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.”
M EGAN 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
