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  Broome spotted Ray Levine standing next to the memorial's almost supernaturally dominant figure--a twelve-foot-high statue of The Mourning Soldier sculpted by Thomas Jay Warren and J. Tom Carillo. The soldier had his sleeves rolled up, his helmet in his right hand, but what struck you, what gave you pause, was the way the bronze figure looked down, clearly grieving, at the too-many dog tags dangling from his left hand. You could see the devastation on his brave, handsome face as he stares at his fallen comrades' tags, the rifle still strapped to his back, the dagger still on his hip. Behind him, a group of weary soldiers seem to materialize from a wall of water, one carrying a wounded or perhaps dead comrade. Next to that, under an eternal flame, the names of 822 New Jerseyans killed or missing are engraved.

  The effect would normally be sobering and reflective, but here, shoehorned among the flotsam and jetsam of the Atlantic City boardwalk, it was profound. For several moments, the two men--Broome and Ray Levine--just stood there, staring up at the dog tags clutched in the mourning soldier's hand, and said nothing.

  Broome moved a little closer to Ray Levine. Ray sensed him, knew he was there, but didn't turn toward him.

  "You come here a lot?" Broome asked.

  "Sometimes," Ray replied.

  "Me too. Kinda puts it in perspective somehow."

  Tourists walked mere feet away, checking out the casino signs for jackpots and cheap buffets. Most never saw the memorial or if they did, they cast their eyes away as though it were the homeless begging for change. Broome got it. They were here for other reasons. Those guys on the wall, the ones who had fought or died for such freedom, would probably get it too.

  "Heard you were in Iraq during the first war," Broome said.

  Ray frowned. "Not as a soldier."

  "As a photojournalist, right? Dangerous work. Heard you took shrapnel in your leg."

  "No big deal."

  "That's what the brave always say." Broome noticed Ray's backpack and the camera in his hand. "You take pictures here?"

  "I used to."

  "But not anymore?"

  "No. Not anymore."

  "Why not?"

  Ray shrugged. "It's stone and bronze. It never changes."

  "As opposed," Broome said, "to something like, say, nature. Or like something growing near ruins. Those are better places to take pictures, right?"

  Ray turned and faced him for the first time. Broome could see that Ray hadn't shaved. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot. Megan had told him that she'd met up with her former beau last night for the first time in seventeen years. Clearly he had reacted by hitting the bottle, something, according to those who knew him, Ray Levine did with a fair amount of regularity.

  "I assume, Detective Broome, that you didn't call to ask me my theories on photographic subjects."

  "Maybe I did." Broome handed him the anonymous photograph of Carlton Flynn at the park. "What can you tell me about this?"

  Ray glanced at it, said nothing. "It's amateurish." He handed it back to Broome.

  "Ah Ray, we're always our own toughest critics, aren't we?"

  Ray said nothing.

  "We both know you took this picture. Please don't bother with the denials. I know you took it. I know you were at the ruins the day Carlton Flynn disappeared. And I also know you were there seventeen years ago when Stewart Green disappeared."

  Ray shook his head. "Not me."

  "Yeah, Ray, you. Megan told me everything."

  He frowned. "Megan?"

  "Oh, that's her name now. You know her as Cassie. She's married, you know. Did she tell you that? Two kids?"

  Ray said nothing.

  "She didn't want to sell you out, if that means anything to you. In fact, she insists you're innocent. She says you sent this picture to help us." Broome tilted his head. "Is that true, Ray? Were you looking to help us find the truth?"

  Ray stepped away from the statue and started toward the dancing water in the Fountain of Light. Sometimes the fountain, which had been there for nearly a hundred years, danced high, but right now the water was barely visible, bubbling maybe two or three inches.

  "There's two ways I can play this," Ray said. "One, I lawyer up and not say a word."

  "You could do that, sure."

  "Two, I can talk to you and cooperate and trust it will work out."

  "I confess that I prefer option two," Broome said.

  "Because option two is dumb. Option two is how a guy like me gets in a jam, but you know what? We're in Atlantic City, so I'm going to roll the dice. Yeah, I took that picture. I go to that park once a year and take pictures. That's what I do."

  "Hell of a coincidence."

  "What?"

  "You being there the same day Carlton Flynn gets grabbed."

  "I was there February eighteenth. I go there every February eighteenth, except when I spent a little time out west."

  "What's so special about February eighteenth?"

  Ray frowned. "Now who's playing games? You talked to Cassie, so you know."

  Fair enough, Broome thought. "It's like a pilgrimage or something?"

  "Something like that. I go, I sit, I take pictures, I contemplate."

  "Contemplate?"

  "Yep."

  "All because your girlfriend ran off on you there?"

  Ray didn't reply.

  "Because, if you don't mind me saying, Ray, you sound like a pussy-whipped pansy. Your girl left you--so what? Grow a pair and move on with your life. Instead you go back to where she dumped your pathetic ass and take pictures?"

  "She didn't dump me."

  "No? So Megan has been biding her time under a pseudonym with the rich husband and two kids, just waiting for your career as a fake paparazzo to take off?"

  Ray actually smiled at that. "Does sound kind of pathetic."

  "So?"

  "So I'm pathetic," Ray said with a shrug. "I've been called worse. Anything else I can help you with, Detective?"

  "Let's go back seventeen years to that night by the ruins."

  "Okay."

  "Tell me what happened."

  Ray's voice sounded canned. "I was supposed to meet Cassie. I saw Stewart lying there. I figured that he was dead, so I took off."

  "That's it?"

  "Yep."

  "You didn't call an ambulance or help him?"

  "Nope."

  "Wow, Ray, you're quite the humanitarian."

  "Did Cassie tell you what Stewart Green was like?"

  "She did, yes."

  "So you get it then. Half of me wanted to do the Snoopy happy dance when I saw him." Ray held up a hand. "And, yes, I know that gives me a great motive, but I didn't kill him."

  "You sure he was dead?"

  Ray turned to him. "I didn't go over and check vital signs if that's what you're asking."

  "Then you weren't sure?"

  Ray mulled it over. "There's something else you might want to know. Not about that night, but about this February eighteenth."

  "Go on."

  "I worked a job that night. After I took the pictures in the park."

  "A job?"

  "Yeah, a bar mitzvah, as a hired paparazzo."

  Broome shook his head. "Glamour profession."

  "You have no idea. Do you know what job I just came from? Grand opening of a Ford dealership. They had a red carpet out and anyone who stopped by got to walk it and we crowded them and took pictures, and then they tried to sell them a Focus or an Escort or whatever. Anyway, when I was leaving the bar mitzvah, I got jumped. Someone stole my camera."

  "Did you report it to the police?"

  "Right, like I wanted to waste a whole night on that. But that's not my point. At first, I figured it was just a routine mugging, but then I wondered how come the guy only took my camera and didn't at least try to grab my wallet."

  "Maybe he felt rushed."

  "Maybe. But when I got home, I saw Carlton Flynn on the TV. That's when I realized I had a picture of him. See, the pictures were still on my camera, but I have a W
i-Fi connection that automatically uploads them to my home computer every ten minutes or so. But the mugger wouldn't know that."

  Broome saw where he was going with this. "So you think the mugger may have been after the picture?"

  "It's possible."

  "So you sent it to me anonymously?"

  "I wanted to help, but I wanted to keep my name out of it for obvious reasons. Like you say, the fact that I was there for both disappearances was suspicious. I can see from your face that it still is. But that's why."

  "You get a look at the guy who jumped you?"

  "No."

  "Height, weight, white, black, tattoos, anything?"

  "Nothing. I got hit with a baseball bat. I went down. I mean, I tried to hold on to the camera, but sorry, that's all I know." Ray filled him in on the whole incident, how he took more than one blow, how he fought for his camera, how the attacker finally ran.

  "Were you drunk?"

  "What? No."

  "Because you drink a lot, right?"

  "I'm also of legal age. So what?"

  "I hear you have blackouts. That true?"

  Ray didn't bother responding. Broome reached into his pocket and took out the age-progression picture of Stewart Green with the shaved head and goatee. "Could this have been the guy?"

  When Ray Levine saw the image, the bloodshot eyes widened. He looked as though someone had whacked him anew with that baseball bat. "Who the hell is that?"

  "Do you recognize him or not?"

  "I... No. I mean... no, he's not the guy who attacked me."

  "I thought you didn't see your attacker."

  "Don't be cute, Broome. You know what I mean."

  Broome lifted the picture higher, nearly shoving it in Ray's face. "Have you ever seen this guy before?"

  "No."

  "So why the startled face?"

  "I don't know. Who is he?"

  "Don't worry about it."

  "Cut the crap, Broome. Who is he?"

  "A suspect. You either know him or you don't."

  "I don't."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Cool." Broome put the picture away, wondering what to make of the reaction. Had Ray seen Stewart Green? He'd go back to it later. Time to change direction a bit, keep him off balance. "Now earlier, you stated you go up to the iron-ore ruins every February eighteenth."

  "No, I didn't. I said, most."

  "Right, okay, forgetting the years you were away. Do you have proof?"

  "Proof that I was up there on various February eighteenths?"

  "Yes."

  "Why would I need that?"

  "Humor me."

  "You're investigating murders and disappearances. I don't think I'm much in the mood to humor you."

  "Who said anything about murders?"

  Ray sighed. "Wow, did someone just buy you a boxed set of old Columbo episodes? You don't think I know that Cassie--or what did you call her? Megan? You don't think I know she visited Harry Sutton? He was murdered, right? It's in all the papers."

  "Oh. Fair point. So let's stop with the games. Can you prove you were taking pictures at the park"--Broome made quote marks with his fingers--"'most' February eighteenths?"

  Ray thought about it. "Actually, I think I can."

  "How?"

  "The photographs I take. They're date stamped."

  "Can't you fix that? Like make it look like another date?"

  "I don't know, frankly. You can have your experts look for themselves. You can also check weather reports maybe, see if it was raining or snowing or what that day. I still don't get it. What difference does it make what day I was there?"

  Simple, though Broome wouldn't say it now. If Ray Levine could show he went up on February eighteenths--and not Mardi Gras--it would back his story. Of course, Broome would subpoena all the photographs and see what other dates he was in that section of the park. But it would be a start.

  It was coming to an end. Broome could feel it. After seventeen years of hunting, searching, never letting go, he was so damn close to breaking this case open. Odd when you thought about it. Every February eighteenth--well, "most"--Ray Levine visited that park and reflected on a certain incident. Meanwhile, on that same day, Broome visited Sarah Green and reflected on the very same incident. Except "reflected" wasn't really the right word, was it? Broome had been obsessed with the Stewart Green case from day one. While all the other cops in town dismissed it as yet another philandering creep who ran off with a stripper, Broome had held on with a ferocity that surprised even him. Yes, getting to know the family Stewart left behind--Sarah, Susie, and Brandon--had helped him focus, but even back then, he recognized that Sarah was somewhat deluding herself, that all would not be well in that sad, lonely house if her beloved husband were returned safely.

  In truth, even way back then, Broome had believed that Stewart Green's disappearance was more than it seemed, much more, something dark and horrible and almost beyond his comprehension. Now he was sure of it.

  "Are we done here, Detective?"

  Broome checked his cell phone. Goldberg was going to text him when he got the subpoena and had it served. He didn't want Ray Levine heading home before then, perhaps tampering with or destroying evidence.

  "That picture you sent me anonymously--that wasn't the only one you took that day, right?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Where are the rest of the pictures?"

  "On my hard drive at home, but I back them up to a cloud."

  "A cloud?"

  "That's what they call it. For safe storage. It's like a disk in the sky. Think of it as e-mailing stuff to yourself. I can access them from any computer with the proper codes."

  Whoa, Broome thought. "I have a laptop in my car," he said. "Would you mind?"

  "What, now?"

  "It could really help. My car is right around the corner."

  Broome had parked on South Michigan Avenue near Caesars. While the computer booted up, Ray said, "I sent you the last picture I took. Once someone else came on the scene, I figured it was time to go."

  "So that's the only picture of Carlton Flynn?"

  "That's right."

  "And there was no one else in any of the other pictures?"

  "Right. Before that, I had the place to myself."

  The computer came to life. Broome handed it to Ray. The sun was bright, putting glare on the screen, so they slipped into the car. Broome watched the people exiting the casinos. They always did it the same way--with a stumble, a shade of the eyes with one hand, big-time blinking.

  "Did you see anyone on your way back down from that spot?" Broome asked.

  "No, sorry."

  Ray got on the Internet and went to a Mac Web site. He typed in a user name and password and clicked on some folders and then he handed the laptop back to Broome. There were eighty-seven photographs. He started with the last, the photograph Ray had sent anonymously. Something struck Broome right away. The first few were all what one might call picturesque landscapes, except something in the composition brought on feelings of melancholy. Most times, landscape scenes make you yearn for the great outdoors and that solitude. But these were stark, lonely, depressing--interesting because that was clearly the photographer's mood and intent.

  Broome continued to click through the photographs. For some reason that dumb line from that song "A Horse with No Name" came to him: "There were plants and birds and rocks and things." That pretty much summed it up. Broome had hoped to find, what exactly? He didn't know. Clues. But all he saw were bland yet creative and moving photographs of the scene where one man lost his heart--and others lost... again what?

  "You're good," Broome said.

  Ray did not reply.

  Broome could almost feel the foreboding now, the cumulative impact of Ray's work starting to wear him down. He was nearly finished going through the photographs when something snagged his gaze.

  Broome stopped.

  "Can you zoom in?"

  "Sure. J
ust click the command and plus buttons."

  The photograph was one of the first Ray had snapped that day, taken from a different viewpoint, so maybe that explained it. There were trees, of course, and the big rock and the old furnace chimney, but from here, Broome thought he could see something else, something behind the ruins of that old chimney in the background. He clicked, zooming closer and closer. The picture quality, fortunately, was excellent, so there was very little pixilation.

  Broome felt his heart rise to his throat.