Stay Close
Page 63
Ray thought about it. “Actually, I think I can.”
“How?”
“The photographs I take. They’re date stamped.”
“Can’t you fix that? Like make it look like another date?”
“I don’t know, frankly. You can have your experts look for themselves. You can also check weather reports maybe, see if it was raining or snowing or what that day. I still don’t get it. What difference does it make what day I was there?”
Simple, though Broome wouldn’t say it now. If Ray Levine could show he went up on February eighteenths—and not Mardi Gras—it would back his story. Of course, Broome would subpoena all the photographs and see what other dates he was in that section of the park. But it would be a start.
It was coming to an end. Broome could feel it. After seventeen years of hunting, searching, never letting go, he was so damn close to breaking this case open. Odd when you thought about it. Every February eighteenth—well, “most”—Ray Levine visited that park and reflected on a certain incident. Meanwhile, on that same day, Broome visited Sarah Green and reflected on the very same incident. Except “reflected” wasn’t really the right word, was it? Broome had been obsessed with the Stewart Green case from day one. While all the other cops in town dismissed it as yet another philandering creep who ran off with a stripper, Broome had held on with a ferocity that surprised even him. Yes, getting to know the family Stewart left behind—Sarah, Susie, and Brandon—had helped him focus, but even back then, he recognized that Sarah was somewhat deluding herself, that all would not be well in that sad, lonely house if her beloved husband were returned safely.
In truth, even way back then, Broome had believed that Stewart Green’s disappearance was more than it seemed, much more, something dark and horrible and almost beyond his comprehension. Now he was sure of it.
“Are we done here, Detective?”
Broome checked his cell phone. Goldberg was going to text him when he got the subpoena and had it served. He didn’t want Ray Levine heading home before then, perhaps tampering with or destroying evidence.
“That picture you sent me anonymously—that wasn’t the only one you took that day, right?”
“No, of course not.”
“Where are the rest of the pictures?”
“On my hard drive at home, but I back them up to a cloud.”
“A cloud?”
“That’s what they call it. For safe storage. It’s like a disk in the sky. Think of it as e-mailing stuff to yourself. I can access them from any computer with the proper codes.”
Whoa, Broome thought. “I have a laptop in my car,” he said. “Would you mind?”
“What, now?”
“It could really help. My car is right around the corner.”
Broome had parked on South Michigan Avenue near Caesars. While the computer booted up, Ray said, “I sent you the last picture I took. Once someone else came on the scene, I figured it was time to go.”
“So that’s the only picture of Carlton Flynn?”
“That’s right.”
“And there was no one else in any of the other pictures?”
“Right. Before that, I had the place to myself.”
The computer came to life. Broome handed it to Ray. The sun was bright, putting glare on the screen, so they slipped into the car. Broome watched the people exiting the casinos. They always did it the same way—with a stumble, a shade of the eyes with one hand, big-time blinking.
“Did you see anyone on your way back down from that spot?” Broome asked.
“No, sorry.”
Ray got on the Internet and went to a Mac Web site. He typed in a user name and password and clicked on some folders and then he handed the laptop back to Broome. There were eighty-seven photographs. He started with the last, the photograph Ray had sent anonymously. Something struck Broome right away. The first few were all what one might call picturesque landscapes, except something in the composition brought on feelings of melancholy. Most times, landscape scenes make you yearn for the great outdoors and that solitude. But these were stark, lonely, depressing—interesting because that was clearly the photographer’s mood and intent.
Broome continued to click through the photographs. For some reason that dumb line from that song “A Horse with No Name” came to him: “There were plants and birds and rocks and things.” That pretty much summed it up. Broome had hoped to find, what exactly? He didn’t know. Clues. But all he saw were bland yet creative and moving photographs of the scene where one man lost his heart—and others lost… again what?
“You’re good,” Broome said.
Ray did not reply.
Broome could almost feel the foreboding now, the cumulative impact of Ray’s work starting to wear him down. He was nearly finished going through the photographs when something snagged his gaze.
Broome stopped.
“Can you zoom in?”
“Sure. Just click the command and plus buttons.”
The photograph was one of the first Ray had snapped that day, taken from a different viewpoint, so maybe that explained it. There were trees, of course, and the big rock and the old furnace chimney, but from here, Broome thought he could see something else, something behind the ruins of that old chimney in the background. He clicked, zooming closer and closer. The picture quality, fortunately, was excellent, so there was very little pixilation.
Broome felt his heart rise to his throat.
Ray looked over his shoulder. “What is that?”
Broome moved in closer. Something was jutting out behind the chimney. It was green and metallic with a black rubber end. Broome could only make out maybe six inches of it. But that was enough. He’d spent the summer after high school graduation working for a moving company, so, even though he could only see the handle, he had a pretty good idea what it was.
“It’s a hand truck,” Broome said. “Someone hid a hand truck near where these guys disappeared.”
30
MEGAN STARTED THE JOURNEY TO her mother-in-law.
Her thoughts were with poor Harry Sutton. There was, of course, the possibility that the timing of his murder was a coincidence. She had returned to Atlantic City over a seventeen-year-old incident. The young couple being sought by the police would have been, what, five, maybe ten years old back in those days. So perhaps, if those two were the ones who did it, Megan and her past had absolutely nothing to do with what happened to Harry.
Her mind continued to nimbly do this denial dance step, but in the end, the truth seemed pretty obvious: She had dragged danger and death to Harry Sutton’s door. She couldn’t figure out how yet. But in her heart, Megan knew that once again, she had messed up.
“How?”
“The photographs I take. They’re date stamped.”
“Can’t you fix that? Like make it look like another date?”
“I don’t know, frankly. You can have your experts look for themselves. You can also check weather reports maybe, see if it was raining or snowing or what that day. I still don’t get it. What difference does it make what day I was there?”
Simple, though Broome wouldn’t say it now. If Ray Levine could show he went up on February eighteenths—and not Mardi Gras—it would back his story. Of course, Broome would subpoena all the photographs and see what other dates he was in that section of the park. But it would be a start.
It was coming to an end. Broome could feel it. After seventeen years of hunting, searching, never letting go, he was so damn close to breaking this case open. Odd when you thought about it. Every February eighteenth—well, “most”—Ray Levine visited that park and reflected on a certain incident. Meanwhile, on that same day, Broome visited Sarah Green and reflected on the very same incident. Except “reflected” wasn’t really the right word, was it? Broome had been obsessed with the Stewart Green case from day one. While all the other cops in town dismissed it as yet another philandering creep who ran off with a stripper, Broome had held on with a ferocity that surprised even him. Yes, getting to know the family Stewart left behind—Sarah, Susie, and Brandon—had helped him focus, but even back then, he recognized that Sarah was somewhat deluding herself, that all would not be well in that sad, lonely house if her beloved husband were returned safely.
In truth, even way back then, Broome had believed that Stewart Green’s disappearance was more than it seemed, much more, something dark and horrible and almost beyond his comprehension. Now he was sure of it.
“Are we done here, Detective?”
Broome checked his cell phone. Goldberg was going to text him when he got the subpoena and had it served. He didn’t want Ray Levine heading home before then, perhaps tampering with or destroying evidence.
“That picture you sent me anonymously—that wasn’t the only one you took that day, right?”
“No, of course not.”
“Where are the rest of the pictures?”
“On my hard drive at home, but I back them up to a cloud.”
“A cloud?”
“That’s what they call it. For safe storage. It’s like a disk in the sky. Think of it as e-mailing stuff to yourself. I can access them from any computer with the proper codes.”
Whoa, Broome thought. “I have a laptop in my car,” he said. “Would you mind?”
“What, now?”
“It could really help. My car is right around the corner.”
Broome had parked on South Michigan Avenue near Caesars. While the computer booted up, Ray said, “I sent you the last picture I took. Once someone else came on the scene, I figured it was time to go.”
“So that’s the only picture of Carlton Flynn?”
“That’s right.”
“And there was no one else in any of the other pictures?”
“Right. Before that, I had the place to myself.”
The computer came to life. Broome handed it to Ray. The sun was bright, putting glare on the screen, so they slipped into the car. Broome watched the people exiting the casinos. They always did it the same way—with a stumble, a shade of the eyes with one hand, big-time blinking.
“Did you see anyone on your way back down from that spot?” Broome asked.
“No, sorry.”
Ray got on the Internet and went to a Mac Web site. He typed in a user name and password and clicked on some folders and then he handed the laptop back to Broome. There were eighty-seven photographs. He started with the last, the photograph Ray had sent anonymously. Something struck Broome right away. The first few were all what one might call picturesque landscapes, except something in the composition brought on feelings of melancholy. Most times, landscape scenes make you yearn for the great outdoors and that solitude. But these were stark, lonely, depressing—interesting because that was clearly the photographer’s mood and intent.
Broome continued to click through the photographs. For some reason that dumb line from that song “A Horse with No Name” came to him: “There were plants and birds and rocks and things.” That pretty much summed it up. Broome had hoped to find, what exactly? He didn’t know. Clues. But all he saw were bland yet creative and moving photographs of the scene where one man lost his heart—and others lost… again what?
“You’re good,” Broome said.
Ray did not reply.
Broome could almost feel the foreboding now, the cumulative impact of Ray’s work starting to wear him down. He was nearly finished going through the photographs when something snagged his gaze.
Broome stopped.
“Can you zoom in?”
“Sure. Just click the command and plus buttons.”
The photograph was one of the first Ray had snapped that day, taken from a different viewpoint, so maybe that explained it. There were trees, of course, and the big rock and the old furnace chimney, but from here, Broome thought he could see something else, something behind the ruins of that old chimney in the background. He clicked, zooming closer and closer. The picture quality, fortunately, was excellent, so there was very little pixilation.
Broome felt his heart rise to his throat.
Ray looked over his shoulder. “What is that?”
Broome moved in closer. Something was jutting out behind the chimney. It was green and metallic with a black rubber end. Broome could only make out maybe six inches of it. But that was enough. He’d spent the summer after high school graduation working for a moving company, so, even though he could only see the handle, he had a pretty good idea what it was.
“It’s a hand truck,” Broome said. “Someone hid a hand truck near where these guys disappeared.”
30
MEGAN STARTED THE JOURNEY TO her mother-in-law.
Her thoughts were with poor Harry Sutton. There was, of course, the possibility that the timing of his murder was a coincidence. She had returned to Atlantic City over a seventeen-year-old incident. The young couple being sought by the police would have been, what, five, maybe ten years old back in those days. So perhaps, if those two were the ones who did it, Megan and her past had absolutely nothing to do with what happened to Harry.
Her mind continued to nimbly do this denial dance step, but in the end, the truth seemed pretty obvious: She had dragged danger and death to Harry Sutton’s door. She couldn’t figure out how yet. But in her heart, Megan knew that once again, she had messed up.
