circles under her eyes were getting darker. She needed repair work on the boob job and even though she was only twenty-three, varicose veins were starting to make her legs look like relief maps.
The perky young blonde with the turtleneck gave Tawny a little wave. “Miss, can we talk to you for a moment?”
Tawny felt a tinge of envy for this perky blonde with the toothpaste-commercial smile. The cute guy was probably her boyfriend. He probably treated her nice, took her to the movies, held her hand at the mall. Lucky. Sure, they were Bible thumpers, but they looked happy and healthy and like they’d never known sadness in their whole lives. Tawny would bet her meager life savings that every person that these two had ever known was still alive. Their parents were still happily married and looked healthy, just like them, only a little older, and they played tennis and had barbecues and big family dinners, where the relatives bowed their heads and said a nice prayer.
Soon, they would tell her that they had all the answers to her problems, and, sorry, Tawny just wasn’t in the mood. Not today. Her broken finger ached so damn much. A cop had just threatened to throw her in jail. And her sadistic, psycho puppy of a “boyfriend” was missing and maybe, God willing, dead.
The smiling cute boy said, “We just need to talk to you for a brief moment.”
Tawny was about to tell them to buzz off, but something made her pull up. These two were different from the standard-issue Bible thumpers who stood outside the club and harassed the girls with quoted Scripture. They seemed more… Midwestern maybe? More fresh scrubbed and bright-eyed. A few years ago, Tawny’s grandmother, may she rest in peace, had really gotten in to some hokey televangelist on a crappy cable network. They had something called the Wholesome Music Hour with young teens singing gently with guitars and hand claps. That’s what these kids looked like. Like they just escaped from some cable-TV church choir.
“It won’t take long,” the perky blonde assured her.
Here they were, on her doorstep, today of all days. Not at the club’s back entrance. Not yelling out a bunch of slogans about sin. Maybe, after all the destruction, with her finger aching and her feet hurting and the rest of her feeling too bone tired to take one more step, these two kids were here for a reason. Maybe they had indeed been sent, in Tawny’s hour of darkest need, to rescue her. Like two angels from above.
Could that be?
A stray tear ran down Tawny’s cheek. The perky blond girl nodded at her as though she understood exactly what Tawny was going through.
Maybe, Tawny thought, readying her key, I do need saving. Maybe these two kids, unlikely as it sounded, were her ticket to a better life.
“Okay,” Tawny said, choking back a sob. “You can come in. Just for a second, okay?”
They both nodded.
Tawny opened the door. Ralphie sprinted across the room toward them, his nails clacking on the linoleum. Tawny felt her heart soar at the sound. Ralphie-the one good, kind, loving thing in her life. She bent down and let Ralphie run her over. She giggled through a sob and scratched Ralphie in that spot behind his ears for a few seconds and then stood back up.
Tawny turned to the perky blonde, who still had the smile in place.
“Beautiful dog,” the perky blonde said.
“Thank you.”
“Can I pet him?”
“Sure.”
Tawny turned to the cute guy. He smiled at her too. But the smile was weird now. Off somehow…
The cute guy was still smiling when he cocked his fist back. He was still smiling when he turned his hips and shoulders and punched Tawny straight in the face with everything he had.
As Tawny crumbled to the floor, blood spurting out of her nose, eyes rolling back, the last sound she heard was Ralphie whimpering.
9
Broome put the phone back in its cradle. He was still trying to process this-to quote all local newscasters-“latest shocking development.”
Goldberg asked, “Who was that?”
Broome hadn’t realized that Goldberg had been hovering. “Harry Sutton.”
“The shyster?”
“Shyster?” Broome frowned. “What is this, 1958? No one calls lawyers shysters anymore.”
“Don’t be an asshole because it’s easy,” Goldberg said. “This have something to do with Carlton Flynn?”
Broome stood, his pulse racing. “Could be.”
“Well?”
Something to do with Carlton Flynn? Maybe. Something to do with Stewart Green? Definitely.
Broome was still replaying the conversation in his head. After seventeen years of searching, Harry Sutton claimed to have Cassie, the stripper who vanished with Stewart Green, in his office. She was there right now-just like that-materializing out of thin air. It was almost too much to take in.
With most lawyers, Broome would figure they were full of crap. But Harry Sutton, for all his private-life extremes-and, man, he had loads-would not pull something like this. There was no upside for him for lying about it.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” Broome said.
Goldberg put his hands on his hips, trying hard to look tough. “No, you’ll tell me now.”
“Harry Sutton may have located a witness.”
“What witness?”
“I was sworn to secrecy.”
“You were what?”
Broome didn’t bother to reply. He just kept moving, taking the stairs, knowing that Goldberg, a man who found it exhausting to reach for anything other than a sandwich, wouldn’t follow. When he got in his car, his cell phone rang. Broome saw that it was Erin.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Heading to see Harry Sutton.”
Erin had been his cop partner for twenty-three years before retiring last year. She was also his ex-wife. He filled her in on the sudden reappearance of Cassie.
“Wow,” Erin said.
“Yes.”
“The elusive Cassie,” Erin said. “You’ve been looking for her for a long time.”
“Seventeen years.”
“So you may get some answers.”
“We can hope. You call for a reason?”
“The surveillance video from La Creme.”
“What about it?”
“I may have found something,” Erin said.
“Do you want me to stop by when I’m done with Sutton?”
“Sure, that’ll give me time to hammer this out. Plus you can fill me in on your meeting with the elusive Cassie.”
Then, because he couldn’t resist: “Erin?”
“What?”
“You said ‘hammer.’ Heh-heh-heh.”
“Seriously, Broome?” Erin groaned. “How old are you?”
“Lines like that used to work on you.”
“Lots of things used to work on me,” she said, and there was maybe a hint of sadness in her voice. “A long
