second whether Dave had ever been to a place like this. If he had, he hadn't told her, but as she knew too well, most married men don't. Had he been to a club like this before? Would he too enjoy openly ogling or having a lap dance or what? Did it matter?