“Nothing. I got hit with a baseball bat. I went down. I mean, I tried to hold on to the camera, but sorry, that’s all I know.” Ray filled him in on the whole incident, how he took more than one blow, how he fought for his camera, how the attacker finally ran.
“Were you drunk?”
“What? No.”
“Because you drink a lot, right?”
“I’m also of legal age. So what?”
“I hear you have blackouts. That true?”
Ray didn’t bother responding. Broome reached into his pocket and took out the age-progression picture of Stewart Green with the shaved head and goatee. “Could this have been the guy?”
When Ray Levine saw the image, the bloodshot eyes widened. He looked as though someone had whacked him anew with that baseball bat. “Who the hell is that?”
“Do you recognize him or not?”
“I… No. I mean… no, he’s not the guy who attacked me.”
“I thought you didn’t see your attacker.”
“Don’t be cute, Broome. You know what I mean.”
Broome lifted the picture higher, nearly shoving it in Ray’s face. “Have you ever seen this guy before?”
“No.”
“So why the startled face?”
“I don’t know. Who is he?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Cut the crap, Broome. Who is he?”
“A suspect. You either know him or you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Cool.” Broome put the picture away, wondering what to make of the reaction. Had Ray seen Stewart Green? He’d go back to it later. Time to change direction a bit, keep him off balance. “Now earlier, you stated you go up to the iron-ore ruins every February eighteenth.”
“No, I didn’t. I said, most.”
“Right, okay, forgetting the years you were away. Do you have proof?”
“Proof that I was up there on various February eighteenths?”
“Yes.”
“Why would I need that?”
“Humor me.”
“You’re investigating murders and disappearances. I don’t think I’m much in the mood to humor you.”
“Who said anything about murders?”
Ray sighed. “Wow, did someone just buy you a boxed set of old
Columbo
episodes? You don’t think I know that Cassie—or what did you call her? Megan? You don’t think I know she visited Harry Sutton? He was murdered, right? It’s in all the papers.”
“Oh. Fair point. So let’s stop with the games. Can you prove you were taking pictures at the park”—Broome made quote marks with his fingers—“‘most’ February eighteenths?”
Ray thought about it. “Actually, I think I can.”
“How?”
“The photographs I take. They’re date stamped.”
“Can’t you fix that? Like make it look like another date?”
“I don’t know, frankly. You can have your experts look for themselves. You can also check weather reports maybe, see if it was raining or snowing or what that day. I still don’t get it. What difference does it make what day I was there?”
Simple, though Broome wouldn’t say it now. If Ray Levine could show he went up on February eighteenths—and not Mardi Gras—it would back his story. Of course, Broome would subpoena all the photographs and see what other dates he was in that section of the park. But it would be a start.
It was coming to an end. Broome could feel it. After seventeen years of hunting, searching, never letting go, he was so damn close
to breaking this case open. Odd when you thought about it. Every February eighteenth—well, “most”—Ray Levine visited that park and reflected on a certain incident. Meanwhile, on that same day, Broome visited Sarah Green and reflected on the very same incident. Except “reflected” wasn’t really the right word, was it? Broome had been obsessed with the Stewart Green case from day one. While all the other cops in town dismissed it as yet another philandering creep who ran off with a stripper, Broome had held on with a ferocity that surprised even him. Yes, getting to know the family Stewart left behind—Sarah, Susie, and Brandon—had helped him focus, but even back then, he recognized that Sarah was somewhat deluding herself, that all would not be well in that sad, lonely house if her beloved husband were returned safely.
In truth, even way back then, Broome had believed that Stewart Green’s disappearance was more than it seemed, much more, something dark and horrible and almost beyond his comprehension. Now he was sure of it.
“Are we done here, Detective?”
Broome checked his cell phone. Goldberg was going to text him when he got the subpoena and had it served. He didn’t want Ray Levine heading home before then, perhaps tampering with or destroying evidence.
“That picture you sent me anonymously—that wasn’t the only one you took that day, right?”
“No, of course not.”
“Where are the rest of the pictures?”
“On my hard drive at home, but I back them up to a cloud.”
“A cloud?”
“That’s what they call it. For safe storage. It’s like a disk in the
sky. Think of it as e-mailing stuff to yourself. I can access them from any computer with the proper codes.”
Whoa, Broome thought. “I have a laptop in my car,” he said. “Would you mind?”
“What, now?”
“It could really help. My car is right around the corner.”
Broome had parked on South Michigan Avenue near Caesars. While the computer booted up, Ray said, “I sent you the last picture I took. Once someone else came on the scene, I figured it was time to go.”
“So that’s the only picture of Carlton Flynn?”
“That’s right.”
“And there was no one else in any of the other pictures?”
“Right. Before that, I had the place to myself.”
The computer came to life. Broome handed it to Ray. The sun was bright, putting glare on the screen, so they slipped into the car. Broome watched the people exiting the casinos. They always did it the same way—with a stumble, a shade of the eyes with one hand, big-time blinking.
“Did you see anyone on your way back down from that spot?” Broome asked.
“No, sorry.”
Ray got on the Internet and went to a Mac Web site. He typed in a user name and password and clicked on some folders and then he handed the laptop back to Broome. There were eighty-seven photographs. He started with the last, the photograph Ray had sent anonymously. Something struck Broome right away. The first few were all what one might call picturesque landscapes, except something in the composition brought on feelings of melancholy. Most
times, landscape scenes make you yearn for the great outdoors and that solitude. But these were stark, lonely, depressing—interesting because that was clearly the photographer’s mood and intent.
Broome continued to click through the photographs. For some reason that dumb line from that song “A Horse with No Name” came to him: “There were plants and birds and rocks and things.” That pretty much summed it up. Broome had hoped to find, what exactly? He didn’t know. Clues. But all he saw were bland yet creative and moving photographs of the scene where one man lost his heart—and others lost… again what?
“You’re good,” Broome said.
Ray did not reply.
Broome could almost feel the foreboding now, the cumulative impact of Ray’s work starting to wear him down. He was nearly finished going through the photographs when something snagged his gaze.
Broome stopped.
“Can you zoom in?”
“Sure. Just click the command and plus buttons.”
The photograph was one of the first Ray had snapped that day, taken from a different viewpoint, so maybe that explained it. There were trees, of course, and the big rock and the old furnace chimney, but from here, Broome thought he could see something else, something behind the ruins of that old chimney in the background. He clicked, zooming closer and closer. The picture quality, fortunately, was excellent, so there was very little pixilation.
Broome felt his heart rise to his throat.
Ray looked over his shoulder. “What is that?”
Broome moved in closer. Something was jutting out behind the
chimney. It was green and metallic with a black rubber end. Broome could only make out maybe six inches of it. But that was enough. He’d spent the summer after high school graduation working for a moving company, so, even though he could only see the handle, he had a pretty good idea what it was.
“It’s a hand truck,” Broome said. “Someone hid a hand truck near where these guys disappeared.”
M
EGAN STARTED THE JOURNEY TO
her mother-in-law.
Her thoughts were with poor Harry Sutton. There was, of course, the possibility that the timing of his murder was a coincidence. She had returned to Atlantic City over a seventeen-year-old incident. The young couple being sought by the police would have been, what, five, maybe ten years old back in those days. So perhaps, if those two were the ones who did it, Megan and her past had absolutely nothing to do with what happened to Harry.
Her mind continued to nimbly do this denial dance step, but in the end, the truth seemed pretty obvious: She had dragged danger and death to Harry Sutton’s door. She couldn’t figure out how yet. But in her heart, Megan knew that once again, she had messed up.
Two weeks ago, she had returned to Atlantic City for the first time for that mundane trade show. Part of her had convinced herself that it was no big deal, that the visit was strictly for career opportunities. She had truly believed the gritty city she still missed hadn’t been calling to her. But that was more self-delusion. She could have stayed at the seminar, for example. Some other real-estate wannabes had even planned a group dinner at the Rainforest Café, but Megan had passed. Instead, she had gone to La Crème.
Who could blame her? Who doesn’t visit old haunts when they return to a city that meant so much to them?
She decided to try Dave again. When her call went to voice mail, she started to feel the first wave of anger. After the beep, she said, “Enough of this. We have to talk. Your mother is having serious issues. Grow up and call me.”
Megan hung up, nearly hurling the phone across the front seat. On the one hand, of course she understood his behavior. She was the one in the wrong. But maybe that was the problem. In a sense, she had always been the one in the wrong. Over the years, she had let the guilt of her deception color everything in their relationship. Her fault? Sure. But maybe Dave had taken advantage of it. Her guilt had made her acquiesce too many times. She didn’t resent the kids for any of it. She wouldn’t trade it but…
But why wasn’t Dave calling her back?
All those years he had been working, yes, providing, putting food on the table and all the rest of the crap men use to justify what they do—but Dave liked his work. He thrived on late hours and travel and golf on Sunday mornings and then coming home to his hot, willing wife. She had been all that for him, even when she didn’t want to be. Don’t get her wrong. Dave had never bullied her. He had never been mean or deceptive, but then again, why would he be? He had the perfect wife. She had given up on finding a career of her own. She paid all the bills, took care of all the shopping, drove all the carpools, made sure the household was in order. She took care of his mother, cared about her more than he ever could, and after all that, all the sacrifices she’d made, how did he treat her?
He was ignoring her calls—and he’d somehow been spying on her.
Not that she didn’t deserve that. But still. Here she wanted to talk to him, tell him about her past and inner demons and let him know that the wife he had sworn to protect was in danger, and he wouldn’t even return her desperate calls, choosing instead to act like a petulant child.
She reached for her phone again. She had already put Ray’s number in so she’d remember it. She hit the dial button, but before it could even start ringing, she saw the sign for the Sunset Assisted Living Home.
Don’t be an idiot, Megan, she told herself.
Megan hung up the phone, parked, and with the anger still seething, she headed inside.
B
ARBIE STAYED TWO CARS BACK
.
She wasn’t overly concerned about being spotted—Megan Pierce hardly seemed like an expert in noticing tails—but you never knew. The fact that this seemingly simple housewife was somehow caught up in all this indicated that she was not merely what she appeared to be. The same, of course, could be said about Barbie herself.
As Barbie drove, her mind kept slipping back to Ken’s sudden proposal. It was sweet and cute, sure, but it was mostly disturbing. She had always assumed that Ken saw past the illusions cast upon us, that their relationship had opened his eyes to a new and different reality. But it hadn’t. Even he could not see past the bill of goods we are sold from our first days on this planet.