Stay Close
Page 75
It was at the moment, sitting on his white couch and thinking about his sweet Maria, with the Sixers on an eight-to-zero run, that Del heard the doorbell ring.
His hand immediately landed on the medal of Saint Anthony of Padua. You were supposed to invoke his name in the memory of lost things, including, Del knew, lost people. When he was younger, Del found such stuff total nonsense, but he’d grown superstitious over the years.
He pushed himself off the white leather and opened the front door. Goldberg, the cop, stood there in the cold. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Their eyes met, and Goldberg gave him the smallest, most devastating nod one man could give to another. Del felt something in his chest crumble into dust.
There was no denial. Not at first. At first, there was only a crushing clarity. Del Flynn understood completely what this meant. His boy was gone forever. He’d never be back. His son was dead. His young life was over. There would be no reprieve, no miracle, nothing to save him. Del would never hold him or see him or talk to his boy again. There’d be no more Eagles games. Carlton was gone, no more, and Del knew that he would never recover.
His legs gave way. He began to collapse to the ground—wanted to actually—but Goldberg caught him in his strong arms. Del sagged against the big cop. The pain was too great, unfathomable, unbearable.
“How?” Del finally asked.
“We found him near where we found his blood.”
“In the woods?”
“Yes.”
Del pictured Carlton there—alone, outside, in the cold.
“There were other bodies too. We think it might be the work of a serial killer.”
“A serial killer?”
“We think so.”
“So you mean, like, there was no reason? It was just random that he killed my boy?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Del tried to push away the pain, tried to concentrate on what Goldberg was saying. That was what you did in times of agony. Some people used denial. Some used the need for vengeance. Whatever, you didn’t concentrate on what it all meant to you because that would be too much to bear. You divert with the irrelevant because you couldn’t change the awful truth, could you?
With the tears starting to flow, Del asked, “Did my boy suffer?”
Goldberg thought about it for a second. “I don’t know.”
“Have you caught the guy?”
“Not yet. But we will.”
From the TV, Del could hear the home crowd cheering. Something good had happened for the Sixers. His son was dead, but people were cheering. No one cared. The electricity in the house still worked. Cars still drove by. People still cheered for their favorite teams.
“Thank you for telling me in person,” Del heard himself say.
“Do you have someone who can stay with you?”
“My wife will be home soon.”
“Do you want me to stay with you until then?”
“No. I’ll be fine. I appreciate you coming by.”
Goldberg cleared his throat. “Del?”
He looked up at Goldberg’s face. There was genuine compassion there, but there was something else too.
Goldberg said, “We don’t want any more innocents hurt. You know what I’m saying?”
Del did not reply.
“Call those psychos off,” Goldberg said, handing him a cell phone. “There’s been enough death for one night.”
Through the blinding agony, there was indeed the crushing clarity. Goldberg was right. Too much blood had been spilled. Del Flynn took the phone from Goldberg’s hand and dialed Ken’s number.
But no one answered.
BROOME CALLED SARAH GREEN. “Will you be home in an hour?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come by?”
“Something new?”
“Yes.”
There was a brief pause. “It doesn’t sound like good news.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
THE STREETLIGHTS IN FRONT OF Ray Levine’s residence were too bright and too yellow, giving everything a jaundiced feel. Four Atlantic County squad cars were parked in front of the modest dwelling. As Broome approached, he saw the feds pull up in a van. He hurried inside and found Dodds.
“Anything?” Broome asked.
“Nothing surprising, if that’s what you mean. No murder weapons. No hand trucks. Nothing like that. We already started going through the photographs on his computer. On that score, at least, the guy was telling the truth—the pictures by the old iron-ore mill were taken on various February eighteenths, not Mardi Gras.”
That backed Ray Levine’s story in a pretty big way.
Dodds looked out the window. “That the feds?”
“Yep.”
“They taking over?”
Broome nodded. “It’s their baby now.” He looked at his watch. There was no reason to hang here. He could get to Sarah’s and start to explain. “If there’s nothing else…”
“Nope, not really. Just one thing I found weird.”
“What’s that?”
“Ray Levine. That’s the guy’s real name?”
“It is.”
Dodds nodded more to himself. “You know any other Levines?”
“A few, why?”
“They’re Jewish, right? I mean, Levine is a Jewish name.”
Broome looked around this dump of a basement and frowned at Dodds. “Not all Jews make a lot of money. You know that, right?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m not stereotyping or nothing like that. Look, just forget it, okay? It’s no big deal.”
“What’s no big deal?” Broome asked.
“Nothing. But, okay, like I said, we didn’t find anything incriminating. It’s just that, well”—he shrugged—“what would a Jewish guy be doing with this?”
He handed Broome a small plastic evidence bag. Broome looked down at the contents. At first he didn’t comprehend what this was, but a few seconds later, when he did, when it finally registered, Broome felt a sense of vertigo, like he was falling and falling and couldn’t stop. His world, already teetering, took another sudden, jarring turn, and it was almost hard to stay upright.
“Broome?”
He ignored the voice. He blinked, looked again, and felt his stomach drop, because there, inside the plastic bag, was a medal of Saint Anthony.
FROM HIS SPOT ACROSS THE STREET, Ken watched Lorraine leave La Crème by the back door. It took her a fair amount of time to get through the lot. Her departure seemed to be something of an event. Every girl who worked in that cesspool called out to the older barmaid and gave her a long hug. Lorraine in turned accepted the embrace and then seemed to give each one of them something they craved—a sympathetic ear, a crooked I-get-it smile, a kind word.
His hand immediately landed on the medal of Saint Anthony of Padua. You were supposed to invoke his name in the memory of lost things, including, Del knew, lost people. When he was younger, Del found such stuff total nonsense, but he’d grown superstitious over the years.
He pushed himself off the white leather and opened the front door. Goldberg, the cop, stood there in the cold. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Their eyes met, and Goldberg gave him the smallest, most devastating nod one man could give to another. Del felt something in his chest crumble into dust.
There was no denial. Not at first. At first, there was only a crushing clarity. Del Flynn understood completely what this meant. His boy was gone forever. He’d never be back. His son was dead. His young life was over. There would be no reprieve, no miracle, nothing to save him. Del would never hold him or see him or talk to his boy again. There’d be no more Eagles games. Carlton was gone, no more, and Del knew that he would never recover.
His legs gave way. He began to collapse to the ground—wanted to actually—but Goldberg caught him in his strong arms. Del sagged against the big cop. The pain was too great, unfathomable, unbearable.
“How?” Del finally asked.
“We found him near where we found his blood.”
“In the woods?”
“Yes.”
Del pictured Carlton there—alone, outside, in the cold.
“There were other bodies too. We think it might be the work of a serial killer.”
“A serial killer?”
“We think so.”
“So you mean, like, there was no reason? It was just random that he killed my boy?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Del tried to push away the pain, tried to concentrate on what Goldberg was saying. That was what you did in times of agony. Some people used denial. Some used the need for vengeance. Whatever, you didn’t concentrate on what it all meant to you because that would be too much to bear. You divert with the irrelevant because you couldn’t change the awful truth, could you?
With the tears starting to flow, Del asked, “Did my boy suffer?”
Goldberg thought about it for a second. “I don’t know.”
“Have you caught the guy?”
“Not yet. But we will.”
From the TV, Del could hear the home crowd cheering. Something good had happened for the Sixers. His son was dead, but people were cheering. No one cared. The electricity in the house still worked. Cars still drove by. People still cheered for their favorite teams.
“Thank you for telling me in person,” Del heard himself say.
“Do you have someone who can stay with you?”
“My wife will be home soon.”
“Do you want me to stay with you until then?”
“No. I’ll be fine. I appreciate you coming by.”
Goldberg cleared his throat. “Del?”
He looked up at Goldberg’s face. There was genuine compassion there, but there was something else too.
Goldberg said, “We don’t want any more innocents hurt. You know what I’m saying?”
Del did not reply.
“Call those psychos off,” Goldberg said, handing him a cell phone. “There’s been enough death for one night.”
Through the blinding agony, there was indeed the crushing clarity. Goldberg was right. Too much blood had been spilled. Del Flynn took the phone from Goldberg’s hand and dialed Ken’s number.
But no one answered.
BROOME CALLED SARAH GREEN. “Will you be home in an hour?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come by?”
“Something new?”
“Yes.”
There was a brief pause. “It doesn’t sound like good news.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
THE STREETLIGHTS IN FRONT OF Ray Levine’s residence were too bright and too yellow, giving everything a jaundiced feel. Four Atlantic County squad cars were parked in front of the modest dwelling. As Broome approached, he saw the feds pull up in a van. He hurried inside and found Dodds.
“Anything?” Broome asked.
“Nothing surprising, if that’s what you mean. No murder weapons. No hand trucks. Nothing like that. We already started going through the photographs on his computer. On that score, at least, the guy was telling the truth—the pictures by the old iron-ore mill were taken on various February eighteenths, not Mardi Gras.”
That backed Ray Levine’s story in a pretty big way.
Dodds looked out the window. “That the feds?”
“Yep.”
“They taking over?”
Broome nodded. “It’s their baby now.” He looked at his watch. There was no reason to hang here. He could get to Sarah’s and start to explain. “If there’s nothing else…”
“Nope, not really. Just one thing I found weird.”
“What’s that?”
“Ray Levine. That’s the guy’s real name?”
“It is.”
Dodds nodded more to himself. “You know any other Levines?”
“A few, why?”
“They’re Jewish, right? I mean, Levine is a Jewish name.”
Broome looked around this dump of a basement and frowned at Dodds. “Not all Jews make a lot of money. You know that, right?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m not stereotyping or nothing like that. Look, just forget it, okay? It’s no big deal.”
“What’s no big deal?” Broome asked.
“Nothing. But, okay, like I said, we didn’t find anything incriminating. It’s just that, well”—he shrugged—“what would a Jewish guy be doing with this?”
He handed Broome a small plastic evidence bag. Broome looked down at the contents. At first he didn’t comprehend what this was, but a few seconds later, when he did, when it finally registered, Broome felt a sense of vertigo, like he was falling and falling and couldn’t stop. His world, already teetering, took another sudden, jarring turn, and it was almost hard to stay upright.
“Broome?”
He ignored the voice. He blinked, looked again, and felt his stomach drop, because there, inside the plastic bag, was a medal of Saint Anthony.
FROM HIS SPOT ACROSS THE STREET, Ken watched Lorraine leave La Crème by the back door. It took her a fair amount of time to get through the lot. Her departure seemed to be something of an event. Every girl who worked in that cesspool called out to the older barmaid and gave her a long hug. Lorraine in turned accepted the embrace and then seemed to give each one of them something they craved—a sympathetic ear, a crooked I-get-it smile, a kind word.
