Stay Close Page 13

  "It's okay. You can go."

  He didn't have to tell her twice. She was up and out the door. George stood and followed her. Ray got in his way. "Don't."

  "I don't understand, Ray."

  Alexandra fled. George collapsed back into his chair. Ray stared at the photograph. Why had Fester taken it? He tried to calm down enough to gather clues. They were at a bar. Probably the Weak Signal. The old Bogie line about of all the gin joints in all the world came to him, but of course, she hadn't walked into his. She had walked into Fester's. And there was no way this was a coincidence.

  "Why, Ray?"

  "One second," he told George.

  He pressed Fester's speed dial--pathetically, Ray thought, Fester, his boss, was the only person he had on speed dial--and heard it ring.

  "I don't get it, Ray," George said. "This girl, Alexandra? Online she's telling me that her last boyfriend treated her like crap and ignored her and never took her out. Here I am, going the extra mile, and she freaks out on me. Why?"

  Ray held up a one-second finger. Fester's voice mail kicked in. His message said, "Fester. Beep."

  Ray said, "What the hell is going on with that picture? Call me now."

  He hung up and started heading out.

  "Ray?"

  It was George again.

  "I don't get it. I'm just trying to make the night special for them. Don't they see that? Online they all say they want romance."

  "First off," Ray said, "there's a fine line between romance and restraining order. You got that?"

  George nodded slowly. "I guess so. But they all say--"

  "Second, what women say is crap. They say they want romance and to be treated like a princess, but all empirical evidence says otherwise. They always choose the guy who treats them like dirt."

  "So what should I do?" George asked, clearly confused. "Should I treat them like dirt too?"

  Ray thought about it. He was about to launch into a long spiel of advice but now, looking at George's face, he said, "Don't change a thing."

  "What?"

  "I'd hate to live in a world without guys like you. So don't change. You be the romantic instead of the asshole."

  "You really think so?"

  "Well, not if you want to score. If you want to score, you're hopeless."

  George gave a half-smile at that. "I don't just want to score. I want to find a true companion."

  "Good answer. Then don't change. Stick to your guns." Ray took another step, stopped, turned back. "Well, maybe back off a little. The personalized menus are way over the top."

  "Really? You think? Maybe it's just the font."

  Ray's cell phone rang. It was Fester. He quickly picked it up.

  "Fester?"

  "So you know the girl in the picture, I assume," Fester said.

  "Yes, what does she want?"

  "What do you think she wants? She wants to talk to you."

  Ray could actually feel his heart beating in his chest. "Is she still at the Weak Signal? I'm on my way."

  "She just left."

  "Damn."

  "But she left a message."

  "What?"

  "She said to meet her at Lucy at eleven."

  17

  BROOME CALLED HIS EX, Erin, from the scene and filled her in on the found blood and Cowens's recollection.

  "I'll get over to the precinct and start the research," she said.

  When Broome arrived, Erin was sitting at his desk rather than her former one directly across from his. That desk, where she sat for more than a decade, was now used by some slick-haired pretty boy who dressed in Armani suits. Broome kept forgetting his name and in a fit of originality had taken to calling him "Armani." Armani wasn't here so Broome slipped into his seat. The desk was ridiculously neat and smelled of cologne.

  "I can't believe I missed it," Erin said.

  "We were searching for missing men, not dead ones. So what do you got?"

  "The victim's name was Ross Gunther, age twenty-eight."

  Erin handed him the photograph, the body splayed on its back. The blood was thick around his neck, like he was wearing a crimson scarf.

  "Gunther was born in Camden, dropped out of Camden High, lived in Atlantic City," Erin said. "A true nowhere man headed for a life of nothing. He was single, fairly long sheet of loser stuff--assault, battery, criminal mischief. He also did a little enforcing for a loan shark."

  "How was he killed?"

  "His throat was slit--aggressively."

  "Aggressively?" Broome took another look at the photograph. "Looks like he was almost decapitated."

  "Ergo, my use of the term aggressively. As you know already, Morris handled the case. If you want to talk to him, he's down in Florida."

  "How old is he now?"

  "Morris?" She shrugged. "Got be eighty, eighty-five."

  "He was already senile when I joined the force."

  "I don't think you'll need to talk to him anyway."

  "He got his man, right?"

  Erin nodded. "Gunther had recently started seeing a girl named Stacy Paris. Problem was, Paris was engaged to a hothead named Ricky Mannion. Both men were the very possessive type, if you know what I mean."

  Broome knew all too well what she meant. He'd seen the possessive type too many times in his career--overly jealous, short fuse, mistakes control for love, always holds the girl's hand in public like a dog marking territory, chockful of raging insecurity that he's trying to mask in the macho. It never ends well.

  "So Morris got a warrant for Mannion's house," Erin said. "They found enough evidence to put him away."

  "Like what kind of evidence?"

  "Like the murder weapon." She showed him the photograph of a long knife with a serrated edge. "Mannion had wiped it off, but there were still remnants of blood. They positively tied it to the victim. The early days of DNA. And if that wasn't enough, they also found Gunther's blood in Mannion's car and on a shirt he left by the washing machine."

  "Yowza," Broome said.

  "Yeah, a real Einstein, this Mannion. You'll never, ever, guess what he claimed."

  "Wait, let me think. Hmm. He was--don't tell me--framed?"

  "Wow, you're good."

  "Don't be intimidated. I'm a trained detective."

  "So you probably know how this all ended. The case was open and shut. Mannion got twenty-five to life in Rahway."

  "What happened to this girl? This Stacy Paris?"

  "You just found the body, what, an hour ago? I'm still working on it."

  "And the big question," Broome said.

  Erin smiled. "You want to know when this murder occurred?"

  "And I thought I was the trained detective."

  "March eleventh, eighteen years ago. And, yes, it was Mardi Gras. Or I should say it was the morning after. See, that's the thing. Mardi Gras was actually March tenth that year, but our boy Gunther's body was found after midnight."

  "So technically speaking it was not Mardi Gras."

  "Exactly. And that happens with a few of the missing people cases too. It makes it harder to see the pattern."

  "So we need to look at murders or missing people on or around that date--and we need to look for people murdered or missing at or around that park. That area was pretty remote. A body could be there for days or even weeks."

  "I'm on it," Erin said.

  Broome stared, chewing on a hangnail.

  "That's disgusting," Erin said.

  He kept at it. "This Mannion guy."

  "What about him?"

  "If we're right about this pattern, about there being some--I don't know--Mardi Gras killer or whatever the hell he is..." Broome stopped. "Mannion's been serving, what, eighteen years for a crime he didn't commit."

  "Let's not jump the gun, Broome."

  "Detective?"

  Broome started at the voice. He turned to see Del Flynn and his loud Hawaiian shirt. There had to be at least ten gold chains around his neck. Broome spotted a gold Saint Anthony medal, a gold sh
ip anchor, and a gold mud flap-like silhouette of a curvy girl. Variety pack.

  "Mr. Flynn?"

  Goldberg was standing a few feet back behind him. Del Flynn, Broome had already been reminded several times, possessed beaucoup bucks. The mayor and several other muckety-mucks had called, as though the Atlantic City Police Department had a VIP line for missing people. Then again, maybe it did, who knew? Broome didn't hold it against the man. If your son vanishes, you go all out. You don't hold back. Broome got that.

  Broome introduced Flynn to Erin. Erin nodded and then put her head back down. Erin had never been good with the families of victims. "They're broken," Erin had told him before. Broome looked now into Flynn's eyes and thought "shattered" was more accurate. "Broken" suggested something clean and all the way through and fixable. But what happened to them was messier, more abstract, filled with shards and no hope of recovery.

  "Did you find something new?" Del Flynn asked.

  "It's too early to tell, Mr. Flynn."

  "But something?"

  The desperation in his voice was more than just audible. It was a living, breathing horrible thing. It filled the room. It suffocated all around it. Broome looked for Goldberg to step in. Goldberg looked right through him.

  Flynn reached out and grabbed Broome's arm with a little too much force. "Do you have any children, Detective?"

  Broome had been asked this more than once during his years in law enforcement. He always found it borderline patronizing--really, it made no difference--but again, seeing that shatter, he got it. "No, sir, I don't. Detective Anderson here does though."

  Yep, Broome had tossed his lovely ex under the bus. Flynn's eyes moved toward Erin. Erin kept her head down. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Broome mercifully moved between them.

  "Mr. Flynn," Broome said, "I assure you that we're doing all we can to find your son. But if we have to stop to provide you progress reports when we're trying to work, that's going to slow us down. You see that, right? I could spend time investigating clues and searching for your son. Or I could spend it filling you in on every development. Do you understand what I mean?"

  "I want to help."

  "Then let us be, okay?"

  Flynn's shattered eyes flared at that--a brief flash of anger before the destruction flooded back in. Goldberg stepped in now. "I think, Detective Broome, that what Mr. Flynn is asking--"

  Del Flynn put his hand on Goldberg's arm, stopping him. "Later," Flynn said. He started down the corridor. Goldberg threw one final glare at Broome and turned to follow him.

  "I thought Goldberg was going to perform a sex act on that guy," Erin said. "Flynn must have serious juice."

  "Don't care," Broome said. "Can you get me the number to Rahway Prison?"

  She typed into the computer. It was late, but it wasn't like federal penitentiaries had business hours. Broome called the number, told the dispatcher he was calling about a prisoner named Ricky Mannion. He was told to hold.

  "This is Corrections Officer Dean Vanech."

  "My name is Broome. I'm a homicide detective with ACPD."

  "Okay."

  "I'm calling about one of your prisoners, guy named Ricky Mannion."

  "What about him?"

  "Do you know him?"

  "I do."

  "Does he still claim he's innocent?"

  "Every day. But you know what? Almost every guy in here is innocent. It's amazing, really. Either we are all totally incompetent or--gasp oh gasp--our houseguests are full of crap."

  "What's your take on him?"

  "Meaning?"

  "Is Mannion more persuasive than most?"

  "About being innocent? Who the hell knows? I've seen guys in here who could put De Niro to shame."

  Talking to this Vanech guy, Broome could see, was going to be a waste of time.

  "I'd like to come up and visit Mannion first thing in the morning," Broome said. "That okay?"

  "Well, let me check his social calendar. My, my, the First Lady was forced to cancel, so Mannion is free. Shall I pencil you in for seven-ish?"

  Everyone was a wiseass.

  Broome made the appointment. He was hanging up the phone when something caught his eye. He turned his head and saw Cassie rush into the station. She spotted Broome and rushed toward him.

  "There's a problem," Cassie said.

  "GOT IT."

  As Ken promised, the cell phone number quickly told all.

  Because they were unsure how many days this particular job would take, Ken and Barbie had rented a two-bedroom suite at the sleek skyscraper hotel called the Borgata. The Borgata was supposedly the nicest hotel in Atlantic City, plus it had the added advantage of being away from the Boardwalk, the cesspool strip of gamblers, drug addicts, sinners, carnival barkers, and overall filth.

  Still, Barbie thought, the Borgata had a filth all its own. You could not escape it in Atlantic City, and truth be told, she didn't really want to. She was disgusted and exhilarated in equal measure. She wanted to dive into the filth and take a bath at the same time.

  Barbie had grown up protected but she was not naive. She understood that human beings were complex. There was a draw to sin, an allure, or there wouldn't be a need to rail against it. The key was to have some sort of healthy outlet. She felt now that she and Ken had that. Their victims--if that was the right word--were scum. Ken and Barbie hurt them, yes, but none were pure or undeserving. Sometimes, the pain even opened the victim's eyes, brought on a form of redemption. Tawny, for example. Barbie felt good about that. She had experienced momentary pain that could, in the end, save the rest of her life.

  Staying here at the Borgata--living for a short while in the devil's lair, in the very heart of temptation--worked for her. It educated her. It was like sneaking into enemy camp and learning their secrets. When Barbie walked through the casino, she could see the looks of lust on the men's faces, but she also half expected someone to point at her and shout, "She doesn't belong!"

  "How did you trace back the number?" Barbie asked.

  She sat on the love seat facing the window. In the distance she could see the lights of the Boardwalk.

  "Online," Ken said.

  "You were able to trace a cell phone on the computer?"

  "Yes."

  "How?"

  "I Googled 'trace cell phone.'"

  She shook her head. "That's it?"

  "Well, they did charge me ten dollars."

  Ken looked over the keyboard and smiled at her. Barbie felt it in her toes. A pink shirt collar popped over his lime-green sweater. His khakis were pleated. He looked, she thought, very handsome. They always held hands as they walked through the hotel. She loved that, the feel of his hand in hers, but sometimes, when a man's gaze would linger too long, she could feel his grip tighten against her. She could feel the heat then, the rush, the tingle.

  "So whose phone is it?" she asked.

  "A man named David Pierce."

  "And who is he?"

  "I'm not sure. He's a labor attorney in Jersey City. I don't see any connection to our work here. He seems to be a citizen. Married, two kids."

  "A woman called Harry Sutton's cell phone," Barbie said.

  Ken nodded. "There are four T-Mobile cell phone lines under this account. I assume one for him, one for his wife, one for each of his two children. The number we traced was not the main number--the one usually used by the billing name."

  "How old is the daughter?"

  "Fifteen. Her name is Kaylie."

  "The woman I spoke with was, well, a woman."

  "It has to be the wife then. Her name is Megan."

  "How does she fit in?"

  Ken shrugged. "I don't know yet. I just plugged in their address in Kasselton into MapQuest. The drive shouldn't take us more than two hours." He turned toward her, and she could see the glint in his eye. "We could go up there right now and get the answers. The kids might not even be in bed yet."

  Barbie bit her fingernail. "A suburban mother with two children?" r />
  Ken said nothing.

  "We normally hurt those who deserve it," she went on. "It is why we work in this particular world."

  Ken rubbed his chin, considered her point. "If this Megan Pierce is involved with Harry Sutton, then she is far from an innocent."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  He held up his car keys and gave them a little jangle. "Only one way to find out for sure."

  Barbie shook her head. "This is really big. We should check in with our employer first."

  "And if he gives us the okay?"

  "Like you said." Barbie gave a shrug. "They're less than two hours away."

  18