jarring turn, and it was almost hard to stay upright.
“Broome?”
He ignored the voice. He blinked, looked again, and felt his stomach drop, because there, inside the plastic bag, was a medal of Saint Anthony.
From his spot across the street, Ken watched Lorraine leave La Creme by the back door. It took her a fair amount of time to get through the lot. Her departure seemed to be something of an event. Every girl who worked in that cesspool called out to the older barmaid and gave her a long hug. Lorraine in turned accepted the embrace and then seemed to give each one of them something they craved-a sympathetic ear, a crooked I-get-it smile, a kind word.
Like she was their mother.
When she was finally through the crush of girls and headed for home, Ken followed at a safe distance. The walk to her place wasn’t far. The barmaid lived, of course, in some two-bit dump, a house that one might kindly say had seen better days, though it was probably grimy from day one.
Lorraine used a key to open the door and disappeared inside. Two lights went on toward the back. Before that there was no illumination in the house. That seemed to indicate that she was here alone. Ken circled the house, peeking in through the windows. He found Lorraine in the kitchen.
She looked, he thought, exhausted. Her high heels had been kicked off, her bare feet up on a chair. She warmed her hands on a cup of tea, gently sipping it and closing her eyes. In this harsher light, she was far less attractive, far older, than she had looked in the dim light of that strip joint.
That made sense, of course.
Some life this barmaid had made for herself, Ken thought. He’d be doing her a favor if he just put her out of her misery. Ken felt that itch return in full force. His hands tightened into fists. He looked at that kitchen table and thought, Yes, it would probably be sturdy enough to do the job.
Time to get to work.
As Ken approached Lorraine’s door, his phone vibrated. He checked the number, saw it wasn’t Barbie, decided not to answer it. He knocked, patted down his hair, and waited. There was a shuffling sound, and then Ken could hear the top lock’s deadbolt sliding open. Odd how many people just did that. You have the most expensive lock and yet you just open the door to any knock.
Lorraine’s eyes widened a little when she saw Ken, but she didn’t slam the door closed or anything like that. “Well, well. If it isn’t the handsome mourner who looks like my ex.”
She tried to give the crooked smile, the one he’d seen in the club, but it wasn’t quite working. Ken spotted… fear maybe? Yes, fear. The tiniest trace rippled across her weather-beaten face, and that excited him.
Ken offered up his most gentle expression. “I need to talk to you about something.”
Lorraine looked reluctant-maybe scared too-but she wasn’t the type to make a scene or turn someone away.
“It’s really important,” he said. “May I come in?”
“I don’t know,” Lorraine said. “It’s kinda late.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” He gave her the smile with all the teeth. “This will only take a second, I promise.”
And then Ken pushed his way in and closed the door behind him.
It was getting cold outside, so Ray took the stairs back down into the vaulted “stomach room” of Lucy. It had been a dumb idea to come here. What, really, was the point? Yes, he had wonderful memories here. Maybe he thought that Cassie would too. But so what? Did he think bringing her here would somehow soften the blow? Did he think that if he could get her to go back to that time and place it would help her see why he did what he did?
Dumb.
Yes, some things could be made better by setting and context, but was he really naive enough to think, what, that there would be a hormonal rush just being inside this edifice, and that that rush would somehow make what he had done more palatable? He suddenly felt like a bad real estate agent believing location, location, location could somehow make his confession that much better.
Ray looked at his cell phone. No text messages from Cassie or Megan or whatever the hell her name was. He debated calling her again, but what was the point of that? He’d wait another hour, maybe two, and then he’d leave. Where would he go? The cops were probably finishing up at his place, but did he really want to go back to that dingy basement?
No.
It was time to move on. If Cassie-that would always be her name to him, not Megan-didn’t want to hear what he had to say, well, he’d just have to find a way to deal with that. But staying here, with the world around him falling apart, made no sense. It was too risky, and while he certainly had had no trouble finding ways to wreck his life over the years, he wasn’t overtly suicidal.
When Ray started for the stairs in Lucy’s hind leg, he heard a noise below. He stopped and waited.
Someone had opened the door.
“Cassie?”
“No, Ray.”
His heart deflated when he recognized the voice. It belonged to Detective Broome.
“How did you find me?” Ray asked.
“Your cell phone signal. It’s easy when someone leaves their phone on.”
“Oh. Right.”
“It’s over, Ray.”
He said nothing.
“Ray?”
“I hear you, Detective.”
“There’s no point in running. The place is surrounded.”
“Okay.”
“Are you armed?”
“No.”
“I’m here to arrest you, Ray. Do you understand?”
Not sure what to say to that, Ray settled for: “Yes, I understand.”
“Then do both of us a favor,” Broome said. “Make it easy and safe. Get down on your knees and put your hands on top of your head. I’ll cuff you and read your rights.”
36
At eight A.M. the next morning, Megan opened her eyes and felt a world of hurt. It had been a long night on so many levels-not the least of which had been the emotional toll of telling Dave the entire truth about her past- and now every part of her body was experiencing a fresh adventure in pain. The arm was the worst of it; it felt as though it’d been mangled by a tiger and then jammed into a blender set on pulverize. A blacksmith was mercilessly using her skull as an anvil. Her tongue and mouth had the dryness of both the Sahara and the worst hangover imaginable.
Megan opened her eyes slowly. Dave sat at the end of the bed, his head lowered into his hand. He, too, looked in pain, albeit not the throbbing kind. His hair stuck up in all different directions. He had, she surmised, stayed by her side all night.
She tried to remember what time she had finished talking-Dave had barely spoken-but couldn’t. She had talked past exhaustion, not so much falling asleep as passing out from the combination of weariness, pain, and morphine. If Dave had commented on her confession, she didn’t remember it.
Megan had never been so thirsty. When she reached for the cup of water on the nightstand, her entire body screamed in protest. She let out a small cry. Dave snapped his head up and said, “Let me get that for you.”
