Stay Close (17 page)

Barbie looked at the caller ID. “It’s Cassie.”

Cassie. Harry Sutton had proved to be much stronger than one could imagine or endure—or maybe he didn’t know the truth about her. After much persuasion involving the soldering iron and his urethra, he had told them that the witness Deputy Chief Goldberg had told Ken about was an ex–exotic dancer named Cassie. Harry Sutton gave up nothing else on her, but they found her phone number on his cell phone.

Barbie answered the call and put on her sweetest voice. “Harry Sutton’s office.”

“Hi, is Harry there?”

“May I say who’s calling?”

“Cassie.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Mr. Sutton is not available right now.” Barbie looked at Ken. He gave her a thumbs-up. “May I have your full name and address so I can give him a thorough message?”

“Wait, isn’t this Harry’s cell?”

“Mr. Sutton’s phone automatically rings to me when he’s indisposed. I’m sorry, Cassie. I didn’t catch your last name.”

The phone call disconnected.

“She hung up,” Barbie said with a pout.

Ken walked over and put his arm around her. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I really thought I sounded like a secretary.”

“You did.”

“But she didn’t open up to me.”

“Which tells us something,” Ken said.

“What?”

“She is being very careful.”

Barbie, feeling better, started nodding. “Which means she’s very important to our assignment.”

“Most definitely.”

“So what next?”

“We have her cell phone number,” Ken said. “It will be no trouble finding out where she lives.”

U
NDER THE STROBE OF
R
AY
’
S FLASH
, the woman looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

“Who’s the lucky girl, George?” Ray called out.

George Queller, perhaps Fester’s most frequent client, put a protective arm around his date. “This is Alexandra Saperstein.”

Flash, snap, flash, snap
. “How did you two meet?”

“On JDate.com. It’s a Web site for Jewish singles.”

“Sounds like destiny.”

Ray didn’t point out the obvious—George was not Jewish. This was a job. His mind couldn’t be further away, but really who wanted to be present when you did work like this?

Alexandra Saperstein seemed to shrink under the attention. She was pretty enough in a mousy sort of way, but she had that cower ’n’ blink that Ray often associated with past abuse. The flashbulbs weren’t helping. Ray turned it off, kept snapping, took a step back to give the terrified young lady space. George noticed and gave him a funny look.

As they neared the restaurant, Maurice, the maître d’ with the heavy French accent—real name: Manny Schwartz, who probably should be on JDate—came to the bistro door, opened his arms wide, and cried, “Monsieur George, welcome. I have your favorite table all ready for you!”

George glanced over at Ray, waiting for Ray to deliver the line. Keeping his face behind the camera worked here because Ray could hide his shame as he shouted it, “Will you two be releasing what you ate to the press?”

A little piece of Ray died.

“We’ll see,” George said in a haughty tone.

The new couple entered. Ray pretended to want to follow them, and Maurice pretended to push him out. A waiter came up to Alexandra and handed her red roses. Ray snapped pictures through the window. George pulled out the chair for Alexandra. She sat, settled in, finally looking comfortable for the first time.

It wouldn’t last.

Ray had the camera on her face. He couldn’t help it. Part of him knew that he should look away—like slowing down to view a car accident—but the artist part of him wanted to record the moment of dawning horror. As Alexandra looked down at the menu, Ray felt his cell phone buzz. He ignored it, adjusting the focus. He waited. First, a look of confusion crossed Alexandra Saperstein’s face. She squinted to make sure she read it right. Ray knew that George had upped his crazy ante—that the headline on top of the menu now read:

George and Alexandra’s First Date

Tasting Menu

Let’s Save This to Show Our Grandkids!

The realization dawned on Alexandra now. Her eyes opened wider, but the rest of her face fell. She put her hands to her cheeks. Ray snapped away. This could very well be his own version of Munch’s
The Scream
.

Champagne was poured. The new script called for Ray to barge in and take a table photograph of the toast. He started toward the door. The phone buzzed again. Ray took a quick glance and saw it was a photograph from Fester. Bizarre. Why the hell would Fester be sending him a photograph?

Still moving inside the bistro, Ray scrolled down and hit the open attachment feature. He lifted his camera as George lifted his glass. Alexandra looked to Ray for rescue. Ray took a quick peek at the incoming photograph and felt his heart stop.

The camera dropped to his side.

George said, “Ray?”

Ray stared down at his cell phone. Tears started brimming in his eyes. He started shaking his head. It couldn’t be. So many emotions ricocheted through him, threatened to overwhelm him.

Cassie.

It was a mind game, someone who looked like her, but, no, there was no doubt in his mind. She had changed in seventeen years, but there was no way he’d forget anything about that face.

Why? How? After all the years, how…

He reached out and tentatively caressed the image with his finger.

“Ray?”

Ray kept his eyes on the photograph. “Alexandra?”

He heard her shift in her chair.

“It’s okay. You can go.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice. She was up and out the door. George stood and followed her. Ray got in his way. “Don’t.”

“I don’t understand, Ray.”

Alexandra fled. George collapsed back into his chair. Ray stared at the photograph. Why had Fester taken it? He tried to calm down
enough to gather clues. They were at a bar. Probably the Weak Signal. The old Bogie line about of all the gin joints in all the world came to him, but of course, she hadn’t walked into his. She had walked into Fester’s. And there was no way this was a coincidence.

“Why, Ray?”

“One second,” he told George.

He pressed Fester’s speed dial—pathetically, Ray thought, Fester, his boss, was the only person he had on speed dial—and heard it ring.

“I don’t get it, Ray,” George said. “This girl, Alexandra? Online she’s telling me that her last boyfriend treated her like crap and ignored her and never took her out. Here I am, going the extra mile, and she freaks out on me. Why?”

Ray held up a one-second finger. Fester’s voice mail kicked in. His message said, “Fester. Beep.”

Ray said, “What the hell is going on with that picture? Call me now.”

He hung up and started heading out.

“Ray?”

It was George again.

“I don’t get it. I’m just trying to make the night special for them. Don’t they see that? Online they all say they want romance.”

“First off,” Ray said, “there’s a fine line between romance and restraining order. You got that?”

George nodded slowly. “I guess so. But they all say—”

“Second, what women say is crap. They say they want romance and to be treated like a princess, but all empirical evidence says otherwise. They always choose the guy who treats them like dirt.”

“So what should I do?” George asked, clearly confused. “Should I treat them like dirt too?”

Ray thought about it. He was about to launch into a long spiel of advice but now, looking at George’s face, he said, “Don’t change a thing.”

“What?”

“I’d hate to live in a world without guys like you. So don’t change. You be the romantic instead of the asshole.”

“You really think so?”

“Well, not if you want to score. If you want to score, you’re hopeless.”

George gave a half-smile at that. “I don’t just want to score. I want to find a true companion.”

“Good answer. Then don’t change. Stick to your guns.” Ray took another step, stopped, turned back. “Well, maybe back off a little. The personalized menus are way over the top.”

“Really? You think? Maybe it’s just the font.”

Ray’s cell phone rang. It was Fester. He quickly picked it up.

“Fester?”

“So you know the girl in the picture, I assume,” Fester said.

“Yes, what does she want?”

“What do you think she wants? She wants to talk to you.”

Ray could actually feel his heart beating in his chest. “Is she still at the Weak Signal? I’m on my way.”

“She just left.”

“Damn.”

“But she left a message.”

“What?”

“She said to meet her at Lucy at eleven.”

B
ROOME CALLED HIS EX
, Erin, from the scene and filled her in on the found blood and Cowens’s recollection.

“I’ll get over to the precinct and start the research,” she said.

When Broome arrived, Erin was sitting at his desk rather than her former one directly across from his. That desk, where she sat for more than a decade, was now used by some slick-haired pretty boy who dressed in Armani suits. Broome kept forgetting his name and in a fit of originality had taken to calling him “Armani.” Armani wasn’t here so Broome slipped into his seat. The desk was ridiculously neat and smelled of cologne.

“I can’t believe I missed it,” Erin said.

“We were searching for missing men, not dead ones. So what do you got?”

“The victim’s name was Ross Gunther, age twenty-eight.”

Erin handed him the photograph, the body splayed on its back. The blood was thick around his neck, like he was wearing a crimson scarf.

“Gunther was born in Camden, dropped out of Camden High, lived in Atlantic City,” Erin said. “A true nowhere man headed for
a life of nothing. He was single, fairly long sheet of loser stuff—assault, battery, criminal mischief. He also did a little enforcing for a loan shark.”

“How was he killed?”

“His throat was slit—aggressively.”

“Aggressively?” Broome took another look at the photograph. “Looks like he was almost decapitated.”

“Ergo, my use of the term aggressively. As you know already, Morris handled the case. If you want to talk to him, he’s down in Florida.”

“How old is he now?”

“Morris?” She shrugged. “Got be eighty, eighty-five.”

“He was already senile when I joined the force.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to talk to him anyway.”

“He got his man, right?”

Erin nodded. “Gunther had recently started seeing a girl named Stacy Paris. Problem was, Paris was engaged to a hothead named Ricky Mannion. Both men were the very possessive type, if you know what I mean.”

Broome knew all too well what she meant. He’d seen the possessive type too many times in his career—overly jealous, short fuse, mistakes control for love, always holds the girl’s hand in public like a dog marking territory, chockful of raging insecurity that he’s trying to mask in the macho. It never ends well.

“So Morris got a warrant for Mannion’s house,” Erin said. “They found enough evidence to put him away.”

“Like what kind of evidence?”

“Like the murder weapon.” She showed him the photograph of
a long knife with a serrated edge. “Mannion had wiped it off, but there were still remnants of blood. They positively tied it to the victim. The early days of DNA. And if that wasn’t enough, they also found Gunther’s blood in Mannion’s car and on a shirt he left by the washing machine.”

“Yowza,” Broome said.

“Yeah, a real Einstein, this Mannion. You’ll never, ever, guess what he claimed.”

“Wait, let me think. Hmm. He was—don’t tell me—framed?”

“Wow, you’re good.”

“Don’t be intimidated. I’m a trained detective.”

“So you probably know how this all ended. The case was open and shut. Mannion got twenty-five to life in Rahway.”

“What happened to this girl? This Stacy Paris?”

“You just found the body, what, an hour ago? I’m still working on it.”

“And the big question,” Broome said.