"Don't tell anyone, okay?"
"Okay."
Lorraine tried to give him the crooked grin. "Believe it or not, you're the only one I've told. Pathetic, right?"
Broome reached his hand across the bar. For a moment she didn't move. "I'm glad you told me," he said.
She put her hand on his. "I've made choices people don't understand, but I don't have regrets. I was married once, and yeah, true, he was an abusive son of a bitch. But even if he wasn't, that life just wasn't for me. This one was. I've loved it here. It's been a lot of laughs, you know what I mean?"
Broome nodded, met her eye.
More tears came to her eyes. "But this is the part that sucks about having no one, you know? I wish... oh man, I sound like such a baby... I want someone to care. I want someone to be crushed when I go. I want someone to hold my hand when I die."
Again he wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want to sound patronizing. He wanted to do something, anything. Broome liked to be detached--emotions were messy--but he hated feeling helpless.
"I'll be with you, if you want. I'll hold your hand."
"You're sweet, but no."
"I mean it."
"I know you do, but that's what I meant. Sure, I could find some people who pity me enough to be with me at the end. But the kind of thing I'm talking about, you only get that through commitment. You only get that through being with someone during good times and bad, over years, in a real relationship. You don't just get to ask for it in the end, you know what I'm saying?"
"I guess I do."
"It's okay. Like I said, I wouldn't change a thing. That's life. You can find joy and be happy--but you don't get to have everything."
The simple wisdom that is the truth. She smiled at him. He smiled back.
"Lorraine?"
"Yeah."
"You're beautiful, you know."
"You hitting on me?"
"Maybe."
She arched an eyebrow. "Would it be a pity screw?"
"For you or for me?"
She laughed. "Maybe both."
"Even better," Broome said. "I got this case right now, but as soon as it's done..."
"You know where to find me."
Her hand slipped out of his then. She started down toward the other end of the bar. Broome was about to leave when Lorraine said, "I assume Cassie is helping you out?"
"She is. She may have even gotten a look at Harry's killers."
"How?"
"She went back to his office last night."
"Alone or with Ray?"
Broome stopped. "Ray?"
Lorraine's eyes widened a bit. He could see that she wanted to take it back, but Broome was having none of that.
"Who the hell is Ray?"
26
NATURALLY, MEGAN'S FIRST WORRY had been for the safety of her family.
Before she let Broome start going into details, she'd called a few of the stay-at-home mothers. She didn't want to raise suspicions, so she started chatting about the usual suburban inanities: kid sports, the father-coach who favored his own kid, the teachers who gave too much/too little homework, the new online school-lunch ordering system. Broome just shook his head. Eventually Megan got around to asking the mom for a favor, making sure that both Kaylie and Jordan had after-school coverage and even encouraged sleepovers, so they'd be safe and away from the house. She promised to do all the weekend driving in exchange.
That done, Megan tried calling Dave again. Still no answer. She texted, "Stay in the office until you talk to me"--no reply but even under the most pessimistic of scenarios, he wouldn't be home for hours.
Then Broome started talking, and her world, already tilted off its axis, took another hit.
Now here she was, sitting in a windowless room in a police station, trying to give descriptions of two people she barely saw to a sketch artist. She tried to focus. Rick Mason gave her prompts that helped her see that young couple clearer in her mind's eye.
Megan tried to sort through what Broome had told her, but in the end, no matter how many different ways she tried to approach it, none of it made sense. Broome was trying to connect three seemingly different events. One, a murder from eighteen years ago. Two, a group of men, like Stewart Green and Carlton Flynn, who had vanished annually on or around Mardi Gras over a seventeen-year period. Three, last night's torture death of poor Harry Sutton. If he was right, if they were somehow linked, Megan couldn't imagine what part the young couple, for example, could possibly play. They'd have been kids when the first murder and Stewart's disappearance had occurred.
"His nose was thinner," she said to Mason.
He nodded and went back to work.
The what-ifs kept raising their hideous heads. What if Megan hadn't run away all those years ago. What if she had stayed and faced the music and seen what really happened to Stewart Green. Would this all be behind her now? Would all those "Mardi Gras Men"--men who had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth, never to be seen again--from Stewart Green right up to Carlton Flynn, would they still be here and with their families and living their lives?
What if she had just stayed with Ray.
There were no regrets--only what-ifs. There couldn't be regrets once you had children--it would be too monstrous to contemplate. Would Megan's life have been happier or sadder with any of these what-ifs? That no longer mattered because any what-if led to a world without her children, without Kaylie and Jordan even being born, and there was no way any parent could ever entertain that existence being preferable. In the end, whether her life had ended up being exciting or not, fast paced or not, joyful or not, the one scenario she could never embrace would be one without Kaylie and Jordan.
A mother can't go there.
The door flew open, and a big man with steel-wool gray hair and a dress shirt a couple of sizes too small burst in. The man was beefy and red faced. "What the hell is going on?" he shouted.
Rick Mason jumped up. "Chief Goldberg..."
"I said, what the hell is going on?"
"I'm sketching two possible suspects."
"Why would you be doing that down here?"
Mason said nothing.
"You have an office, don't you?"
"Yes."
"So why are you down here?"
"Detective Broome suggested that I work here."
Goldberg put his hands on his hips. "Did he now?"
"He said that he didn't want this witness compromised."
Goldberg turned his attention to Megan. "Well, well. If it isn't Janey from the diner. Another friendly visit?"
Megan said, "I'd rather not say."
"Excuse me? Who are you really?"
"Am I compelled to give you my name?"
That caught him off guard. "Legally, I guess not--"
"Then I'd rather not. I'm here of my own free will and at the request of Detective Broome."
"Oh, really?" Goldberg bent down in her face. "I happen to be Detective Broome's immediate superior."
"That doesn't change anything."
"Doesn't it, Ms. Pierce?"
Megan closed her mouth. Goldberg had already known her name. That couldn't be a good thing. He moved toward the sketch pad. Rick Mason tried to block the view, like a fourth grader who didn't want to get copied off on a test. Goldberg nudged him aside and put on a pair of glasses. When his gaze landed on the sketches of the young couple, his body convulsed as though he'd been zapped with a stun gun.
"Who the hell are these two?"
No one said anything.
Goldberg turned his attention to Mason. "Did you hear what I asked?"
"I don't know. I was just told to get the sketch."
"For what case?"
He shrugged.
Goldberg turned back to Megan. "Where did you see these two?"
"I'd rather wait for Detective Broome."
Goldberg looked at the sketches again. "No."
"No?"
"You tell me now. Or you get the hell out of here."
>
"Are you serious?"
"I am."
This Goldberg guy was giving Megan a serious case of the willies. She would indeed get out of here. She'd take a walk, maybe go to the diner, and then she'd call Broome and regroup. There was a reason why Broome wanted to keep her hidden--and maybe it had to do with more than just protecting her identity. Maybe it had to do with his charging rhino of a boss, Goldberg.
She pushed back her chair. "Fine, I'm out of here."
"Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out."
Goldberg turned away, troubled. His rudeness surprised her. It was almost as though he wanted her out. This was probably some kind of power play with Broome, but she didn't like it. Still, it would be best to get out of here now so she didn't tell him anything she shouldn't.
Megan stood. She had just grabbed her purse when once again the door burst open.
It was Broome.
When Broome first pushed through the door, she could see something odd on his face: anger--even before he saw Goldberg. The anger, weirdly enough, seemed directed at her. She had a second to wonder what that was about, if something had gone wrong with his visit with Lorraine, but before Broome could act upon it, he spotted Goldberg. When he did, Broome's face fell.
For a moment the two men just stared at each other. Both were making fists and for a split second, Megan wondered if one of them was going to take a swing. Then Broome took a step back, shrugged, and said, "Busted."
That opened the floodgates. "What the hell is going on, Broome?" Goldberg demanded.
"This woman, who shall remain anonymous, may have seen Harry Sutton's killers."
Goldberg's mouth dropped open. "She was at the scene?"
"She saw these two walking out when she was walking in. We have no reason for them to be in the building at that hour. I'm not saying they did it, of course, but they are people of interest."
Goldberg thought about it. He flicked his gaze toward Mason. "The sketch done?"
"Just about."
"Finish it up. You"--he pointed at Broome--"I want to see in my office in five minutes. I got a call to make first."
"Okay."
Goldberg left. When he was gone, the anger returned to Broome's face. He glared down at Megan.
"What?" she asked.
Still staring at her, "Mason?"
"Yeah?"
"Give us five minutes."
"Uh, sure."
Rick Mason started to leave. Broome's eyes were still locked on hers, but he held up his hand toward Mason. "Actually, I need you to do something."
Mason waited.
"We have an age progression on Stewart Green, right?"
"Right."
"Add a shaved head and give him a goatee and a hoop earring. Can you do that for me?"
"Sure, yeah, okay. When do you need it by?"
Broome just frowned.
"Got it," Rick Mason said. "Yesterday."
"Thanks."
Broome was still staring at her. As soon as Mason left, Megan decided to take the offensive. "Stewart Green shaved his head and grew a goatee? Did Lorraine tell you that?"
Broome kept glaring.
"What's your problem?" she asked.
He leaned a little closer to her and waited to make sure that she was looking directly into his eyes.
"Do you want to keep lying to me," Broome said, "or do you want to tell me about your old beau, Ray Levine?"
DEL FLYNN BROUGHT PINK ROSES, Maria's favorite, to her room. He brought them every day. He showed them to his former wife and kissed her cold forehead.
"Hey, Maria, how you feeling today?"
The nurse--he could never remember her name--gave him flat eyes and left the room. In the beginning, when Maria had first been wheeled into this room, the nurses had looked upon Del Flynn with respect and admiration. Here he was, the ex-husband of this comatose woman, and look at the sacrifices he was making for her. What a man, they'd thought. What a devoted, dedicated, loving, understanding hero of a man.
The staff had left an empty vase already filled with water. After all this time, they knew his routine. Del slipped the bouquet into the water and sat next to Maria's bed. He glanced toward the door and made sure that no one was in earshot. They weren't.
"Maria?"
For some reason he waited for her to answer. He always did.
"I should have told you this before, but I got some bad news."
He watched her face for the smallest change. There wasn't. There hadn't been in a very long time. Del let his eyes wander around the room. If appearances meant anything, you'd never guess that they were in a hospital. Sure, there was that constant beeping from the medical equipment and the dull hospital background noise. But Del had transformed this room. He brought in all Maria's old favorite things--the stuffed bear he'd won for her at Six Flags when Carlton was six, the ornate Navajo rug they'd bought on that vacation to Santa Fe, the dartboard they'd hung up in the basement of that old house on Drexel Avenue.
Del had surrounded Maria with old photographs too--their wedding picture, their first Christmas with Carlton, Carlton's graduation from Parkview preschool. His favorite photograph had been taken at Atlantic City Mini Golf, right on the Boardwalk by Mississippi Avenue. He and Maria had gone there often. There were bronze statues of children at play throughout the course. Maria had liked that--like it was a visit to a museum and mini golf place all in one. Maria had made a hole-in-one on the last hole, and the cashier, the same guy who'd asked them what color ball they wanted to use, came out and took this photograph, and the way the two of them were smiling you'd think they won a trip to Hawaii rather than a free game.
Del stared at that picture now and then slowly turned back to Maria. "It's about Carlton."
No response.
Eighteen months ago, a drunk driver had run a red light and smashed into Maria's car. It had been late at night. She had been driving alone to pick up a prescription at the all-night pharmacy for Carlton. That was what single women did, he guessed. If she'd still been married to Del, if she hadn't been so damned stubborn and forgiven him, she would have never been out that late driving and she'd be fine and they'd be fine and they'd still be going to that mini golf place and then playing a few hands at Caesars or getting a steak at Gallagher's or splitting a funnel cake on the Boardwalk. But he'd blown it a long time ago.
"He's missing," Del said, tears coming to his eyes. "No one knows what happened to him. The cops are on it, but you know that's not enough. So I hired some people. You know the kind. You probably wouldn't approve, except when it came to your boy, you'd kill, right?"
Again no answer. The doctors had explained that there was no hope. She was brain-dead. They had encouraged him to let her go. Others had done the same in both gentle and forceful tones. Maria's sister had even tried to sue to become medical proxy, but Maria had named him and so she lost. Everyone wanted to pull the plug. Making her live like this, day after day, month after month, heck, maybe year after year, was cruel, they claimed.
But Del couldn't let her go.
Not yet. Not until she forgave him. He begged her every day for forgiveness. He begged her to come back to him, to let them be what they were, what they always should have been. In short, he said all the things he should have said before the accident.
Some days Del actually thought that redemption was possible. Some days he thought that Maria would open her eyes and she would see all that he'd done for her, all the sacrifice, all the devotion. She would have heard all the words he'd said during his visits to her bedside, and she would forgive him. But most days, like right now, he knew that would never be. He knew that what he was doing was indeed cruel and that he should let her go, and move on with his life. He and Maria had been divorced now for longer than they were married. Del had been married twice since. He was with Darya now.
Then other days--rare days but they were there--Del wondered whether he intentionally held on to her out of spite. Maria had never forgiven him and th
at ruined everything. Maybe, subconsciously, he was angry with her. Maybe keeping her alive was payback. God, he hoped not, but some days he couldn't shake the feeling this was all nothing but a grand selfish gesture.
Del wasn't good at letting go. He couldn't let go of the only woman he ever loved.
And he couldn't--would never--let go of his son.
"I'm going to find him, Maria. I will find him and I will bring him here and when you see him, I mean, really, when your boy is back home and safe..."
There wasn't more to say. He sat next to her and fingered the Saint Anthony medal. He loved this medal. He never took it off. A few weeks back, he'd noticed that Carlton wasn't wearing his. His son had replaced it with some crappy two-bit dog tags like he'd really been in the military or something, and, man, when Del saw that he hit the roof. How dare he? The idea of his son replacing his Saint Anthony medal, the one his sainted mother had given him, for those poser dog tags, had enraged Del. When Carlton shrugged and countered that he liked the dog tags, that his friends all wore them, that they looked "cool," Del had come close to hitting his son. "Your grandfather wore dog tags while storming Normandy, and believe me, he never thought they were cool!" Del's real name was, in fact, Delano, named for Franklin Delano Roosevelt, his parents' hero. Carlton walked away then, but when he went out that night, Del noticed with some pride that the Saint Anthony medal was back around his neck--along with the dog tags.