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Page 59
“Yes.”
“Why am I just hearing about this now?” Goldberg put his hand up before Broome could say anything. “Forget it, we don’t have time for that now.” He drummed the desk with his fingertips. “Three men bleeding in the same spot,” he said. “We should send the lab boys back up there. They need to go over every inch of the area, see if they can find any other blood samples. If—I don’t know, this whole thing is so crazy—but if some of the other Mardi Gras Missing were also cut up there, maybe we can find old traces of blood.”
It was a good idea, Broome thought.
“What else do you need?” Goldberg asked.
“A warrant to search Ray Levine’s apartment.”
“I’ll work on it. Should we put an APB on him?”
“I’d rather not,” Broome said. “We don’t have enough yet for an arrest, and I don’t want to spook him.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“I’m going to see if I can find him. I want to talk to him alone before he thinks about lawyering up.”
There was a knock on the door. Mason entered. “I got the age progression on Stewart Green.” He passed one copy to Goldberg, one copy to Broome. As promised it was Stewart Green, seventeen years after he vanished, with a shaved head and goatee.
Goldberg asked, “Have you finished those sketches for the Harry Sutton case?”
“Just about.”
“Good, give them to me.” Goldberg turned to Broome. “You go after Ray Levine. I’ll take care of getting the sketches out.”
KEN FOUND A QUIET BOOTH toward the back of La Crème, one that gave him a pretty poor view of the dancers but a great view of the older barmaid who’d brought Detective Broome to this den of sin.
Earlier Ken had managed to get close enough to hear snippets of the conversation between Detective Broome and the barmaid he called Lorraine. She clearly knew a lot. She was clearly emotional about it. And, he thought, she clearly was not telling all.
Ken was so happy, nearly giddy with joy over his upcoming nuptials. He considered various ways to pop the question. This job would pay well, and he’d use the money to buy her the biggest diamond he could find. But the big question was: How should he pop the question? He didn’t want anything cheesy like those men who propose on stadium scoreboards. He wanted something grand yet simple, meaningful yet fun.
She was so wonderful, so special, and if any place could hammer that fact home, it was here at this alleged gentlemen’s club. The women here were grotesque. He didn’t understand why any man would want any of them. They looked dirty and diseased and fake, and part of Ken wondered whether men came here for other reasons, not sexual, to feel something different or because this club had perhaps the same appeal as a carnival freak show.
Ken wondered how long the barmaid Lorraine would work, if he could snatch her on a break or if he’d have to wait until her shift was done. If it was at all possible, Ken wanted to tie her up and wait for his beloved to join him. She loved to be in charge when they hurt women.
He felt the vibration from his cell phone. He looked down and saw it was from the love of his life. He thought of her face, her body, her cleanliness, and never felt so lucky in all of his life.
He picked up the phone and said, “I love you.”
“I love you too. But I’m a little worried.”
“Oh?”
She filled him in on his conversation with Goldberg. When she finished, he asked, “What do you think?”
“I think our friend Deputy Chief Goldberg is lying.”
“I do too.”
“Do you think I should take care of it?” she asked.
“I don’t see any other way.”
MEGAN FINISHED WITH THE SKETCHES. She was anxious to get home and talk to Dave and figure this whole mess out. When Broome came back into the room, he said, “Do you want me to have someone drive you home?”
“I’d rather just rent a car and drive myself.”
“We can give you one from the pool and get it picked up in the morning.”
“That’d be fine.”
Broome crossed the room. “You know I need to question Ray Levine, right?”
“Yes. Just keep an open mind, okay?”
“I’m nothing if not open-minded. Any idea where I can find him?”
“Did you try his place?” she asked.
“I had a patrol car stop by. He’s not home.”
Megan shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“How did you find him yesterday?” Broome asked.
“It’s a long story.”
Broome frowned.
“From his boss,” Megan said. “A guy named Fester.”
“Wait, I know him. Big guy with a shaved head?”
“Yes.”
“He owns some fake paparazzi company or something.” Broome sat by a computer screen and started typing. He found the telephone number for Celeb Experience on Arctic Avenue in Atlantic City. He dialed the number, spoke to a receptionist, and was patched through to Fester. He identified himself as a police officer and told him that he needed to speak with Ray Levine.
“I’m not sure where he is,” Fester said.
“He’s not in any trouble.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t tell me. He came into a lot of money, and you want to help.”
“I just need to talk to him. He may have witnessed a crime.”
There was noise in the background. Fester shushed someone. “Tell you what. I can call his cell for you.”
“Tell you what,” Broome countered. “How about you give me his cell number and I call him directly?”
Silence.
“Fester or whatever the hell your name is, you don’t want to mess with this. Trust me here. Give me his number. Don’t call and warn him or any of that. You won’t be happy with how it all turns out, if you screw this up.”
“I don’t like being threatened.”
“Deal with it. What’s Ray’s number?”
Fester postured for another minute or two, but eventually he gave it up. Broome wrote it down, warned Fester one more time not to say a word, and then hung up.
DAVE COULDN’T THINK STRAIGHT.
He took a break from the labor dispute he’d been working on and moved into his office.
“Do you need anything, Mr. Pierce?” the young associate asked him.
She was a recent Stanford Law grad and gorgeous and chipper and full of life, and you wondered when life would beat it out of her. It always did in the end. That kind of enthusiasm wouldn’t last.
“Why am I just hearing about this now?” Goldberg put his hand up before Broome could say anything. “Forget it, we don’t have time for that now.” He drummed the desk with his fingertips. “Three men bleeding in the same spot,” he said. “We should send the lab boys back up there. They need to go over every inch of the area, see if they can find any other blood samples. If—I don’t know, this whole thing is so crazy—but if some of the other Mardi Gras Missing were also cut up there, maybe we can find old traces of blood.”
It was a good idea, Broome thought.
“What else do you need?” Goldberg asked.
“A warrant to search Ray Levine’s apartment.”
“I’ll work on it. Should we put an APB on him?”
“I’d rather not,” Broome said. “We don’t have enough yet for an arrest, and I don’t want to spook him.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“I’m going to see if I can find him. I want to talk to him alone before he thinks about lawyering up.”
There was a knock on the door. Mason entered. “I got the age progression on Stewart Green.” He passed one copy to Goldberg, one copy to Broome. As promised it was Stewart Green, seventeen years after he vanished, with a shaved head and goatee.
Goldberg asked, “Have you finished those sketches for the Harry Sutton case?”
“Just about.”
“Good, give them to me.” Goldberg turned to Broome. “You go after Ray Levine. I’ll take care of getting the sketches out.”
KEN FOUND A QUIET BOOTH toward the back of La Crème, one that gave him a pretty poor view of the dancers but a great view of the older barmaid who’d brought Detective Broome to this den of sin.
Earlier Ken had managed to get close enough to hear snippets of the conversation between Detective Broome and the barmaid he called Lorraine. She clearly knew a lot. She was clearly emotional about it. And, he thought, she clearly was not telling all.
Ken was so happy, nearly giddy with joy over his upcoming nuptials. He considered various ways to pop the question. This job would pay well, and he’d use the money to buy her the biggest diamond he could find. But the big question was: How should he pop the question? He didn’t want anything cheesy like those men who propose on stadium scoreboards. He wanted something grand yet simple, meaningful yet fun.
She was so wonderful, so special, and if any place could hammer that fact home, it was here at this alleged gentlemen’s club. The women here were grotesque. He didn’t understand why any man would want any of them. They looked dirty and diseased and fake, and part of Ken wondered whether men came here for other reasons, not sexual, to feel something different or because this club had perhaps the same appeal as a carnival freak show.
Ken wondered how long the barmaid Lorraine would work, if he could snatch her on a break or if he’d have to wait until her shift was done. If it was at all possible, Ken wanted to tie her up and wait for his beloved to join him. She loved to be in charge when they hurt women.
He felt the vibration from his cell phone. He looked down and saw it was from the love of his life. He thought of her face, her body, her cleanliness, and never felt so lucky in all of his life.
He picked up the phone and said, “I love you.”
“I love you too. But I’m a little worried.”
“Oh?”
She filled him in on his conversation with Goldberg. When she finished, he asked, “What do you think?”
“I think our friend Deputy Chief Goldberg is lying.”
“I do too.”
“Do you think I should take care of it?” she asked.
“I don’t see any other way.”
MEGAN FINISHED WITH THE SKETCHES. She was anxious to get home and talk to Dave and figure this whole mess out. When Broome came back into the room, he said, “Do you want me to have someone drive you home?”
“I’d rather just rent a car and drive myself.”
“We can give you one from the pool and get it picked up in the morning.”
“That’d be fine.”
Broome crossed the room. “You know I need to question Ray Levine, right?”
“Yes. Just keep an open mind, okay?”
“I’m nothing if not open-minded. Any idea where I can find him?”
“Did you try his place?” she asked.
“I had a patrol car stop by. He’s not home.”
Megan shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“How did you find him yesterday?” Broome asked.
“It’s a long story.”
Broome frowned.
“From his boss,” Megan said. “A guy named Fester.”
“Wait, I know him. Big guy with a shaved head?”
“Yes.”
“He owns some fake paparazzi company or something.” Broome sat by a computer screen and started typing. He found the telephone number for Celeb Experience on Arctic Avenue in Atlantic City. He dialed the number, spoke to a receptionist, and was patched through to Fester. He identified himself as a police officer and told him that he needed to speak with Ray Levine.
“I’m not sure where he is,” Fester said.
“He’s not in any trouble.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t tell me. He came into a lot of money, and you want to help.”
“I just need to talk to him. He may have witnessed a crime.”
There was noise in the background. Fester shushed someone. “Tell you what. I can call his cell for you.”
“Tell you what,” Broome countered. “How about you give me his cell number and I call him directly?”
Silence.
“Fester or whatever the hell your name is, you don’t want to mess with this. Trust me here. Give me his number. Don’t call and warn him or any of that. You won’t be happy with how it all turns out, if you screw this up.”
“I don’t like being threatened.”
“Deal with it. What’s Ray’s number?”
Fester postured for another minute or two, but eventually he gave it up. Broome wrote it down, warned Fester one more time not to say a word, and then hung up.
DAVE COULDN’T THINK STRAIGHT.
He took a break from the labor dispute he’d been working on and moved into his office.
“Do you need anything, Mr. Pierce?” the young associate asked him.
She was a recent Stanford Law grad and gorgeous and chipper and full of life, and you wondered when life would beat it out of her. It always did in the end. That kind of enthusiasm wouldn’t last.
