Stay Close, page 7
Megan opened the door, knowing that doing so would probably change everything. The office was still a seedy one-room operation—small-time with a lowercase s—but Harry would have it no other way.
“Hey, Harry.”
Harry was not an attractive man. His eyes had enough bags under them to take a three-week cruise. His nose was caricature bulbous. His hair was a shock of white that wouldn’t come down without the threat of gunfire. But his smile, well, it was beatific. The smile warmed her—brought her back and made her feel safe.
“It’s been too long, Cassie.”
Some called Harry a street lawyer, but that wasn’t really what Harry was. Four decades ago he had graduated Stanford Law School and started on a partnership track at the prestigious law firm of Kronberg, Reiter and Roseman. One night, some well-meaning colleagues dragged the quiet, shy attorney down to Atlantic City for gambling, girls, and general debauchery. The shy Harry dived in—and never left. He quit the big firm, stenciled his name upon this very office door, and decided to champion the city’s underdogs, who, in many ways, consisted of everyone who started out here.
Very few people you meet have a halo over their head. They aren’t beautiful or angelic or working for charities—in Harry’s case, he definitely preferred the sinners to the saints—but there was just an aura of trust and goodness about them. Harry was one of those people.
“Hello, Cassie,” Harry said.
His voice was stiff. He shifted in his chair.
“How’ve you been, Harry?”
His clear blue eyes looked at her in a funny way. This wasn’t like him, but it had been nearly two decades. People change. She started to wonder if coming here had been a mistake.
“Fine, thank you.”
“Fine, thank you?”
Harry nodded, biting down on his lip.
“What’s going on, Harry?”
His eyes suddenly brimmed with tears.
“Harry?”
“Damn,” he said.
“What?”
“I promised I’d keep it together. I’m such a wuss sometimes.”
She said nothing, waited.
“It’s just that… I thought you were dead.”
She smiled, feeling relief that, yes, he was the same overly emotional guy she remembered. “Harry…”
He waved it away. “The cops came here after you vanished with that guy.”
“I didn’t vanish with that guy.”
“You just vanished on your own?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, the cops wanted to talk to you. They still do.”
“I know,” Megan said. “That’s why I’m back. I need your help.”
WHEN TAWNY ALLURE FIRST SAW the smiling young couple standing near her doorway, she sighed and shook her head.
Tawny’s real name was Alice. She had used it at first, going by the stage moniker “Alice in Wonderland,” but her given name made it easier for those from her past to recognize her. Right now, with work behind her, she wore a loose, can’t-tell-implants sweatshirt. She’d traded in her stiletto heels for low-top tennis shoes. She had scrubbed off the spackle-thick makeup and thrown on a pair of celebrity-in-hiding-size sunglasses. She did not, she thought, look anything like the exotic dancer she was.
The smiling couple looked as though they’d just wandered away from a Bible study. Tawny frowned. She knew the type. Do-gooders. They wanted to give her pamphlets and save her. They would have some corny catchphrase like “lose the G-string and find Jesus,” and she would respond, “Does Jesus tip well?”
The smiling blond girl was young and pretty in a wholesome way. Her hair was tied back in a cheerleader-bouncing ponytail. She wore a turtleneck and a skirt that would normally work at the club for a school-girl fantasy number, complete with bobby socks. Who wore that in real life?
The cute guy with her had the wavy hair of a politician on a sailboat. He sported khakis, a blue button-down, and had a sweater tied around his neck.
Tawny was not in the mood. Her finger throbbed and ached. She felt weak, beaten, defeated. She wanted to get inside and feed Ralphie. Her mind was still on that cop Broome’s visit and, of course, the missing Carlton Flynn. The first time she met Carlton he wore a tight black T-shirt that read “I’m Not a Gynecologist, But I’ll Take a Look.” Talk about a big-time “Keep Away” sign. But stupid Tawny had giggled when she read it. Sad when she thought about it now. Tawny had some decent attributes, but her asshole-dar was always off when it came to men.
Sometimes—most times—Tawny felt as if bad luck walked two steps behind her, catching up every once in a while, tapping her on the shoulder, reminding her that he was there, her constant companion.
It hadn’t started that way. She had loved her job at La Crème in the beginning. It had been fun and exciting and a dance party every night. And, no, Tawny hadn’t been sexually abused as a child or any of that, thank you very much, but she did have another quality you often found in people who go into her line of work.
Tawny was, she could admit to herself, inherently lazy and easily bored.
People always talk about how the girls are damaged or lacked self-esteem, and, yeah, that was true, but the big thing was, most girls simply didn’t want to hold a real job. Who does? Think about it—what were the alternatives to what she was now doing?
Take Tawny’s sister, Beth. Since graduating high school six years ago, Beth worked data entry for the First Trenton Insurance. She sat in a smelly, airless cubicle in front of a computer screen and plugged in God-knows-what data—hour after hour, day after day, year after year, stuck in a cubicle smaller than a jail cell, until, well, what?
Shudder.
Seriously, Tawny thought, Kill me now.
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 Crème 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 Crème.”
“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.”
“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.
