Stay Close (26 page)

“Some asswipe stole her away from me,” Fester said.

“Sorry.”

“She’s married now—to a plumbing contractor in Cincinnati. They got two sons. I saw all these pictures of them on Facebook. They did some Carnival cruise last year. They go to Reds games. She looks really happy.”

“Everyone looks happy on Facebook.”

“I know, right? What’s up with that?” Fester tried to smile, but it couldn’t make it through the ache. “I wasn’t good enough for her anyway, you know what I mean? I was just a lowly bouncer. Maybe
now, with this new business and all, I probably make as much coin as the plumber does. Maybe more. But it’s too late, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re not going to encourage me to go after her?”

Ray said nothing.

“You should see her photos. On Facebook, I mean. She’s still just as beautiful as the day she dumped me. Maybe more so.”

Ray stared down at the coffee a moment. “You know what beer goggles are?”

“Sure,” Fester said. “The more you drink, the better the girl looks.”

“You’re looking at those Facebook pictures through heartache goggles.”

“You think?”

“I do.”

Fester considered that. “Yeah, maybe I am. Or maybe those aren’t heartbreak goggles. Maybe those are true-love goggles.”

They fell into silence for a moment. The coffee was God’s nectar. The headache had become a dull, steady thud.

“The plumber is probably making her happy,” Fester said. “I should leave it alone.”

“Good idea.”

“But,” Fester said, holding up a finger, “if she walked through that door right now—or, for example”—he shrugged theatrically—“if she, let’s say, walked into the Weak Signal looking for me after all these years, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Subtle, Fester.”

He spread his arms. “What about me hits you as subtle?”

Fair point. “She didn’t come back to start up again.”

“So she just wanted a fling? To slum for a couple hours? That sucks.” Then thinking more about it, Fester said, “But hell, I’d take it.”

“She didn’t come back for that either.”

“Then what did she come back for?”

Ray shook his head. “It’s not important. She’s gone. She won’t be back.”

“So she just came back to mess with your head?”

Ray played with his napkin. “Something like that.”

“Cold.”

Ray did not reply.

“But you know what’s interesting, Ray?”

“No, Fester, why don’t you tell me what’s interesting?”

“Jennifer broke my heart, sure, but she didn’t break me. You know what I mean? I still function. I got a business. I got a life. I moved on. Yeah, I drink sometimes, but I didn’t let it destroy me.”

“Again with the subtle,” Ray said.

“I know there are few things worse than a broken heart, but it is nothing that you shouldn’t be able to recover from. Do you know what I’m saying?”

Ray almost laughed. He knew. And he didn’t. A broken heart is bad, but there are indeed things worse. Fester thought that a broken heart had crushed Ray. It had, no question about it. But you do recover from a broken heart. Ray would have, if that had been all. But as Fester had noted, there are a few things worse, more scarring, harder to get over, than a broken heart.

Blood, for example.

* * *

B
ROOME DIDN
’
T LIKE CONFIDING IN
M
EGAN
.

He still didn’t believe that she was coming totally clean, but that just made it more important, not less, to hit her with the full horrible, awful facts of the case. So on the drive down to Atlantic City, he told her enough to scare the crap out of her—how he believed that many men, not just Stewart Green and Carlton Flynn, went missing on Mardi Gras, how none of them had ever been seen again.

When he finished, Megan said, “So are these men dead or did they run away or did someone kidnap them or what?”

“I don’t know. We only know of the fate of one—Ross Gunther.”

“And he’s dead.”

“Yes. A man is serving time for his murder.”

“And you think that man is innocent?”

“Yes.”

She thought about it for a moment. “So how many men have you found that fit this Mardi Gras pattern?”

“We are still working on it, but for now we have fourteen.”

“No more than one a year?”

“Yes.”

“And always around Mardi Gras.”

“Yes.”

“Except, well, now you have another body in Harry Sutton. He doesn’t fit the pattern at all.”

“I don’t think he’s part of the Mardi Gras group.”

“But it has to be connected,” she said.

“Yes,” Broome said. “By the way, does that holiday mean anything to you? Mardi Gras, I mean.”

Megan shook her head. “It was always a wild night, but other than that, nope, nothing.”

“How about to Stewart Green?”

“No. I mean, not that I know about anyway.”

“Stewart Green is the only one we have a possible sighting of. You get now why I need to talk to anyone who might have seen him?”

“Yes,” Megan said.

“So?”

She thought about it, but in truth, there was no option but the truth here. “Lorraine saw him.”

“Thank you.”

Megan said nothing. Broome explained how he didn’t want Megan to give her a heads-up, that he’d visit her soon.

“I’ve known Lorraine a long time,” Broome said.

Megan smirked, remembering how Lorraine said she’d thrown him a one-timer. “Yeah, I know.”

Broome parked the car and brought her into the precinct through the side door. He didn’t want Goldberg or anyone else to know she was here. He set her up in a storage room on the ground level. Rick Mason, the sketch artist and all-around computer weenie, was there.

“What’s with the secrecy?” Mason asked.

“Think of it as witness protection.”

“From your fellow cops?”

“Especially from them. Trust me on this, okay?”

He shrugged. Once Megan settled in, Broome headed back to his car. He quickly called Erin. Earlier he had asked her to check for any surveillance cameras around Harry Sutton’s office, see if they could get an image of this young couple. She told him now that she was still working it. He had also asked her to find the whereabouts of Stacy Paris, the girl Mannion and Gunther had battled over.

“Stacy Paris’s real name is Jaime Hemsley. She’s living near Atlanta.”

“Married?”

“No.”

Atlanta. He wouldn’t have time to get down there. “Maybe you can reach her by phone, see what she can tell us about the night Gunther died.”

“I already called. No answer, but I’ll keep working on it. Broome?”

“What?”

“If Mannion is innocent,” Erin said, “I mean, if he’s spent eighteen years in jail for the work of a serial whatever… man, that would really blow.”

“You got a way with insight, Erin.”

“Well, you didn’t just fall for me because of my hot bod.”

“Yeah, I did,” he said. “Talk to Stacy. See what she knows.”

He hung up. The ride to La Crème was a short one. The lunch crowd was pouring in, many lining up for the suspect buffet before ogling the girls, begging the question, “How hungry were these guys?”

Lorraine wasn’t at her customary post behind the bar. There had been a night many years ago when the two of them had a textbook one-night stand. It had been fun and empty, the kind of thing that paradoxically made you feel alive and wishing it had never happened—the way all one-nighters do, Broome thought, even by the most jaded of participants. Still, when you sleep with someone, even when drunk and stupid and with no desire for a repeat, there was a bond. He hoped to use that now.

Broome headed to the back of the club. Rudy’s door was closed.
Broome opened it without knocking. Rudy was trying to pull his too-tight shirt over his thick head and then past down the bowling-ball gut. There was a girl in the office, helping him. She was young. Probably too young. Rudy shooed her out the side door.

“She’s legal,” Rudy said.

“I’m sure.”

He invited Broome to sit. Broome shook him off.

“So,” Rudy said, “you’re here two days in a row.”

“I am.”

“What, you got a thing for one of my girls?”

“No, Rudy, I got a thing for you. Excessive shoulder hair turns me on.”

Rudy smiled and spread his hands. “I do have the kind of body that appeals to all persuasions.”

“Right, exactly. Where’s Lorraine?”

“She should be back any minute. What do you want with my best employee?”

Broome pointed with his thumb. “I’ll wait out front.”

“I’d rather you just left.”

“Or I can start carding all the girls.”

“Go ahead,” Rudy said. “I run a legitimate establishment. You think I need that kind of trouble?”

“Whatever. Like I said, I’ll wait out front.”

“You didn’t hear me. I don’t want trouble.”

“You won’t get any if you cooperate.”

“That’s what you said yesterday. You remember yesterday, don’t you?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“You threatened one of my girls. Tanya.”

“Tawny.”

“Whatever.”

“I didn’t threaten her. I talked to her.”

“Right. And you didn’t follow up on that conversation and get a little more persuasive?”

“What are you talking about?”

Rudy had a huge bowl of M&M’s on his desk. He reached his catcher-glove paw into the bowl. “Tawny called me last night. She quit.”

“And you think I had something to do with that?”

“You didn’t?”

“Maybe my conversation opened her eyes. You know, that and the beatings your client Carlton Flynn laid on her and this toilet of a workplace, stuff like that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“One of my other girls lives with her. Said Tawny threw her stuff in a suitcase and ran out. Said she looked like someone had given her a fresh tune-up.”

“Who?”

Rudy poured the M&M’s into his mouth. “I figured that it was you.”

Broome frowned. “Where is Tawny now?”

“Gone. She hopped on a bus.”

“Already?”

“Yep, last night. Tawny called me from the bus station to quit.”

Broome tried to think it through. It could have been just what he originally said. These girls—they were not exactly the most stable columns in the Forum. She had been hurt already. Her finger had
been broken. Her abusive quasi-boyfriend had gone missing. A cop had interrogated her. She had probably just decided to cut her losses and head home.

“This girl Tawny lived with,” Broome said.

“Not here. And she knows nothing.”

“Rudy, this isn’t a time to get cute with me.”

Rudy sighed. “Calm down, you know me, I’m a model citizen. I’ll get her in, but in the meantime”—he gestured over Broome’s shoulder and out the door—“my best employee just arrived. On time, as always. She’s never late.”

Broome turned and saw Lorraine heading toward her post behind the bar.

“Hey, Broome.”

He turned back to Rudy. His face was different now. Whatever human mask Rudy normally wore for cops, it was gone.

“She’s special. Lorraine, I mean. You get that, right?”

“What’s your point, Rudy?”

“If whatever you do here ends up hurting that woman”—Rudy gestured again toward where Lorraine was now cleaning off the bar—“I don’t give a crap what kind of badge you got. There won’t be enough of you left for a DNA match.”

E
ARLIER THAT DAY
, Ken had made his way to Megan Pierce’s sliding glass door off the wooden deck. Barbie had gone through the garage—backup in case the door was locked. It wouldn’t be necessary. The sliding glass door was unlocked. Ken quietly opened it. He was about to step inside when the doorbell rang.

He slipped back outside and ducked low. The cop Broome entered the house.

Ken wanted to curse, but he never cursed. Instead he used his favorite word for such moments: “setback.” That was all this was. The measure of a man isn’t how many times he gets knocked down. It is how many times he gets back up again.