Megan thought about it. “There was a young couple.”
“In the corridor? Near Harry’s door? Where?”
“No, they were coming out as I was coming in. The man held the door for me.”
“What did they look like?”
“Young, good-looking, preppy. She had blond hair. He looked like he just stepped off a squash court.”
“For real?”
“Yes,” she said. “They didn’t look like torturers.”
“What do torturers look like?”
“Good point.”
Broome mulled it over for a few moments. “You said a young woman answered his phone.”
“Right.”
“Could she be the same age as this blonde?”
“I guess.” Something crossed Megan’s face.
“What?” Broome asked.
“Well, now that you mention it, they didn’t fit. You know? I mean, you know Harry’s office.”
“A dump.”
“Right,” she said.
“So what was a good-looking, preppy couple doing there?” Broome asked.
“You could ask the same about me.”
“You’re not what you appear to be either,” he said.
“No. So maybe they have secrets too.”
“Maybe.” Broome looked down at his feet. He took a few deep breaths.
“Detective?”
Broome looked up again. “We already questioned everyone in Harry’s building.”
He stopped.
“So?”
“So the only offices that were still open at that time of night were the bail bondsmen on the third floor and the CPA on the second.” Broome met her eye. “Neither one of them had clients like you just described.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Which begs the obvious question: What was that couple doing in that building at that time of night?”
They both fell silent. Broome glanced around now, taking in the vaulted ceilings, the Oriental carpets, the oil paintings.
“Nice house,” he said.
She didn’t reply.
“How did you do it, Megan?”
She knew what he really meant—how did she escape? “You think these worlds are really that far apart?”
“I do, yes.”
They weren’t, but she didn’t feel like explaining. She had learned the biggest difference between the haves and the have-nots. Luck and birthright. And the luckier you are and the more doors open to you because of your birthright, the more you need to convince others that you made it because of intelligence or hard work. The world is, in the end, all about bad self-esteem issues.
“So what now?” she asked.
“For one, I need to take you back with me so you can talk to a sketch artist. We need to make an ID on that young couple you saw. You also have to be honest with me.”
“I am being honest with you.”
“No, you’re not. This all comes back to the same person. We both know that.”
She said nothing.
“Everything circles back to Stewart Green. You said someone saw him recently.”
“I said, someone maybe saw him.”
“Whatever. I need to know who.”
“I promised I wouldn’t say.”
“And I promised I wouldn’t bug you. But Harry is dead. And Carlton Flynn is missing. You come back to town. Someone spots Stewart Green. Whatever it is, whatever is happening to these men, it is all coming to a head now. You can’t run away anymore. You can’t hide in this big fancy house. Like you just said, Megan, the worlds aren’t that far apart.”
Megan tried to slow it down, tried to think it through. She didn’t want to make a mistake here, but she got it. Stewart Green was a suspect here. Broome had to do all he could to find him.
“Megan?”
She looked at him.
“There are others.”
A fresh cold shiver crossed her heart. “What do you mean?”
“Every year on Mardi Gras someone vanishes. Or dies.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We can talk about it in the car. And you can tell me who saw Stewart Green.”
24
SITTING IN THE WEAK SIGNAL, Ray Levine went over and over the last few hours in his head. Under the dark skies over Lucy, Ray had watched the only woman he ever loved get into her car and drive away. He didn’t move. He didn’t call after her. He just let her leave his life without a word or a whimper. Again.
When her car was out of sight, he stared down that same street for another full minute. Part of him thought that Cassie would come to her senses, turn around, drive back, throw the car door open, run toward him. There, under the watchful eye of Lucy the Elephant, Ray would sweep her in his arms and hold her tight and start to cry and never let her go.
Cue the rain machine and love ballad, right?
That didn’t happen, of course. The love of his life was gone—again—and when that happens, when a man who is at the bottom manages to drop down even further, there is only one thing that a man can do.
Drink heavily.
Fester eyed Ray warily when he first stepped into the Weak Signal. The big man who feared nothing approached Ray tentatively.
“Hey, you okay?” Fester asked him.
“Do I have a drink in my hand?”
“No.”
“Then that’s the answer until I do.”
Fester looked confused. “Huh?”
“No, I’m not okay. But I will be once you get your fat ass out of my way so I can get a drink.”
“Oh,” Fester said, sliding to the right, “got it.”
Ray grabbed a stool, his body language telling the bartender to make it quick. Fester took the stool next to him. For several minutes, Fester said nothing, giving Ray his space. Odd, but somewhere along the way, Fester had become his best friend—maybe his only friend—but that was more or less irrelevant right now. Right now there was an image of a beautiful woman in his head, the contours of her face, the way she felt when he held her, the smell of lilacs and love, that pow-pow-pow in his belly when her eyes met his—and the only way to get rid of that image was to drown it in booze.
Ray longed for one of his blackouts.
The bartender poured once, then twice, then with a shrug, he just left the bottle. Ray gulped it, feeling it burn his throat. Fester joined him. It took some time, but Ray started feeling the numbness. He welcomed it, encouraged it, tried to ease his path toward oblivion.
“I remember her,” Fester said.
Ray turned a lazy eye toward his friend.
“In the corridor? Near Harry’s door? Where?”
“No, they were coming out as I was coming in. The man held the door for me.”
“What did they look like?”
“Young, good-looking, preppy. She had blond hair. He looked like he just stepped off a squash court.”
“For real?”
“Yes,” she said. “They didn’t look like torturers.”
“What do torturers look like?”
“Good point.”
Broome mulled it over for a few moments. “You said a young woman answered his phone.”
“Right.”
“Could she be the same age as this blonde?”
“I guess.” Something crossed Megan’s face.
“What?” Broome asked.
“Well, now that you mention it, they didn’t fit. You know? I mean, you know Harry’s office.”
“A dump.”
“Right,” she said.
“So what was a good-looking, preppy couple doing there?” Broome asked.
“You could ask the same about me.”
“You’re not what you appear to be either,” he said.
“No. So maybe they have secrets too.”
“Maybe.” Broome looked down at his feet. He took a few deep breaths.
“Detective?”
Broome looked up again. “We already questioned everyone in Harry’s building.”
He stopped.
“So?”
“So the only offices that were still open at that time of night were the bail bondsmen on the third floor and the CPA on the second.” Broome met her eye. “Neither one of them had clients like you just described.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Which begs the obvious question: What was that couple doing in that building at that time of night?”
They both fell silent. Broome glanced around now, taking in the vaulted ceilings, the Oriental carpets, the oil paintings.
“Nice house,” he said.
She didn’t reply.
“How did you do it, Megan?”
She knew what he really meant—how did she escape? “You think these worlds are really that far apart?”
“I do, yes.”
They weren’t, but she didn’t feel like explaining. She had learned the biggest difference between the haves and the have-nots. Luck and birthright. And the luckier you are and the more doors open to you because of your birthright, the more you need to convince others that you made it because of intelligence or hard work. The world is, in the end, all about bad self-esteem issues.
“So what now?” she asked.
“For one, I need to take you back with me so you can talk to a sketch artist. We need to make an ID on that young couple you saw. You also have to be honest with me.”
“I am being honest with you.”
“No, you’re not. This all comes back to the same person. We both know that.”
She said nothing.
“Everything circles back to Stewart Green. You said someone saw him recently.”
“I said, someone maybe saw him.”
“Whatever. I need to know who.”
“I promised I wouldn’t say.”
“And I promised I wouldn’t bug you. But Harry is dead. And Carlton Flynn is missing. You come back to town. Someone spots Stewart Green. Whatever it is, whatever is happening to these men, it is all coming to a head now. You can’t run away anymore. You can’t hide in this big fancy house. Like you just said, Megan, the worlds aren’t that far apart.”
Megan tried to slow it down, tried to think it through. She didn’t want to make a mistake here, but she got it. Stewart Green was a suspect here. Broome had to do all he could to find him.
“Megan?”
She looked at him.
“There are others.”
A fresh cold shiver crossed her heart. “What do you mean?”
“Every year on Mardi Gras someone vanishes. Or dies.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We can talk about it in the car. And you can tell me who saw Stewart Green.”
24
SITTING IN THE WEAK SIGNAL, Ray Levine went over and over the last few hours in his head. Under the dark skies over Lucy, Ray had watched the only woman he ever loved get into her car and drive away. He didn’t move. He didn’t call after her. He just let her leave his life without a word or a whimper. Again.
When her car was out of sight, he stared down that same street for another full minute. Part of him thought that Cassie would come to her senses, turn around, drive back, throw the car door open, run toward him. There, under the watchful eye of Lucy the Elephant, Ray would sweep her in his arms and hold her tight and start to cry and never let her go.
Cue the rain machine and love ballad, right?
That didn’t happen, of course. The love of his life was gone—again—and when that happens, when a man who is at the bottom manages to drop down even further, there is only one thing that a man can do.
Drink heavily.
Fester eyed Ray warily when he first stepped into the Weak Signal. The big man who feared nothing approached Ray tentatively.
“Hey, you okay?” Fester asked him.
“Do I have a drink in my hand?”
“No.”
“Then that’s the answer until I do.”
Fester looked confused. “Huh?”
“No, I’m not okay. But I will be once you get your fat ass out of my way so I can get a drink.”
“Oh,” Fester said, sliding to the right, “got it.”
Ray grabbed a stool, his body language telling the bartender to make it quick. Fester took the stool next to him. For several minutes, Fester said nothing, giving Ray his space. Odd, but somewhere along the way, Fester had become his best friend—maybe his only friend—but that was more or less irrelevant right now. Right now there was an image of a beautiful woman in his head, the contours of her face, the way she felt when he held her, the smell of lilacs and love, that pow-pow-pow in his belly when her eyes met his—and the only way to get rid of that image was to drown it in booze.
Ray longed for one of his blackouts.
The bartender poured once, then twice, then with a shrug, he just left the bottle. Ray gulped it, feeling it burn his throat. Fester joined him. It took some time, but Ray started feeling the numbness. He welcomed it, encouraged it, tried to ease his path toward oblivion.
“I remember her,” Fester said.
Ray turned a lazy eye toward his friend.
