Stay Close, page 21
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.”
25
EARLIER 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.
He texted Barbie to stay put. He tried to listen in, but it was too risky. No matter. Ken stayed down and out of sight. The Pierces’ backyard had plush Brown Jordan furniture. There was a corner fountain and a full-size soccer goal and a cedar swing set that had definitely seen better days. It was really a very nice house. Ken wondered how this seemingly ordinary woman and mother fit into the disappearance of Carlton Flynn, but that was indeed his job.
He waited. He thought about Megan Pierce’s kids. He could almost see them kicking the ball into that soccer goal, lounging on the furniture, having a burger grilled on the Weber.
He thought about what that life must be like for the father of the house. Kids. Family dinners. Barbecues. Church on Sunday. His beautiful wife smiling through this sliding glass door as he taught his son to play catch. Ken wanted that life. He wanted that for himself and, he realized, he wanted it for Barbie. He could almost see her through that window now, smiling at him, filled with love. He could see them getting their children to bed, making sure they all brushed their teeth and said their prayers, and then he could see the two of them disappearing into their own bedroom hand in hand. He could see Barbie closing the door and turning toward him.
What more could any man want?
He knew, of course, that it wouldn’t be that simple. He had compulsions, but even those he could share with his beloved.
What was he waiting for?
He turned back toward the house. He didn’t relish making these children motherless, but right now he saw no other alternative. Fifteen minutes passed. Megan Pierce accompanied Detective Broome to his car. After they drove off, Ken and Barbie met up by the rented Miata.
“What do you think that police officer was doing here?” Barbie asked.
“I don’t know.”
“We should have come up last night.”
“It was too risky.”
“So now what?”
They drove off, back to the Garden State Parkway heading south. Ken wasn’t all that concerned. Chances were excellent that Broome and the Pierce woman were heading back to Atlantic City. Ken picked up speed. Three miles down the parkway, he spotted Broome’s car. He stayed way back, not really bothering to follow. No question now. They were going back to Atlantic City.
Two hours later, Broome parked in the lot at the police precinct. Broome took Megan Pierce in through a side entrance.
“Now what?” Barbie asked.
“I love you,” Ken said.
“What?”
He turned toward her. “I never told you. But you know.”
She nodded. “I love you too.”
He smiled and took her hand.
“Why did you tell me now?” Barbie asked.
“I will do anything to protect you. I want you to know that.”
“I know that too.”
He took out his cell phone and dialed the number. It was answered on the third ring.
“Goldberg.”
Ken said, “Hello, Deputy Chief Goldberg.”
Silence on the other end of the phone.
“I remembered that you didn’t want me to call you Mr. Goldberg,” Ken continued. “You said that you preferred Deputy Chief Goldberg.”
“Yeah,” he said in the wariest of voices. “What do you want? I’m kinda busy here.”
“I don’t mean to disturb you, Deputy Chief Goldberg, but this is a matter of some urgency.”
“I’m listening.”
“Your colleague Detective Broome just entered your precinct.”
“So?”
“He is with a woman named Megan Pierce.”
Silence.
“We will need to talk to her.”
“The same way you talked to Harry Sutton?”
“That isn’t your concern.”
“Like hell it’s not. Why do you think I’m so busy?”
“Deputy Chief Goldberg, please find a way for us to reach her.”
“Reach her?”
“Let us know how and when she’ll be leaving. It might be best to encourage her to leave alone.”
Silence.
“Mr. Goldberg?”
No “Deputy Chief” this time. The slip had been intentional.
“Got it,” Goldberg said before hanging up.
Ken took Barbie’s hand. “Should we get married?” he asked.
“That’s hardly an appropriate proposal.”
But she smiled when she said it, and his heart soared. He sat with this woman who meant so much to him, his partner in everything really, his soul mate like no other, and just let his heart soar. “You’re right. I’ll prepare a proper proposal.”
“And I’ll prepare a proper way to say yes.”
They held hands and watched the door and just enjoyed the moment. A few minutes later, Detective Broome exited without the woman. Barbie let go of his hand. “We should split up,” she said.
“But we just got engaged,” he said with a small chuckle.
“Not officially, mister. But you know I’m right. You take the car and follow the detective. I will keep an eye on the precinct.”
“Don’t take her on yourself,” he said.
She shook her head and dazzled him with a smile.
“What?”
“We aren’t even married yet and already you’re bossing me around like a husband. Go.”
LORRAINE WAS PULLING THE HANDLE for a draft beer when Broome approached. She looked up and gave him that crooked smile. “Well, well, as I live and breathe.”
“Hey, Lorraine.”
“You want a drink, or are you going to give me that classic line about being on duty?”
Broome sat down. “I am on duty. And, yeah, pour me two fingers.”
She finished with the draft and sauntered—Lorraine never walked, she sauntered—toward the corner of the bar where they kept the good stuff. Broome spun around on the stool. There was a line at the buffet. An actual line for the food. On the stage a girl danced with the enthusiasm of a coma patient. The old Neil Diamond classic “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon” played through the speaker system.
Lorraine handed him the drink. “Something I can do for you, Detective?”
“Do you have a guess?”
Lorraine arched an eyebrow. “I assume you’re not back for a second round.”
“I wish.”
“Liar.”
Broome didn’t know how to take that one, so he pressed on. “I talked to your old friend Cassie or Megan or whatever you want to call her.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The situation is bad. Did you hear about Harry Sutton?”
Lorraine nodded as a shadow crossed her face. “Did you know him, Broome?”
“A little.”
“He was just the best. Harry had this way about him, I mean, everyone loved Harry. Even you cops. You know why? Because he was genuine. And he always cared. Biggest heart I ever saw. He believed in everyone. There were some girls in here I couldn’t stand. Obnoxious pains in the ass, sure, but some were just plain bad. But Harry, he’d still try to find the good. He’d still want to help and not just to get in their pants, though, hell, he sometimes did that too. Who could resist a guy who looked at you like that—like you really mattered, you know?” Lorraine shook her head. “Why would anyone hurt someone like Harry?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out,” Broome said.
“It’s corny,” she said, working the bar with a dishrag, “but the world is a little crappier today without him in it. You can just feel it.”
“Then help me, Lorraine. For Harry.”
“What, you think I know something about it?”
“It’s all connected,” Broome said. “Harry’s death is just one part. I got a guy in jail for eighteen years who may be innocent. Carlton Flynn is missing, and there are a lot of other men missing or dead.”
He stopped.
“Including,” Lorraine said, clearly seeing the light, “Stewart Green.”
“Yes.”
Lorraine cleaned the bar a little more. “So Cassie told you I was the one who saw him.”
“I sort of forced her to give up the name.”
Lorraine gave him the grin again. “You’re such a tough guy, Broome.”
“She wanted to call you first, but I wanted to tell you myself.”
“Because of our past?”
Broome shrugged and took a deep sip. “Did you see Stewart Green?”
“I can’t be sure.”
He just looked at her a little longer.
“Yeah, okay,” Lorraine said. “I saw him.”
Two gray-haired men came up to her bar. The taller one leaned forward, winked, and said, “Hey, Lorraine, the usual.”
“Use the other bar,” Broome said.
“Huh?”
“This bar is closed.”
“You’re sitting here, ain’t ya?”
Broome replied by showing them his badge. The two men considered taking it further, just to look tough, but then thought better of it. They turned and walked away.
“Those are two of my best tippers,” Lorraine said.
“You’ll make it up to them. You said you saw Stewart Green.”
“Yeah,” she said. Lorraine pushed the hair off her face. “But he looks different.”
“Different how?”
“Different all over. He’s got a shaved head and a goatee. He wears hoop earrings and got a tattoo on his forearm. He was in jeans and a tight T-shirt, and he’s clearly been working out.”
Broome frowned. “Stewart Green?”
Lorraine didn’t bother replying.
Broome thought about those photographs on Sarah Green’s fireplace mantel. In these photographs Stewart dressed in either polo ’n’ khakis or a business suit. He had a bald spot he’d started to cover up with a wispy comb-over. He looked soft and puffy.
“When did you see him?” he asked.
Lorraine started cleaning a glass with too much gusto.
“Lorraine?”
“I’ve seen him more than once.”
That surprised him. “How many times?”
“A few.”
“What’s a few? More than twice, more than five times?”
“I don’t know,” Lorraine said. All hints of that playfulness were gone now. She looked frightened. “Maybe once a year, once every two years, something like that. I don’t keep track.”
“Once every year or two?”
“Yeah.”
Broome’s head was spinning. “Wait, so when was the first time you saw him?”
“I don’t know. A while ago. Ten, fifteen years maybe.”
“And you never thought to contact the police?”
