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  Here were her options when you broke it down: One, type insurance data mindlessly in a tight, stinky cubicle... or two, dance the night away and drink champagne at a party.

  Tough choice, right?

  But her job at La Creme wasn't shaping up the way she thought it would. Here, she'd heard it was better than Match.com for meeting eligible guys, but the closest thing to a real relationship she'd had was with Carlton. And what had he done? He'd broken her finger and threatened Ralphie.

  Some girls did indeed find a rich guy, but for the most part, they were the pretty ones, and when she looked hard in the mirror, Tawny knew that she wasn't. Pretty, that is. She had to pile on more and more makeup. The 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 time ago."

  Truer words. "See you in a while, Erin."

  Broome pushed thoughts of his ex away and kept his foot on the accelerator. A few minutes later, he wrapped his knuckles on the pebbled glass. From inside, a gravelly voice called, "Enter!"

  He opened the door and stepped fully into the room. Harry Sutton looked like a beloved college professor gone seriously to seed. Broome took in the whole room. There was no one here but Harry.

  "Nice to see you, Detective."

  "Where is Cassie?"

  "Have a seat."

  Broome did as asked. "Where is Cassie?"

  "She's not here at the moment."

&
nbsp; "Well, yes, I can see that."

  "That's because you're a trained detective."

  "I try not to brag," Broome said. "What's going on here, Harry?"

  "She's nearby. She wants to talk to you. But before she does, there are a few ground rules."

  Broome spread his arms. "I'm listening."

  "First of all, this is all off the record."

  "Off the record? What, you think I'm a reporter, Harry?"

  "No, I think you're a good and somewhat desperate cop. Off the record meaning just that. You don't take notes. You don't put this in the file. As far as anyone knows, you never talked to her."

  Broome considered that. "And if I say no?"

  Harry Sutton stood and reached out his hand. "Good to see you again, Detective. Have a nice day."

  "Okay, okay, no need for theatrics."

  "No need," Harry said with a bright smile, "but why not throw them in if I can?"

  "So it's off the record. Bring her in."

  "A few more rules first."

  Broome waited.

  "Today is a one-time exclusive. Cassie will talk to you in my office. She will answer your questions to the best of her ability in my presence. Then she will vanish again. You will let her. You won't try to learn her new name or identity--and more important, you won't try to find her after this meeting."

  "And you're going to just trust me on that?"

  "Yes."

  "I see," Broome said. He shifted in the chair. "Suppose I think she's guilty of a crime."

  "You won't."

  "But suppose."

  "Tough. When she's done talking to you, she goes home. You don't see her again."

  "And suppose, after I investigate some more, I stumble across something new I need to ask her about."

  "Same answer: Tough."

  "I can't come to you?"

  "You can. And if I can help, I will. But she makes no commitment to do so."

  Broome could argue, but he had no leverage here. He was also a one-in-the-hand, don't-look-a-gift-horse-in-the-mouth kind of guy. Yesterday he didn't have the slightest clue where Cassie was. Now, unless he pissed off her or Harry, he could talk to her.

  "Okay," Broome said, "I agree to all your rules."

  "Marvelous." Harry Sutton picked up his cell phone and said, "Cassie? It's okay. Come on in now."

  DEPUTY CHIEF GOLDBERG JUST DIDN'T give a damn anymore.

  He was a year from retirement with full pension, and it wasn't enough. Not even close. Atlantic City might be a cesspool, but it was a costly one. He had alimony payments up the wazoo. His current love interest, Melinda, a twenty-eight-year-old porn star (they were always porn "stars," Goldberg noticed, never just "actresses" or, as in Melinda's case, "the lesser girl in the three-way"), was sucking him dry (and he meant that in two ways, snicker). But, man, was she worth it.

  Yep, slice it any way you want, but in the end Goldberg was a cop on the take.

  Normally he could justify it easily enough. Bad guys are like one of those mythological beasts where you cut off one bad guy, two more just pop up in its place. Or, better the devil you know--the one you can somewhat control and who won't knock off real citizens and who will give you some dough--than the devil you don't. Or, removing the sleaze from this city was like emptying an ocean with a tablespoon. Whatever, Goldberg had a million of them.

  But in this circumstance, justification was even easier: The guy slipping him the Ben Franklins seemed, at least on the surface, to be on the same side as the angels.

  So why was Goldberg hesitating?

  He dialed the number. It was picked up on the third ring.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Goldberg!"

  Reason one for his hesitation: The guy's voice gave him the heebie-jeebies. The man--he sounded really young--was unfailingly polite and spoke in exclamation points, as though he were trying out for an old-time musical. The sound chilled Goldberg. But there was more to it than that.

  There were the rumors about this guy. There were stories of violence and depravity done by this guy and his partner, the kind of stories that make grown men--big, tough, world-weary, seen-it-all men like Goldberg--stay up at night, pulling the covers just a wee bit higher.

  "Yeah," Goldberg said. "Hi."

  Even if the rumors were exaggerated, even if a quarter of the whispers were true, Goldberg had gotten in on something he wanted no part of. Still, the best course of action would be to take the money and shut up. In a sense, what choice did he have? If he tried to back out now or return the money, he might anger that voice on the other end of the phone.

  The voice said, "What can I do for you, Mr. Goldberg?"

  In the background, Goldberg heard a noise that was making his blood freeze.

  "What the hell is that?" he asked.

  "Oh, nothing to worry about, Mr. Goldberg. What did you want to tell me?"

  "I might have another lead."

  "Might?"

  "I'm not sure, that's all."

  "Mr. Goldberg?"

  "Yes?"

  What the hell was that sound in the background?

  "Please tell me what you know."

  He had already leaked them whatever he could on the disappearance of Carlton Flynn. Why not? He and his partner were interested in finding the missing guy too, and the pay was pretty damn sweet.

  The last thing Goldberg had leaked was what he learned from Broome: Carlton Flynn had a stripper girlfriend who worked at La Creme.

  There was whimpering in the background.

  "Do you have a dog?" Goldberg asked.

  "No, Mr. Goldberg, I don't. Oh, but I had the best dog when I was a kid! Her name was Ginger Snaps. Cute, right?"

  Goldberg said nothing.

  "You seem reluctant, Mr. Goldberg."

  "It's Deputy Chief Goldberg."

  "Would you like to meet in person, Deputy Chief Goldberg? We can discuss this issue at your house, if you'd like."

  Goldberg's heart stopped beating. "No, that's okay."

  "So what can you tell me, Deputy Chief Goldberg?"

  The dog was still whimpering. But now Goldberg thought that maybe he heard another sound too, another whimpering maybe, or something worse, underneath the first--a terrible, pain-stricken noise so nonhuman that paradoxically it could only come from another human being.

  "Deputy Chief Goldberg?"

  He swallowed and dived in. "There's this lawyer named Harry Sutton...."

  10

  THE DOOR TO HARRY SUTTON'S office opened, and Cassie walked in.

  She looked pretty much the same.

  That was the first thought that hit Broome. In those days, Broome had even known her a little, seen her at the club, and so he remembered her. She'd changed her hair color over the years--she'd been more platinum blond, if he recalled correctly--but that was about it.

  Some might wonder, if she hadn't changed very much, why Broome hadn't been able to find her in the past seventeen years. The truth was, disappearing is not as hard as you might think. Back in those days, Rudy didn't have even her real name. Broome had eventually found it. Maygin Reilly. But that was where it ended. She had gotten a new ID, and while she was something of a person of interest, it hardly warranted a nationwide APB or its own episode of Most Wanted.

  The other change was that she looked wealthier and more--for a lack of a better term--normal. You could dress a stripper down, but you could always see the stripper. Same with the gambler, the drinker, heck, the cop. Cassie looked like a classic suburban mom. A fun one maybe. The one who gave as good as she got, who flirted when the mood struck, who leaned a little too close when she had a few drinks at the block party. But a suburban mom just the same.

  She sat next to him and turned and met his eye.

  "Good to see you again, Detective."

  "Same, I guess. I've been looking for you, Cassie."

  "So I gathered."

  "Seventeen years."

  "Almost like Valjean and Javert," she said.

  "Like in Les Mi
serables."

  "You've read Hugo?"

  "Nah," Broome said, "my ex dragged me to the musical."

  "I don't know where Stewart Green is," she said.

  Cool, Broome thought. She was skipping the preliminaries. "You realize, of course, that you vanished at the same time he did?"

  "Yes."

  "When you both vanished, you two were seeing each other, right?"

  "No."

  Broome spread his arms. "That's what I was told."

  She gave him a half-smile, and Broome saw the sexy girl from years ago emerge. "How long have you lived in Atlantic City, Detective?"

  He nodded, knowing where she was going with this. "Forty years."