Broome replied by showing them his badge. The two men considered taking it further, just to look tough, but then thought better of it. They turned and walked away.
“Those are two of my best tippers,” Lorraine said.
“You’ll make it up to them. You said you saw Stewart Green.”
“Yeah,” she said. Lorraine pushed the hair off her face. “But he looks different.”
“Different how?”
“Different all over. He’s got a shaved head and a goatee. He wears hoop earrings and got a tattoo on his forearm. He was in jeans and a tight T-shirt, and he’s clearly been working out.”
Broome frowned. “Stewart Green?”
Lorraine didn’t bother replying.
Broome thought about those photographs on Sarah Green’s fireplace mantel. In these photographs Stewart dressed in either polo ’n’ khakis or a business suit. He had a bald spot he’d started to cover up with a wispy comb-over. He looked soft and puffy.
“When did you see him?” he asked.
Lorraine started cleaning a glass with too much gusto.
“Lorraine?”
“I’ve seen him more than once.”
That surprised him. “How many times?”
“A few.”
“What’s a few? More than twice, more than five times?”
“I don’t know,” Lorraine said. All hints of that playfulness were gone now. She looked frightened. “Maybe once a year, once every two years, something like that. I don’t keep track.”
“Once every year or two?”
“Yeah.”
Broome’s head was spinning. “Wait, so when was the first time you saw him?”
“I don’t know. A while ago. Ten, fifteen years maybe.”
“And you never thought to contact the police?”
“Huh?”
“You saw a guy who’d gone missing. You never thought to tell us?”
“Tell you what exactly?” Lorraine put her hands on her hips, her voice rising. “Was he a criminal you were after?”
“No but—”
“And, what, do you think I’m an informant or something? I’ve worked in this business for twenty years. You learn quick that nobody sees nothing, you know what I’m saying?”
He did.
“I wouldn’t be talking to you now only…” Lorraine suddenly seemed depressed and deflated. “Harry. How could someone hurt Harry? Look, whatever, I don’t want more people to die. When you’re a customer in here, I don’t much care what you do. Break whatever commandment. But if people are starting to die…”
She turned away.
“When was the last time you saw Stewart Green?”
Lorraine didn’t answer.
“I asked—”
“A few weeks back.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“It might have been around the time that that Flynn guy disappeared.”
Broome froze.
“Lorraine, I need you to think hard about this: Was he here on Mardi Gras?”
“Mardi Gras?”
“Yeah.”
She thought about that. “I don’t know, it could be. Why?”
Broome could feel his pulse start to pick up pace. “In fact, when you saw him over the years, could it have been during other Mardi Gras?”
She made a face. “I don’t know.”
“It’s important.”
“How the hell would I remember something like that?”
“Think. You guys give out beads on Mardi Gras, right?”
“So?”
“So think back. You remembered Stewart had hoop earrings. Close your eyes now. Picture when he was here. Was he wearing Mardi Gras beads maybe?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know.”
“Close your eyes and try.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Come on, Lorraine, this is important.”
“Okay, okay.” He could see now that her eyes were welling up. She quickly closed them.
“Anything?”
“No.” Her voice was soft now. “I’m sorry.”
“You okay?”
She blinked open her eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about Stewart Green?”
Her voice was still soft. “No. I gotta get back to work.”
“Not yet.”
Broome tried to think it through, then he remembered: Erin had the security footage. That was how they had realized the Mardi Gras connection. Erin could look through them now and search for the man Lorraine described. He debated dragging Lorraine in for Rick Mason to sketch, but Mason was also an expert on age-progression software. He could work that with what he now knew—shaved head and goatee?—and then bring it back to show Lorraine.
“I don’t understand,” Lorraine said. “Why did you ask about Mardi Gras?”
“We see a pattern.”
“What kind of pattern?”
He quickly figured, why not? Maybe she’d remember something. “Stewart Green went missing on Mardi Gras. So did Carlton Flynn. A man named Ross Gunther was murdered on Mardi Gras. Other men too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do we. I have pictures that I want to show you—of missing men. Maybe you’ll recognize one.” He had the file with him. No other patrons had come over to this corner. They sat by the main stage while a stripper dressed as Jasmine from Disney’s Aladdin started to dance to “A Whole New World.” The act gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “magic carpet ride.”
Broome took out the photographs and started to spread them on the bar. He watched Lorraine’s face. She took her time with the most recent one, the one that had been sent anonymously to his office.
“That’s Carlton Flynn,” she said.
“That one we know.”
Lorraine put it back and went through the other pictures. The tears were back in her eyes.
“Lorraine?”
“I don’t recognize any of them.” She blinked, turned away. “You should go.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s nothing.”
Broome waited. For a moment Lorraine said nothing. He had always seen her upbeat, always with that sideways smile, the smoky voice, the throaty laugh. She had always been the dictionary definition of the good-time party girl.
“I’m dying,” Lorraine said.
Broome felt something in his chest dry up and blow away.
“Those are two of my best tippers,” Lorraine said.
“You’ll make it up to them. You said you saw Stewart Green.”
“Yeah,” she said. Lorraine pushed the hair off her face. “But he looks different.”
“Different how?”
“Different all over. He’s got a shaved head and a goatee. He wears hoop earrings and got a tattoo on his forearm. He was in jeans and a tight T-shirt, and he’s clearly been working out.”
Broome frowned. “Stewart Green?”
Lorraine didn’t bother replying.
Broome thought about those photographs on Sarah Green’s fireplace mantel. In these photographs Stewart dressed in either polo ’n’ khakis or a business suit. He had a bald spot he’d started to cover up with a wispy comb-over. He looked soft and puffy.
“When did you see him?” he asked.
Lorraine started cleaning a glass with too much gusto.
“Lorraine?”
“I’ve seen him more than once.”
That surprised him. “How many times?”
“A few.”
“What’s a few? More than twice, more than five times?”
“I don’t know,” Lorraine said. All hints of that playfulness were gone now. She looked frightened. “Maybe once a year, once every two years, something like that. I don’t keep track.”
“Once every year or two?”
“Yeah.”
Broome’s head was spinning. “Wait, so when was the first time you saw him?”
“I don’t know. A while ago. Ten, fifteen years maybe.”
“And you never thought to contact the police?”
“Huh?”
“You saw a guy who’d gone missing. You never thought to tell us?”
“Tell you what exactly?” Lorraine put her hands on her hips, her voice rising. “Was he a criminal you were after?”
“No but—”
“And, what, do you think I’m an informant or something? I’ve worked in this business for twenty years. You learn quick that nobody sees nothing, you know what I’m saying?”
He did.
“I wouldn’t be talking to you now only…” Lorraine suddenly seemed depressed and deflated. “Harry. How could someone hurt Harry? Look, whatever, I don’t want more people to die. When you’re a customer in here, I don’t much care what you do. Break whatever commandment. But if people are starting to die…”
She turned away.
“When was the last time you saw Stewart Green?”
Lorraine didn’t answer.
“I asked—”
“A few weeks back.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“It might have been around the time that that Flynn guy disappeared.”
Broome froze.
“Lorraine, I need you to think hard about this: Was he here on Mardi Gras?”
“Mardi Gras?”
“Yeah.”
She thought about that. “I don’t know, it could be. Why?”
Broome could feel his pulse start to pick up pace. “In fact, when you saw him over the years, could it have been during other Mardi Gras?”
She made a face. “I don’t know.”
“It’s important.”
“How the hell would I remember something like that?”
“Think. You guys give out beads on Mardi Gras, right?”
“So?”
“So think back. You remembered Stewart had hoop earrings. Close your eyes now. Picture when he was here. Was he wearing Mardi Gras beads maybe?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know.”
“Close your eyes and try.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Come on, Lorraine, this is important.”
“Okay, okay.” He could see now that her eyes were welling up. She quickly closed them.
“Anything?”
“No.” Her voice was soft now. “I’m sorry.”
“You okay?”
She blinked open her eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about Stewart Green?”
Her voice was still soft. “No. I gotta get back to work.”
“Not yet.”
Broome tried to think it through, then he remembered: Erin had the security footage. That was how they had realized the Mardi Gras connection. Erin could look through them now and search for the man Lorraine described. He debated dragging Lorraine in for Rick Mason to sketch, but Mason was also an expert on age-progression software. He could work that with what he now knew—shaved head and goatee?—and then bring it back to show Lorraine.
“I don’t understand,” Lorraine said. “Why did you ask about Mardi Gras?”
“We see a pattern.”
“What kind of pattern?”
He quickly figured, why not? Maybe she’d remember something. “Stewart Green went missing on Mardi Gras. So did Carlton Flynn. A man named Ross Gunther was murdered on Mardi Gras. Other men too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do we. I have pictures that I want to show you—of missing men. Maybe you’ll recognize one.” He had the file with him. No other patrons had come over to this corner. They sat by the main stage while a stripper dressed as Jasmine from Disney’s Aladdin started to dance to “A Whole New World.” The act gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “magic carpet ride.”
Broome took out the photographs and started to spread them on the bar. He watched Lorraine’s face. She took her time with the most recent one, the one that had been sent anonymously to his office.
“That’s Carlton Flynn,” she said.
“That one we know.”
Lorraine put it back and went through the other pictures. The tears were back in her eyes.
“Lorraine?”
“I don’t recognize any of them.” She blinked, turned away. “You should go.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s nothing.”
Broome waited. For a moment Lorraine said nothing. He had always seen her upbeat, always with that sideways smile, the smoky voice, the throaty laugh. She had always been the dictionary definition of the good-time party girl.
“I’m dying,” Lorraine said.
Broome felt something in his chest dry up and blow away.
