Rick Mason jumped up. “Chief Goldberg…”
“I said, what the hell is going on?”
“I’m sketching two possible suspects.”
“Why would you be doing that down here?”
Mason said nothing.
“You have an office, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So why are you down here?”
“Detective Broome suggested that I work here.”
Goldberg put his hands on his hips. “Did he now?”
“He said that he didn’t want this witness compromised.”
Goldberg turned his attention to Megan. “Well, well. If it isn’t Janey from the diner. Another friendly visit?”
Megan said, “I’d rather not say.”
“Excuse me? Who are you really?”
“Am I compelled to give you my name?”
That caught him off guard. “Legally, I guess not—”
“Then I’d rather not. I’m here of my own free will and at the request of Detective Broome.”
“Oh, really?” Goldberg bent down in her face. “I happen to be Detective Broome’s immediate superior.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“Doesn’t it, Ms. Pierce?”
Megan closed her mouth. Goldberg had already known her name. That couldn’t be a good thing. He moved toward the sketch pad. Rick Mason tried to block the view, like a fourth grader who didn’t want to get copied off on a test. Goldberg nudged him aside and put on a pair of glasses. When his gaze landed on the sketches of the young couple, his body convulsed as though he’d been zapped with a stun gun.
“Who the hell are these two?”
No one said anything.
Goldberg turned his attention to Mason. “Did you hear what I asked?”
“I don’t know. I was just told to get the sketch.”
“For what case?”
He shrugged.
Goldberg turned back to Megan. “Where did you see these two?”
“I’d rather wait for Detective Broome.”
Goldberg looked at the sketches again. “No.”
“No?”
“You tell me now. Or you get the hell out of here.”
“Are you serious?”
“I am.”
This Goldberg guy was giving Megan a serious case of the willies. She would indeed get out of here. She’d take a walk, maybe go to the diner, and then she’d call Broome and regroup. There was a reason why Broome wanted to keep her hidden—and maybe it had to do with more than just protecting her identity. Maybe it had to do with his charging rhino of a boss, Goldberg.
She pushed back her chair. “Fine, I’m out of here.”
“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
Goldberg turned away, troubled. His rudeness surprised her. It was almost as though he wanted her out. This was probably some kind of power play with Broome, but she didn’t like it. Still, it would be best to get out of here now so she didn’t tell him anything she shouldn’t.
Megan stood. She had just grabbed her purse when once again the door burst open.
It was Broome.
When Broome first pushed through the door, she could see something odd on his face: anger—even before he saw Goldberg. The anger, weirdly enough, seemed directed at her. She had a second to wonder what that was about, if something had gone wrong with his visit with Lorraine, but before Broome could act upon it, he spotted Goldberg. When he did, Broome’s face fell.
For a moment the two men just stared at each other. Both were making fists and for a split second, Megan wondered if one of them was going to take a swing. Then Broome took a step back, shrugged, and said, “Busted.”
That opened the floodgates. “What the hell is going on, Broome?” Goldberg demanded.
“This woman, who shall remain anonymous, may have seen Harry Sutton’s killers.”
Goldberg’s mouth dropped open. “She was at the scene?”
“She saw these two walking out when she was walking in. We have no reason for them to be in the building at that hour. I’m not saying they did it, of course, but they are people of interest.”
Goldberg thought about it. He flicked his gaze toward Mason. “The sketch done?”
“Just about.”
“Finish it up. You”—he pointed at Broome—“I want to see in my office in five minutes. I got a call to make first.”
“Okay.”
Goldberg left. When he was gone, the anger returned to Broome’s face. He glared down at Megan.
“What?” she asked.
Still staring at her, “Mason?”
“Yeah?”
“Give us five minutes.”
“Uh, sure.”
Rick Mason started to leave. Broome’s eyes were still locked on hers, but he held up his hand toward Mason. “Actually, I need you to do something.”
Mason waited.
“We have an age progression on Stewart Green, right?”
“Right.”
“Add a shaved head and give him a goatee and a hoop earring. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure, yeah, okay. When do you need it by?”
Broome just frowned.
“Got it,” Rick Mason said. “Yesterday.”
“Thanks.”
Broome was still staring at her. As soon as Mason left, Megan decided to take the offensive. “Stewart Green shaved his head and grew a goatee? Did Lorraine tell you that?”
Broome kept glaring.
“What’s your problem?” she asked.
He leaned a little closer to her and waited to make sure that she was looking directly into his eyes.
“Do you want to keep lying to me,” Broome said, “or do you want to tell me about your old beau, Ray Levine?”
DEL FLYNN BROUGHT PINK ROSES, Maria’s favorite, to her room. He brought them every day. He showed them to his former wife and kissed her cold forehead.
“Hey, Maria, how you feeling today?”
The nurse—he could never remember her name—gave him flat eyes and left the room. In the beginning, when Maria had first been wheeled into this room, the nurses had looked upon Del Flynn with respect and admiration. Here he was, the ex-husband of this comatose woman, and look at the sacrifices he was making for her. What a man, they’d thought. What a devoted, dedicated, loving, understanding hero of a man.
The staff had left an empty vase already filled with water. After all this time, they knew his routine. Del slipped the bouquet into the water and sat next to Maria’s bed. He glanced toward the door and made sure that no one was in earshot. They weren’t.
“I said, what the hell is going on?”
“I’m sketching two possible suspects.”
“Why would you be doing that down here?”
Mason said nothing.
“You have an office, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So why are you down here?”
“Detective Broome suggested that I work here.”
Goldberg put his hands on his hips. “Did he now?”
“He said that he didn’t want this witness compromised.”
Goldberg turned his attention to Megan. “Well, well. If it isn’t Janey from the diner. Another friendly visit?”
Megan said, “I’d rather not say.”
“Excuse me? Who are you really?”
“Am I compelled to give you my name?”
That caught him off guard. “Legally, I guess not—”
“Then I’d rather not. I’m here of my own free will and at the request of Detective Broome.”
“Oh, really?” Goldberg bent down in her face. “I happen to be Detective Broome’s immediate superior.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“Doesn’t it, Ms. Pierce?”
Megan closed her mouth. Goldberg had already known her name. That couldn’t be a good thing. He moved toward the sketch pad. Rick Mason tried to block the view, like a fourth grader who didn’t want to get copied off on a test. Goldberg nudged him aside and put on a pair of glasses. When his gaze landed on the sketches of the young couple, his body convulsed as though he’d been zapped with a stun gun.
“Who the hell are these two?”
No one said anything.
Goldberg turned his attention to Mason. “Did you hear what I asked?”
“I don’t know. I was just told to get the sketch.”
“For what case?”
He shrugged.
Goldberg turned back to Megan. “Where did you see these two?”
“I’d rather wait for Detective Broome.”
Goldberg looked at the sketches again. “No.”
“No?”
“You tell me now. Or you get the hell out of here.”
“Are you serious?”
“I am.”
This Goldberg guy was giving Megan a serious case of the willies. She would indeed get out of here. She’d take a walk, maybe go to the diner, and then she’d call Broome and regroup. There was a reason why Broome wanted to keep her hidden—and maybe it had to do with more than just protecting her identity. Maybe it had to do with his charging rhino of a boss, Goldberg.
She pushed back her chair. “Fine, I’m out of here.”
“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
Goldberg turned away, troubled. His rudeness surprised her. It was almost as though he wanted her out. This was probably some kind of power play with Broome, but she didn’t like it. Still, it would be best to get out of here now so she didn’t tell him anything she shouldn’t.
Megan stood. She had just grabbed her purse when once again the door burst open.
It was Broome.
When Broome first pushed through the door, she could see something odd on his face: anger—even before he saw Goldberg. The anger, weirdly enough, seemed directed at her. She had a second to wonder what that was about, if something had gone wrong with his visit with Lorraine, but before Broome could act upon it, he spotted Goldberg. When he did, Broome’s face fell.
For a moment the two men just stared at each other. Both were making fists and for a split second, Megan wondered if one of them was going to take a swing. Then Broome took a step back, shrugged, and said, “Busted.”
That opened the floodgates. “What the hell is going on, Broome?” Goldberg demanded.
“This woman, who shall remain anonymous, may have seen Harry Sutton’s killers.”
Goldberg’s mouth dropped open. “She was at the scene?”
“She saw these two walking out when she was walking in. We have no reason for them to be in the building at that hour. I’m not saying they did it, of course, but they are people of interest.”
Goldberg thought about it. He flicked his gaze toward Mason. “The sketch done?”
“Just about.”
“Finish it up. You”—he pointed at Broome—“I want to see in my office in five minutes. I got a call to make first.”
“Okay.”
Goldberg left. When he was gone, the anger returned to Broome’s face. He glared down at Megan.
“What?” she asked.
Still staring at her, “Mason?”
“Yeah?”
“Give us five minutes.”
“Uh, sure.”
Rick Mason started to leave. Broome’s eyes were still locked on hers, but he held up his hand toward Mason. “Actually, I need you to do something.”
Mason waited.
“We have an age progression on Stewart Green, right?”
“Right.”
“Add a shaved head and give him a goatee and a hoop earring. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure, yeah, okay. When do you need it by?”
Broome just frowned.
“Got it,” Rick Mason said. “Yesterday.”
“Thanks.”
Broome was still staring at her. As soon as Mason left, Megan decided to take the offensive. “Stewart Green shaved his head and grew a goatee? Did Lorraine tell you that?”
Broome kept glaring.
“What’s your problem?” she asked.
He leaned a little closer to her and waited to make sure that she was looking directly into his eyes.
“Do you want to keep lying to me,” Broome said, “or do you want to tell me about your old beau, Ray Levine?”
DEL FLYNN BROUGHT PINK ROSES, Maria’s favorite, to her room. He brought them every day. He showed them to his former wife and kissed her cold forehead.
“Hey, Maria, how you feeling today?”
The nurse—he could never remember her name—gave him flat eyes and left the room. In the beginning, when Maria had first been wheeled into this room, the nurses had looked upon Del Flynn with respect and admiration. Here he was, the ex-husband of this comatose woman, and look at the sacrifices he was making for her. What a man, they’d thought. What a devoted, dedicated, loving, understanding hero of a man.
The staff had left an empty vase already filled with water. After all this time, they knew his routine. Del slipped the bouquet into the water and sat next to Maria’s bed. He glanced toward the door and made sure that no one was in earshot. They weren’t.
