Stay Close

  But the call had already been disconnected.

  28

  WALKING TOWARD GOLDBERG'S OFFICE, Broome debated the pros and cons and quickly deduced that he had no choice. Goldberg was finishing a phone call. He gestured for Broome to sit.

  Broome glanced at his boss's face and then did a double take. Goldberg hadn't been a beauty who radiated good health to begin with, but right now, sitting behind his cluttered desk, he looked like something pulled out of the bottom of the laundry hamper. Something that maybe the cat coughed up first. Something that was pale and pasty and shaky and maybe in need of an angioplasty.

  Broome took a seat. He expected to be chewed out, but Goldberg seemed too exhausted. Goldberg hung up the phone. He looked at Broome through eyes with enough baggage to work a pole at La Creme and said in a gentle voice that surprised Broome, "Tell me what's going on."

  The tone threw him. Broome tried to remember the last time Goldberg had been anything but piss-contest hostile. He couldn't. It didn't matter. Broome had already decided that he had to come clean and tell Goldberg his suspicions. It would be impossible to move ahead without his immediate superior's okay. They probably had enough now to go to the feds--probably had enough yesterday but Broome didn't want to rush it. He didn't want to look like a fool if he was wrong, didn't want to lose the case if he was right.

  Broome started with the murder of Ross Gunther, then moved on to the missing Mardi Gras Men--Erin had so far come up with fourteen disappearances in seventeen years that fit--and then he segued into Carlton Flynn. He ended with his suspicion that last night's murder of Harry Sutton was connected, but he had no idea how.

  "Still," Broome said, finishing up, "our witness gave us a good description of two people near Harry Sutton's office at the time of his death. We'll get the sketches out as soon as we can."

  Goldberg roused himself from whatever stupor he'd sunken into and said, "By witness, you mean the woman I just met downstairs?"

  "Yes."

  "And you're hiding her because... ?"

  "She's the Cassie I told you about before," Broome said. "The one who came forward yesterday."

  "Stewart Green's ex?"

  "Not ex, but, yes, the girl Green stalked or whatever. Now this Cassie has a new identity--husband, kids, the works--and she asked me to protect it. I promised her I would try."

  Goldberg didn't push it. He picked up a paper clip and began to bend it back and forth. "I don't get something," he said. "Every Mardi Gras, some guy goes missing?"

  "Right."

  "And we haven't found any bodies?"

  "Not one," Broome said. "Unless you include Ross Gunther."

  Goldberg twisted the paper clip until it broke. Then he picked up another. "So this Gunther guy gets murdered in this park eighteen years ago on Mardi Gras. And this other guy, what was his name?"

  "Ricky Mannion."

  "Right, Mannion. He goes down for it. They had a solid case. Mannion still claims innocence. The next year on Mardi Gras, Stewart Green vanishes. We don't know it at the time, but he was in that same remote part of the park and he was, what, bleeding?"

  "That's right."

  "But someone has seen him recently?"

  "We think so, yes."

  Goldberg shook his head. "Now we skip ahead seventeen years. Another man, Carlton Flynn, vanishes on Mardi Gras--and the preliminary labs tell us that he too was bleeding up at the same spot?"

  "Yes."

  "Why am I just hearing about this now?" Goldberg put his hand up before Broome could say anything. "Forget it, we don't have time for that now." He drummed the desk with his fingertips. "Three men bleeding in the same spot," he said. "We should send the lab boys back up there. They need to go over every inch of the area, see if they can find any other blood samples. If--I don't know, this whole thing is so crazy--but if some of the other Mardi Gras Missing were also cut up there, maybe we can find old traces of blood."

  It was a good idea, Broome thought.

  "What else do you need?" Goldberg asked.

  "A warrant to search Ray Levine's apartment."

  "I'll work on it. Should we put an APB on him?"

  "I'd rather not," Broome said. "We don't have enough yet for an arrest, and I don't want to spook him."

  "So what's your plan?"

  "I'm going to see if I can find him. I want to talk to him alone before he thinks about lawyering up."

  There was a knock on the door. Mason entered. "I got the age progression on Stewart Green." He passed one copy to Goldberg, one copy to Broome. As promised it was Stewart Green, seventeen years after he vanished, with a shaved head and goatee.

  Goldberg asked, "Have you finished those sketches for the Harry Sutton case?"

  "Just about."

  "Good, give them to me." Goldberg turned to Broome. "You go after Ray Levine. I'll take care of getting the sketches out."

  KEN FOUND A QUIET BOOTH toward the back of La Creme, one that gave him a pretty poor view of the dancers but a great view of the older barmaid who'd brought Detective Broome to this den of sin.

  Earlier Ken had managed to get close enough to hear snippets of the conversation between Detective Broome and the barmaid he called Lorraine. She clearly knew a lot. She was clearly emotional about it. And, he thought, she clearly was not telling all.

  Ken was so happy, nearly giddy with joy over his upcoming nuptials. He considered various ways to pop the question. This job would pay well, and he'd use the money to buy her the biggest diamond he could find. But the big question was: How should he pop the question? He didn't want anything cheesy like those men who propose on stadium scoreboards. He wanted something grand yet simple, meaningful yet fun.

  She was so wonderful, so special, and if any place could hammer that fact home, it was here at this alleged gentlemen's club. The women here were grotesque. He didn't understand why any man would want any of them. They looked dirty and diseased and fake, and part of Ken wondered whether men came here for other reasons, not sexual, to feel something different or because this club had perhaps the same appeal as a carnival freak show.

  Ken wondered how long the barmaid Lorraine would work, if he could snatch her on a break or if he'd have to wait until her shift was done. If it was at all possible, Ken wanted to tie her up and wait for his beloved to join him. She loved to be in charge when they hurt women.

  He felt the vibration from his cell phone. He looked down and saw it was from the love of his life. He thought of her face, her body, her cleanliness, and never felt so lucky in all of his life.

  He picked up the phone and said, "I love you."

  "I love you too. But I'm a little worried."

  "Oh?"

  She filled him in on his conversation with Goldberg. When she finished, he asked, "What do you think?"

  "I think our friend Deputy Chief Goldberg is lying."

  "I do too."

  "Do you think I should take care of it?" she asked.

  "I don't see any other way."

  MEGAN FINISHED WITH THE SKETCHES. She was anxious to get home and talk to Dave and figure this whole mess out. When Broome came back into the room, he said, "Do you want me to have someone drive you home?"

  "I'd rather just rent a car and drive myself."

  "We can give you one from the pool and get it picked up in the morning."

  "That'd be fine."

  Broome crossed the room. "You know I need to question Ray Levine, right?"

  "Yes. Just keep an open mind, okay?"

  "I'm nothing if not open-minded. Any idea where I can find him?"

  "Did you try his place?" she asked.

  "I had a patrol car stop by. He's not home."

  Megan shrugged. "I don't know."

  "How did you find him yesterday?" Broome asked.

  "It's a long story."

  Broome frowned.

  "From his boss," Megan said. "A guy named Fester."

  "Wait, I know him. Big guy with a shaved head?"

  "Yes."

/>   "He owns some fake paparazzi company or something." Broome sat by a computer screen and started typing. He found the telephone number for Celeb Experience on Arctic Avenue in Atlantic City. He dialed the number, spoke to a receptionist, and was patched through to Fester. He identified himself as a police officer and told him that he needed to speak with Ray Levine.

  "I'm not sure where he is," Fester said.

  "He's not in any trouble."

  "Uh-huh. Don't tell me. He came into a lot of money, and you want to help."

  "I just need to talk to him. He may have witnessed a crime."

  There was noise in the background. Fester shushed someone. "Tell you what. I can call his cell for you."

  "Tell you what," Broome countered. "How about you give me his cell number and I call him directly?"

  Silence.

  "Fester or whatever the hell your name is, you don't want to mess with this. Trust me here. Give me his number. Don't call and warn him or any of that. You won't be happy with how it all turns out, if you screw this up."

  "I don't like being threatened."

  "Deal with it. What's Ray's number?"

  Fester postured for another minute or two, but eventually he gave it up. Broome wrote it down, warned Fester one more time not to say a word, and then hung up.

  DAVE COULDN'T THINK STRAIGHT.

  He took a break from the labor dispute he'd been working on and moved into his office.

  "Do you need anything, Mr. Pierce?" the young associate asked him.

  She was a recent Stanford Law grad and gorgeous and chipper and full of life, and you wondered when life would beat it out of her. It always did in the end. That kind of enthusiasm wouldn't last.

  "I'm fine, Sharon. Just finish up those briefs, okay?"

  It was amazing what we could hide when we try, he thought. No one--neither his clients nor opposing counsel--had any idea that as he sat through the depositions, jotting notes and giving counsel, he was completely devastated by his wife's lie. The lawyerly facade never gave way. He wondered now if we were all like that, all the time, if everyone in the other room was just putting on a mask to hide some internal pain, that all of them, everyone in that room, had also been crushed this morning and was as good at hiding it as he was.

  Dave looked at his wife's panicked text. She wanted to explain. Last night he had been so forgiving. He loved her. He trusted her. Whatever else there was in her or his life, well, everybody has something, right? No one is perfect. That core would always be there. But when morning came, despite the night's bliss, that whole rationale had just felt wrong.

  Now he felt adrift.

  He would have to talk to Megan eventually, hear her explanation. He wondered what it would be and if he'd believe her. Dave was tempted to call her back now, but he'd let her stew another few hours. Why not, right? No matter what the explanation, she had lied to him.

  Dave glanced at the computer monitor. Eventually, he guessed, Megan would want to know how he'd known about her visit to Atlantic City. He wasn't sure he wanted to tell her. Last night he had detested tracking the GPS in her cell, but suddenly he liked the idea of being able to know where she was at his whim. That was the problem with crossing lines. That was the problem with losing trust.

  He clicked the link to her phone's GPS and waited for the map to load up. When it did, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Megan wasn't home, crying or stewing or feeling bad about what she'd done.

  She had gone back to Atlantic City.

  What the... ?

  He took out his smartphone and made sure that he could see the GPS map on the app. He could. That meant that if Megan moved, he'd be able to see. Fine.

  Maybe it was time to see for himself what she was doing.

  Dave grabbed his car keys. He rose, pressing his office intercom button. "Sharon?"

  "Yes, Mr. Pierce?"

  "I'm not feeling well. Please cancel the rest of my day."

  MEGAN WAS PACING WHILE BROOME wrote down Ray's cell phone number. She hadn't asked for the number last night--hadn't wanted it--but she casually glanced over Broome's shoulder and memorized it. She debated calling Ray, warning him about Broome's upcoming visit, but a voice inside her told her to leave it be.

  Let the investigation take its natural course, she thought.

  She didn't believe that Ray was guilty of... of what anyway? Assault? Kidnapping? Disappearances? Murder? She had been persuasive in her arguments to Broome, defending Ray as best she could, but there was something that still gnawed at her. So much of this--Stewart Green, Carlton Flynn, the Mardi Gras Missing--didn't add up, but the one thing she couldn't shake was the feeling that Ray was keeping something from her.

  There was more to what happened to him, more to what crushed him, than a girlfriend running away. Yes, they were lovers and all that and who knows what they might have been. But Ray was also first and foremost a photojournalist. He'd been independent and sarcastic and smart. A lover running out on him would hurt, sting, break his heart. But it wouldn't do this.

  Her cell phone rang. She could see from the caller ID that it was her mother-in-law calling from the nursing home. "Agnes?"

  She could hear the old woman crying.

  "Agnes?"

  Through the tears, her mother-in-law said, "He was back last night, Megan."

  Megan closed her eyes.

  "He tried to kill me."

  "Are you okay?"

  "No." She sounded like a scared child. It was obvious and a bit of cliche, but we don't really age in a straight line. We age in a circle, curving back to childhood, but in all the wrong ways. "You have to get me out of here, Megan."

  "I'm a little busy--"

  "Please? He had a knife. A real big one. The same one you keep in your kitchen, you remember, the one I got you for Christmas from that Home Shopping Network? It's the same kind. Check your kitchen. Is the knife still there? Oh God, I can't stay here another night..."

  Megan didn't know what to say. Another voice came on the phone. "Hi, Mrs. Pierce, this is Missy Malek."

  She ran the nursing home. "Please call me Megan."

  "Right, you've told me that, sorry."

  "What's going on over there?"

  "As you know, Megan, this behavior is nothing new for your mother-in-law."

  "It seems worse today."

  "This isn't a disease that improves with time. Agnes will continue to get more and more agitated, but there are things we can do to help in these situations. I've spoken to you about this before, am I right?"

  "You have, yes."

  Malek wanted to move Agnes to the third floor, out of "independent living" to the "reminiscent floor" for those with advanced Alzheimer's. She also wanted authorization to use heavier sedatives.

  "I've seen this kind of thing before," Malek said, "though rarely this acute."

  "Could there be something to it?"

  "Pardon?"

  "To what Agnes is claiming. She still has plenty of moments of clarity. Could there be something to it?"

  "Could a man be breaking into her room with your kitchen knife and threatening to kill her? Is that what you're asking me?"

  Megan wasn't sure how to respond. "Maybe, I don't know, maybe someone on your staff is playing a prank or she's misinterpreting something..."

  "Megan?"

  "Yes?"

  "No one is playing a prank. It is the cruelty of her disease. We understand when it is something physical--losing a limb, needing a transplant, whatever. This is similar. It is not her fault. It is something chemical in her brain. And sadly, as I've tried to stress, this isn't a problem that will get better. Which is why you and your husband really need to seriously reevaluate Agnes's living arrangements."

  Megan's phone felt suddenly heavy. "Let me speak to Agnes please."

  "Of course."

  A few seconds later, the scared voice was back. "Megan?"

  "I'm on my way, Agnes--and I'm taking you home. You just stay put, okay?"

  29
/>
  WHEN YOU FIRST GET TO the Atlantic City boardwalk, you are pretty much stunned by the seedy albeit lively predictability of it all. Skee-ball arcades, funnel cakes, hot dog stands, pizza stands, time-share salesmen, mini-golf, suggestive T-shirt shops, souvenir stands--all perfectly blended in among giant casino hotels, the Ripley's Believe It or Not! Museum (this one featured a "penis sheath" from New Guinea used, according to the caption, "as decoration and protection against insect bites," not to mention a heck of a conversation starter), and upstart new malls. In short, Atlantic City's boardwalk is exactly what you expect and probably want: total cheese.

  But every once in a while, the boardwalk threw you a surprise. If you've played the board game Monopoly, you know the geography, but there, tucked in an alcove where Park Place meets Boardwalk, with the tacky Wild Wild West-themed facade of Bally's Hotel and Casino looming as its backdrop, was a Korean War memorial that, for a few moments anyway, had the ability to strip away the kitsch and make you reflect.