When Erin got a free second, she hit the precinct computer. Broome had told her to spread out the search, look for any other violence that might connect to Mardi Gras. A few minutes later, she found one case that might fit, though it wasn’t really a direct hit.
At least, not at first.
Erin had been searching for murdered or missing men. That was why this particular case had slipped through the cracks. In the end, this particular death had been ruled self-defense rather than a homicide. Because no one was charged with a crime, the case had not been widely reported. A man named Lance Griggs was stabbed to death in his home in nearby Egg Harbor Township—not Atlantic City itself. Griggs had a long history of spousal abuse. That was why the case had now caught her eye. No, he hadn’t vanished. He hadn’t been dumped down a well. But Griggs, like so many others involved in this case, was a serial abuser.
According to the report, his wife had been hospitalized repeatedly. The neighbors reported hearing beatings over the years. The cops had visited the residence plenty of times. Erin shook her head. She had dealt with plenty of cases of spousal abuses. She had heard all the justifications, but she still, in her heart of hearts, never got why the women stayed.
Griggs had, it seemed, attacked his wife with a tire iron, breaking her leg and then pressed the bar against her throat. His wife finally broke away, grabbed a knife, and stabbed him. With Griggs’s long arrest record, there were plenty of mug shots for her to bring up. She did that now. The wife had also been arrested when the body was first discovered. Erin brought up her picture too and put them side by side.
Some happy couple.
“What are you working on?”
She turned to see Goldberg. Great, just what she needed. He, too, looked drawn and exhausted, his tie loosened to the point where it could almost double as a belt. It had been a long night for all of them.
“Probably nothing important,” Erin said, reaching for the monitor dimmer. “I was doing a little more investigating on Mardi Gras crimes.”
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Turn that back up,” Goldberg said.
Erin grudgingly did as he asked.
Goldberg stared at the screen. “And these two are involved?”
“Yes. She killed him years ago.”
He shook his head. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“How’s that?”
Goldberg pointed to the screen. “I know that woman.”
THE SIGHT OF THE BLOOD on the kitchen floor worked like a punch deep in Broome’s gut.
He gripped his gun tighter and started making all kinds of prayers and promises, hoping against hope that Lorraine was still alive. Broome cursed himself for talking to her, especially in a place where anyone could see. Hadn’t he learned anything from Tawny and Harry Sutton? There were dangerous people involved in all this.
How could he have been so careless?
His heart pounded against his chest, but there was no time to waste. He had to get to her, had to try to stop the flow of blood. Broome ducked down, rolled to his right, and once again, he met up with a shock.
It wasn’t Lorraine’s dead body he saw.
It was the body of a man. Looking closely, Broome remembered the description Megan had given of the guy by Harry Sutton’s office. Could be the same guy.
This man was definitely dead. His throat was slit.
Broome was about to turn around when he felt the gun press against his neck.
“Drop the gun, Broome,” Lorraine said.
38
IT BROKE MEGAN’S HEART IN a thousand ways.
She had wondered why Ray had been so surprised by the sightings of Stewart Green. Now she understood. Ray knew that Stewart had been dead all these years. He had made the huge sacrifice, too huge really, a sacrifice and then a secret that had gnawed at him, kept him down and troubled, probably cost him a bit of his sanity. Some people can live with that kind of thing. They do what they have to do. But Ray was too sensitive. He couldn’t. Especially when you added on being abandoned by the woman you loved. Especially when you added on that you wouldn’t see that woman—the woman you made this huge sacrifice to save—or even know what became of her, not until seventeen years later.
The last thing Megan told Ray before she left the interrogation room was that she would do everything in her power to make sure he was freed. She meant it. She owed him that. She would help him, and then fair or not, she’d be gone for good.
But the first thing she said when she walked out of the room was, “Where’s my husband?”
“He’s down the hall on the left.”
She hurried toward him. When she got to the room, Dave looked up, startled, and Megan felt her heart swell with genuine love. She rushed over to him as he stood, collapsing into his arms.
It was then, being held by her husband, that she felt safe enough to wonder about how she ended up on that path that night.
Wasn’t it Lorraine who had passed on that message to meet Ray up at those ruins?
Wasn’t it Lorraine who started the rumor that Stewart Green was still alive—even though they now knew for certain he was dead?
Wasn’t it Lorraine who claimed to know where Megan had been over the past seventeen years—even though it was impossible?
She ran back toward Special Agent Angiuoni.
“Where’s Detective Broome?”
“I don’t know. He said something about a club called La Crème?”
GOLDBERG POINTED OVER ERIN’S SHOULDER at the computer screen. “That’s Lorraine, the barmaid at La Crème. What the hell happened?”
“She killed her abusive husband.”
“What?”
“It was declared self-defense. Open and shut.”
“Where the hell is Broome?” Goldberg snapped. “He needs to know about this.”
LORRAINE SAID, “DROP THE GUN.”
“What are you talking about? I’m here to help you, Lorraine.”
“Please, Broome.” She pushed the gun harder against his head. “It’s been a long night. Drop the gun.”
Broome did as she asked.
“Now call your dispatcher. Tell them you don’t need backup, that it’s all clear.”
Still stunned, Broome did as she asked. Then he pointed to the body on the floor. “Who is that?”
“Someone Del Flynn hired.”
“What did he want?”
“To torture me into giving him information on Carlton’s whereabouts. Funny though. He was the type who could dish it out but couldn’t take it. So many men are like that.”
At least, not at first.
Erin had been searching for murdered or missing men. That was why this particular case had slipped through the cracks. In the end, this particular death had been ruled self-defense rather than a homicide. Because no one was charged with a crime, the case had not been widely reported. A man named Lance Griggs was stabbed to death in his home in nearby Egg Harbor Township—not Atlantic City itself. Griggs had a long history of spousal abuse. That was why the case had now caught her eye. No, he hadn’t vanished. He hadn’t been dumped down a well. But Griggs, like so many others involved in this case, was a serial abuser.
According to the report, his wife had been hospitalized repeatedly. The neighbors reported hearing beatings over the years. The cops had visited the residence plenty of times. Erin shook her head. She had dealt with plenty of cases of spousal abuses. She had heard all the justifications, but she still, in her heart of hearts, never got why the women stayed.
Griggs had, it seemed, attacked his wife with a tire iron, breaking her leg and then pressed the bar against her throat. His wife finally broke away, grabbed a knife, and stabbed him. With Griggs’s long arrest record, there were plenty of mug shots for her to bring up. She did that now. The wife had also been arrested when the body was first discovered. Erin brought up her picture too and put them side by side.
Some happy couple.
“What are you working on?”
She turned to see Goldberg. Great, just what she needed. He, too, looked drawn and exhausted, his tie loosened to the point where it could almost double as a belt. It had been a long night for all of them.
“Probably nothing important,” Erin said, reaching for the monitor dimmer. “I was doing a little more investigating on Mardi Gras crimes.”
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Turn that back up,” Goldberg said.
Erin grudgingly did as he asked.
Goldberg stared at the screen. “And these two are involved?”
“Yes. She killed him years ago.”
He shook his head. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“How’s that?”
Goldberg pointed to the screen. “I know that woman.”
THE SIGHT OF THE BLOOD on the kitchen floor worked like a punch deep in Broome’s gut.
He gripped his gun tighter and started making all kinds of prayers and promises, hoping against hope that Lorraine was still alive. Broome cursed himself for talking to her, especially in a place where anyone could see. Hadn’t he learned anything from Tawny and Harry Sutton? There were dangerous people involved in all this.
How could he have been so careless?
His heart pounded against his chest, but there was no time to waste. He had to get to her, had to try to stop the flow of blood. Broome ducked down, rolled to his right, and once again, he met up with a shock.
It wasn’t Lorraine’s dead body he saw.
It was the body of a man. Looking closely, Broome remembered the description Megan had given of the guy by Harry Sutton’s office. Could be the same guy.
This man was definitely dead. His throat was slit.
Broome was about to turn around when he felt the gun press against his neck.
“Drop the gun, Broome,” Lorraine said.
38
IT BROKE MEGAN’S HEART IN a thousand ways.
She had wondered why Ray had been so surprised by the sightings of Stewart Green. Now she understood. Ray knew that Stewart had been dead all these years. He had made the huge sacrifice, too huge really, a sacrifice and then a secret that had gnawed at him, kept him down and troubled, probably cost him a bit of his sanity. Some people can live with that kind of thing. They do what they have to do. But Ray was too sensitive. He couldn’t. Especially when you added on being abandoned by the woman you loved. Especially when you added on that you wouldn’t see that woman—the woman you made this huge sacrifice to save—or even know what became of her, not until seventeen years later.
The last thing Megan told Ray before she left the interrogation room was that she would do everything in her power to make sure he was freed. She meant it. She owed him that. She would help him, and then fair or not, she’d be gone for good.
But the first thing she said when she walked out of the room was, “Where’s my husband?”
“He’s down the hall on the left.”
She hurried toward him. When she got to the room, Dave looked up, startled, and Megan felt her heart swell with genuine love. She rushed over to him as he stood, collapsing into his arms.
It was then, being held by her husband, that she felt safe enough to wonder about how she ended up on that path that night.
Wasn’t it Lorraine who had passed on that message to meet Ray up at those ruins?
Wasn’t it Lorraine who started the rumor that Stewart Green was still alive—even though they now knew for certain he was dead?
Wasn’t it Lorraine who claimed to know where Megan had been over the past seventeen years—even though it was impossible?
She ran back toward Special Agent Angiuoni.
“Where’s Detective Broome?”
“I don’t know. He said something about a club called La Crème?”
GOLDBERG POINTED OVER ERIN’S SHOULDER at the computer screen. “That’s Lorraine, the barmaid at La Crème. What the hell happened?”
“She killed her abusive husband.”
“What?”
“It was declared self-defense. Open and shut.”
“Where the hell is Broome?” Goldberg snapped. “He needs to know about this.”
LORRAINE SAID, “DROP THE GUN.”
“What are you talking about? I’m here to help you, Lorraine.”
“Please, Broome.” She pushed the gun harder against his head. “It’s been a long night. Drop the gun.”
Broome did as she asked.
“Now call your dispatcher. Tell them you don’t need backup, that it’s all clear.”
Still stunned, Broome did as she asked. Then he pointed to the body on the floor. “Who is that?”
“Someone Del Flynn hired.”
“What did he want?”
“To torture me into giving him information on Carlton’s whereabouts. Funny though. He was the type who could dish it out but couldn’t take it. So many men are like that.”
