Stay Close (18 page)

Erin smiled. “You want to know when this murder occurred?”

“And I thought I was the trained detective.”

“March eleventh, eighteen years ago. And, yes, it was Mardi Gras. Or I should say it was the morning after. See, that’s the thing. Mardi Gras was actually March tenth that year, but our boy Gunther’s body was found after midnight.”

“So technically speaking it was not Mardi Gras.”

“Exactly. And that happens with a few of the missing people cases too. It makes it harder to see the pattern.”

“So we need to look at murders or missing people on or around that date—and we need to look for people murdered or missing at
or around that park. That area was pretty remote. A body could be there for days or even weeks.”

“I’m on it,” Erin said.

Broome stared, chewing on a hangnail.

“That’s disgusting,” Erin said.

He kept at it. “This Mannion guy.”

“What about him?”

“If we’re right about this pattern, about there being some—I don’t know—Mardi Gras killer or whatever the hell he is…” Broome stopped. “Mannion’s been serving, what, eighteen years for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“Let’s not jump the gun, Broome.”

“Detective?”

Broome started at the voice. He turned to see Del Flynn and his loud Hawaiian shirt. There had to be at least ten gold chains around his neck. Broome spotted a gold Saint Anthony medal, a gold ship anchor, and a gold mud flap–like silhouette of a curvy girl. Variety pack.

“Mr. Flynn?”

Goldberg was standing a few feet back behind him. Del Flynn, Broome had already been reminded several times, possessed beaucoup bucks. The mayor and several other muckety-mucks had called, as though the Atlantic City Police Department had a VIP line for missing people. Then again, maybe it did, who knew? Broome didn’t hold it against the man. If your son vanishes, you go all out. You don’t hold back. Broome got that.

Broome introduced Flynn to Erin. Erin nodded and then put her head back down. Erin had never been good with the families of victims. “They’re broken,” Erin had told him before. Broome looked
now into Flynn’s eyes and thought “shattered” was more accurate. “Broken” suggested something clean and all the way through and fixable. But what happened to them was messier, more abstract, filled with shards and no hope of recovery.

“Did you find something new?” Del Flynn asked.

“It’s too early to tell, Mr. Flynn.”

“But something?”

The desperation in his voice was more than just audible. It was a living, breathing horrible thing. It filled the room. It suffocated all around it. Broome looked for Goldberg to step in. Goldberg looked right through him.

Flynn reached out and grabbed Broome’s arm with a little too much force. “Do you have any children, Detective?”

Broome had been asked this more than once during his years in law enforcement. He always found it borderline patronizing—really, it made no difference—but again, seeing that shatter, he got it. “No, sir, I don’t. Detective Anderson here does though.”

Yep, Broome had tossed his lovely ex under the bus. Flynn’s eyes moved toward Erin. Erin kept her head down. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Broome mercifully moved between them.

“Mr. Flynn,” Broome said, “I assure you that we’re doing all we can to find your son. But if we have to stop to provide you progress reports when we’re trying to work, that’s going to slow us down. You see that, right? I could spend time investigating clues and searching for your son. Or I could spend it filling you in on every development. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I want to help.”

“Then let us be, okay?”

Flynn’s shattered eyes flared at that—a brief flash of anger before
the destruction flooded back in. Goldberg stepped in now. “I think, Detective Broome, that what Mr. Flynn is asking—”

Del Flynn put his hand on Goldberg’s arm, stopping him. “Later,” Flynn said. He started down the corridor. Goldberg threw one final glare at Broome and turned to follow him.

“I thought Goldberg was going to perform a sex act on that guy,” Erin said. “Flynn must have serious juice.”

“Don’t care,” Broome said. “Can you get me the number to Rahway Prison?”

She typed into the computer. It was late, but it wasn’t like federal penitentiaries had business hours. Broome called the number, told the dispatcher he was calling about a prisoner named Ricky Mannion. He was told to hold.

“This is Corrections Officer Dean Vanech.”

“My name is Broome. I’m a homicide detective with ACPD.”

“Okay.”

“I’m calling about one of your prisoners, guy named Ricky Mannion.”

“What about him?”

“Do you know him?”

“I do.”

“Does he still claim he’s innocent?”

“Every day. But you know what? Almost every guy in here is innocent. It’s amazing, really. Either we are all totally incompetent or—gasp oh gasp—our houseguests are full of crap.”

“What’s your take on him?”

“Meaning?”

“Is Mannion more persuasive than most?”

“About being innocent? Who the hell knows? I’ve seen guys in here who could put De Niro to shame.”

Talking to this Vanech guy, Broome could see, was going to be a waste of time.

“I’d like to come up and visit Mannion first thing in the morning,” Broome said. “That okay?”

“Well, let me check his social calendar. My, my, the First Lady was forced to cancel, so Mannion is free. Shall I pencil you in for seven-ish?”

Everyone was a wiseass.

Broome made the appointment. He was hanging up the phone when something caught his eye. He turned his head and saw Cassie rush into the station. She spotted Broome and rushed toward him.

“There’s a problem,” Cassie said.

“G
OT IT.
”

As Ken promised, the cell phone number quickly told all.

Because they were unsure how many days this particular job would take, Ken and Barbie had rented a two-bedroom suite at the sleek skyscraper hotel called the Borgata. The Borgata was supposedly the nicest hotel in Atlantic City, plus it had the added advantage of being away from the Boardwalk, the cesspool strip of gamblers, drug addicts, sinners, carnival barkers, and overall filth.

Still, Barbie thought, the Borgata had a filth all its own. You could not escape it in Atlantic City, and truth be told, she didn’t really want to. She was disgusted and exhilarated in equal measure. She wanted to dive into the filth and take a bath at the same time.

Barbie had grown up protected but she was not naïve. She understood that human beings were complex. There was a draw to sin, an allure, or there wouldn’t be a need to rail against it. The key was to have some sort of healthy outlet. She felt now that she and Ken had that. Their victims—if that was the right word—were scum. Ken and Barbie hurt them, yes, but none were pure or undeserving. Sometimes, the pain even opened the victim’s eyes, brought on a form of redemption. Tawny, for example. Barbie felt good about that. She had experienced momentary pain that could, in the end, save the rest of her life.

Staying here at the Borgata—living for a short while in the devil’s lair, in the very heart of temptation—worked for her. It educated her. It was like sneaking into enemy camp and learning their secrets. When Barbie walked through the casino, she could see the looks of lust on the men’s faces, but she also half expected someone to point at her and shout, “She doesn’t belong!”

“How did you trace back the number?” Barbie asked.

She sat on the love seat facing the window. In the distance she could see the lights of the Boardwalk.

“Online,” Ken said.

“You were able to trace a cell phone on the computer?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I Googled ‘trace cell phone.’”

She shook her head. “That’s it?”

“Well, they did charge me ten dollars.”

Ken looked over the keyboard and smiled at her. Barbie felt it in her toes. A pink shirt collar popped over his lime-green sweater. His khakis were pleated. He looked, she thought, very handsome. They
always held hands as they walked through the hotel. She loved that, the feel of his hand in hers, but sometimes, when a man’s gaze would linger too long, she could feel his grip tighten against her. She could feel the heat then, the rush, the tingle.

“So whose phone is it?” she asked.

“A man named David Pierce.”

“And who is he?”

“I’m not sure. He’s a labor attorney in Jersey City. I don’t see any connection to our work here. He seems to be a citizen. Married, two kids.”

“A woman called Harry Sutton’s cell phone,” Barbie said.

Ken nodded. “There are four T-Mobile cell phone lines under this account. I assume one for him, one for his wife, one for each of his two children. The number we traced was not the main number—the one usually used by the billing name.”

“How old is the daughter?”

“Fifteen. Her name is Kaylie.”

“The woman I spoke with was, well, a woman.”

“It has to be the wife then. Her name is Megan.”

“How does she fit in?”

Ken shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I just plugged in their address in Kasselton into MapQuest. The drive shouldn’t take us more than two hours.” He turned toward her, and she could see the glint in his eye. “We could go up there right now and get the answers. The kids might not even be in bed yet.”

Barbie bit her fingernail. “A suburban mother with two children?”

Ken said nothing.

“We normally hurt those who deserve it,” she went on. “It is why we work in this particular world.”

Ken rubbed his chin, considered her point. “If this Megan Pierce is involved with Harry Sutton, then she is far from an innocent.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He held up his car keys and gave them a little jangle. “Only one way to find out for sure.”

Barbie shook her head. “This is really big. We should check in with our employer first.”

“And if he gives us the okay?”

“Like you said.” Barbie gave a shrug. “They’re less than two hours away.”

H
ALF AN HOUR EARLIER
, Megan had heard the sickly sweet voice on Harry Sutton’s phone say, “Mr. Sutton’s phone automatically rings to me when he’s indisposed. I’m sorry, Cassie. I didn’t catch your last name.”

Megan disconnected the call.

Fester was standing next to her at the bar. “Something wrong?”

Megan stared at her phone. She tried to conjure up Harry’s office in her head. There was one desk, one window, a file cabinet, a worn couch.…

But there was no place for a receptionist.

So who had just answered his phone?

A very bad feeling started gnawing in the pit of her stomach.

Fester said, “Hello? You still here?”

“I have to go.”

“Whoa, I thought you were looking for Ray. Why don’t we wait till he replies?”

“Tell him I’ll meet him at Lucy.”

“Huh?”

“Just tell him that. Lucy at eleven o’clock. If I can’t make it, I’ll call you at this bar.”

“Wait a second,” Fester said.

But she didn’t. She hurried out of the Weak Signal, wading her way through the crowd, desperation coming off them in waves. When she reached the street, she had to stop for a moment and suck in oxygen. She hurried over to Harry Sutton’s office, passing a young couple in the hallway, but the lights were out and the door was locked.

That was when she decided to find Broome.

At the station, after Broome’s partner, a woman who introduced herself as Detective Erin Anderson, left the room, Megan filled Broome in. He listened without interrupting. She finished up by saying, “I’m worried about Harry.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be,” Broome said. “I mean, not based on this. You know Harry. He’s a player from the word go. I know he loves the girls, but he also
loves
the girls, if you know what I mean. One of them probably answered his phone.”

“And pretended to be his receptionist?”

“Sure, why not? She was probably just trying to be funny.”

“Yeah,” Megan said with a frown. “Hilarious.”

“You think Harry chooses them for their witty repartee?”

Megan shook her head. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

“We can call him again.”

“I tried. No answer.”

“I’d send a squad car by his house, but what’s the point? He goes out every night. Did you tell anyone you were going to see him?”