Stay Close (41 page)

When Broome entered the room, Flair Hickory, whose lavender suit was a bit much at eight in the morning, said, “Well?”

“She’s on her way.”

“Wonderful.”

“I’d still like to ask your client a few questions.”

“And I’d like to take a bubble bath with Hugh Jackman,” Flair countered with a double hand wave. “But alas, we can dream, can’t
we? My client made it clear. Before he says a word to you, he wants a private powwow with Megan Pierce. Now, shoo.”

Broome left the room. Special Agent Angiuoni shrugged and said, “It was worth a shot.”

“I guess.”

“Even with the police escort, it will take at least an hour for her to get down here. Why don’t you get some air or something?”

“I have to go back to La Crème.”

“The nightclub? Why?”

Broome didn’t bother explaining. He headed outside to his car. There were still loose ends to tie up. It had indeed been a long night. The feds were still tearing apart Ray Levine’s residence, searching for other trophies. Twelve bodies had so far been taken out of the well, though, as they got deeper into the hole, it became harder to immediately classify whose bones belonged to whom. The bodies had been broken down into a heap over the years, the well becoming the ultimate boneyard.

After Broome arrested Ray Levine last night, he headed to that doomed house that had once been the family home of Stewart and Sarah Green. He told Sarah what he knew, that all evidence pointed to the fact that Stewart was in the bottom of the well, the victim of a serial killer. Sarah had listened intently as always. When he finished, she said, “I thought you said someone saw Stewart recently.”

So that was where Broome was headed now—to La Crème’s Saturday Brunch ’n’ Munch. They opened for breakfast just about now and shockingly did a pretty brisk business. He didn’t think that this particular trip would produce anything tangible. Lorraine,
Broome was certain, would shrug her shoulders and say, “I told you I wasn’t sure. You just wouldn’t listen.”

But the truth was—a truth he could maybe start admitting to himself—he wanted to see Lorraine. It had been a horrible night, filled with too much blood and too many dead bodies. Sure, he had a professional excuse for visiting her, but maybe he just wanted to be with her, to see a familiar, pretty face looking back at him, one that wasn’t married to another man. She had that way about her, Lorraine, another wounded veteran of this city, and it felt good to be around her. Maybe that was all he wanted. Maybe he wanted to disappear into that comforting, crooked smile and throaty laugh for a little while. And maybe the fact that she was dying, that maybe in a few months she wouldn’t be here at all… maybe that made him realize how badly he didn’t want to miss out yet again in his life.

Was that so wrong?

The bouncers at La Crème were just opening the doors when he arrived. Some patrons had actually lined up early, probably coming straight from the casinos or whatever nighttime activity had kept them out. That was the breakfast clientele—not people who had just woken up for a morning meal but those who had stayed up all night and needed to start the next morning with a strip show. You could spin that any way you want, but it was hard not to conclude that they were, at best, pretty freaking desperate.

Broome nodded at the black-clad bouncers as he entered. He headed inside the dark confines, making a beeline for Lorraine’s bar. But she wasn’t there. He was about to turn around and ask where she was when someone shoved him from behind, sending him flying.

It was a red-faced Rudy.

“What the hell, Rudy?”

Rudy pointed a beefy finger at him. “I warned you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“First you talk to Tawny. Okay, no big deal. A dime a dozen. Fine.” He shoved Broome again. “But I warned you, right?”

“Warned me about what?”

“I told you Lorraine was different. That she was special. I told you what I’d do if something happened to her.”

Broome froze. The music seemed suddenly louder. The room began to spin. “Where is she?”

“Don’t give me that where-is-she crap. You know very well—”

Broome grabbed him by the lapels and threw him against the wall. “Where is she, Rudy?”

“That’s what I’m asking you, asswipe. She never showed up for work this morning.”

I
N SOME KIND OF NONDESCRIPT
yet surreal interrogation room, Megan sat across from Ray.

The car ride down had been subdued. A federal agent named Guy Angiuoni called and gave her details on the murders and the arrest. It was beyond comprehension. When she hung up, Dave tried small talk. She didn’t respond. Dave knew now about her past relationship with Ray—not the details, of course, but enough. She, in turn, knew that this couldn’t be easy on him. She wanted to comfort and assure him. Dave deserved that and more. But she was too stunned.

It would have to wait.

Megan had gone through a metal detector and thorough body search before being allowed to enter the holding room. There were five men inside: Special Agent Guy Angiuoni; two police guards; Ray’s attorney, Flair Hickory, who greeted her with a warm smile; and of course, Ray.

Flair Hickory held up a small stack of papers. “These are sworn affidavits that state that your conversation with my client will not be eavesdropped upon or recorded or used in any way,” he said. “Everyone in this room has signed one.”

“Okay.”

“I’d be oh so grateful if you could sign one promising not to divulge anything that my client tells you during this conversation.”

“That’s not necessary,” Ray said.

“It is for her benefit as well,” Flair explained. “Even if you trust her, Ray, I’m trying to make it more difficult for them to compel her to speak.”

“It’s okay,” Megan said.

The fingers on her bad arm still functioned enough for her to hold the pen and scrawl a signature.

Flair Hickory collected the papers. “Okay, everyone, time to leave.”

Special Agent Angiuoni started for the door. “Someone will be watching, Mrs. Pierce. If you’re in any danger, just raise your good arm over your head if you need us.”

“My client is trussed up like an S-and-M prop,” Flair countered. “She’s in no danger.”

“Still.”

Flair rolled his eyes. Guy Angiuoni was first to leave, followed by the two guards. Flair was last. The door closed behind him. Megan took the seat across the table from him. Ray’s ankles were shackled to the chair, his arms to the table.

“Are you okay?” Ray asked her.

“I was attacked last night.”

“Who?”

She shook her head. “We’re not here about me.”

“Is that why you weren’t able to show at Lucy last night?”

Megan wasn’t sure how to answer that. “I wouldn’t have shown up anyway.”

He nodded as if he understood.

“Did you kill all those men, Ray?”

“No.”

“Did you kill Stewart Green?”

He didn’t reply.

“You found out he was hurting me, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You cared about me. You even…” She stopped, started again. “You even loved me.”

“Yes.”

“Ray, I need you to tell me the truth now.”

“I will,” he said. “But you first.”

“What?”

When Ray met her eyes, she felt it everywhere.

“Cassie,” he said. “Did you kill Stewart Green?”

B
ROOME DIDN
’
T BOTHER TO ASK
Rudy follow-up questions.

He tried not to panic, but it wasn’t working. He told Rudy to stay at the club and call if Lorraine arrived. Without another word Broome ran back to his car, grabbed his gun, and hurried toward Lorraine’s house.

Please no, please no, please no…

He called his dispatcher for backup, but there was no way he’d wait. He sprinted all out now. His lungs burned. His breath reverberated in his own ears. His eyes grew wet in the morning air.

None of that mattered. Only one thing mattered.

Lorraine.

If something happened to her, if someone hurt her…

There were people out on the streets, all stumbling in the sun after a night basking in artificial light. Broome didn’t even glance at them.

Not Lorraine. Please, not Lorraine…

Broome veered to the right at the corner. Up ahead, he saw Lorraine’s house. He remembered the other time he’d been there, when he stayed for the night. Funny, how you miss the obvious. It had meant little to him, probably less to her, and now he cursed his stupidity.

With a surge of adrenaline, Broome picked up his pace, hopping the steps on the front stoop two at a time. He almost crashed into her door, ready to take it down with his shoulder, but he pulled up.

You don’t just crash in. He knew better than that. But he wasn’t about to wait either. He calmed himself and tried the front doorknob.

It was unlocked.

His heart skipped a beat. Would Lorraine be stupid enough to leave her front door unlocked in this neighborhood?

He didn’t think so.

He swung open the door slowly, the gun at the ready. The door squeaked in the morning air.

“Police!” he shouted. “Is anyone here?”

No reply.

He took another step into the house. “Lorraine?”

He could hear the fear in his own voice.

Please no, please no, please no…

His eyes took in the front room. It was completely unremarkable. There was a couch with matching love seat, the kind you could
find in pretty much any highway furniture store. The TV was modest size by today’s standards. In true Atlantic City style, the clock on the wall had red dice instead of numbers.

There was a coffee table with three ashtrays showing old scenes of the Atlantic City Convention Hall on the Boardwalk. There was a small bar to the right with two barstools. Bottles of Smirnoff Vodka and Gordon’s London Dry Gin stood guard like two soldiers. The coasters were the same disposable ones used at La Crème.

“Anyone here? This is the police. Come out with your hands up.”

Still nothing.

The artwork on the walls featured spectacular reproductions of vintage burlesque posters. There was one from the Roxy in Cleveland, one for the Coney Island Red Hots, and right up front, in bright yellow, one that featured “Miss Spontaneous Combustion,” Blaze Starr appearing at the Globe in Atlantic City.

Lorraine’s place wasn’t very big or fancy, but it was so her. Broome knew that her bedroom was to the left, the bathroom to the right, the kitchen in the back. He hit the bedroom first. It was, he thought, something of a mess, looking more like a dressing room than a place to sleep. Lorraine’s flashy work clothes were mostly on dress dummies rather than hangers, but it almost seemed like a conscious design choice.

The bed, however, was still made.

Broome swallowed and moved back into the main room. There was no more time to waste. He hurried over to the kitchen. From a distance he could see the avocado-green refrigerator loaded with souvenir magnets. When he reached the door, Broome stopped short.

Oh no…

He looked down at the linoleum under the table and started shaking his head. He stared harder, hoping that something would change, but of course it didn’t.

The kitchen floor was drenched in blood.

“C
ASSIE, DID YOU KILL
S
TEWART
G
REEN
?”

Ray looked up, finding Cassie’s gaze and holding it. He wanted to see her reaction to what he was about to say, to see, in the jargon of this damned city, if he could spot a “tell.”

“No, Ray, I didn’t kill him,” she said. “Did you?”

Ray watched her beautiful face, but there was nothing, just surprise at the question. He looked at her hard, and he believed her.

“Ray?”

“No, I didn’t kill him.”

“Then who did?”

Ray had to get to it now. He had to tell her the truth. The trouble was, now that he knew for sure that she hadn’t been the one, how should he word this?

A little late to worry about that.

“That night,” Ray began, “you trekked up to that spot. You saw Stewart Green lying by that big rock, and you thought he was dead.”

“We went over this, Ray.”

“Just bear with me.”

“Yes,” Cassie said. “I saw him and thought he was dead.”

“So you ran, right? You were scared. You thought you’d be blamed.”