girl here. She, too, had vanished that night seventeen yearsago. When the hotshot feds, who had taken the case from Broome and the ACPD as soon as they thought it involved a high-profile, honorable citizen, saw this development, an obvious theory was rapidly formed and universally accepted:
Stewart Green had run away with a stripper.
But Sarah wouldn’t hear of it, and Broome never really bought it either. Green might be a narcissistic creepazoid who wanted some side action—but dumping the kids and skipping town? It didn’t add up. None of Stewart Green’s accounts had been touched. No money or assets squirreled away. No bags packed, nothing sold off, no sign at work that he had any plans to run. In fact, sitting at his tidy, methodically organized desk, nearly completed, was the biggest deal of Stewart’s career. Stewart Green had a steady income, a good job, ties to the community, loving parents and siblings.
If he had run, all signs pointed to it being spur of the moment.
“All right, I’ll ask around. See if Flynn liked one girl in particular. What else?”
So far, Broome had been able to locate ten men who might roughly fit the missing-person pattern. His ex-wife and partner, Erin Anderson, had even secured photographs of three of them. It would take time to get more. He handed the pictures to Rudy. “Do you recognize any of these guys?”
“They suspects?”
Broome frowned away the question. “Do you know any, yes or no?”
“Sheesh, all right, sorry I asked.” Rudy shuffled through the photographs. “I don’t know. This guy might look familiar.”
Peter Berman. Unemployed. First reported missing March 4, eight years ago.
“Where do you know him from?”
Shrug.
“What’s his name?”
“I didn’t say I know him. I said he might look familiar. I don’t know when or how. Might have been years ago.”
“How about eight years ago?”
“I don’t know, maybe, why?”
“Show the pictures around. See if anyone recognizes any of them. Don’t tell them what it’s for.”
“Hell, I don’t know what it’s for.”
Broome had checked all the other cases. So far—and it was early—the only one with a missing female attached to it was, of course, Stewart Green’s. Her name when she worked here had been Cassie. No one knew her real name. The feds and most cops scurried away when the stripper entered the picture. Rumors swirled, reaching the Greens’ neighborhood. Kids could be mean. Susie and Brandon had to hear the teasing from friends about Daddy running off with an exotic dancer.
Only one cop—one probably very stupid cop—hadn’t believed it.
“Anything else?” Rudy asked.
Broome shook his head, started for the door. He looked up and saw something that made him pause.
“What’s the matter?” Rudy asked.
Broome pointed up. “Surveillance cameras?”
“Sure. In case we get sued. Or, well, two months ago, this guy rings up a tab for twelve grand on his credit card. When his wife sees it, he pretends that someone stole his card or it’s fraud, some crap like that. Says he was never here. Demands his money back.”
Broome smiled. “So?”
“So I send him a surveillance photo of a double lap dance and tell him I’d be happy to send the full video to his wife. I then suggested he add on an extra tip because the girls worked hard that night.”
“So how long before you tape over?”
“Tape over? What is this, 2008? It’s all digital now. You don’t tape over nothing. I got every date in here for the last two years.”
“Can I get whatever you have for February eighteenth? This year and last.”
R AY DROVE TO THE F ED E X O FFICE IN N ORTHFIELD . He logged on to his computer and printed off the photograph of Carlton Flynn in the Pine Barrens. He knew that if he just sent the JPEG, the photo file could lead back to the originating camera. So he
Stewart Green had run away with a stripper.
But Sarah wouldn’t hear of it, and Broome never really bought it either. Green might be a narcissistic creepazoid who wanted some side action—but dumping the kids and skipping town? It didn’t add up. None of Stewart Green’s accounts had been touched. No money or assets squirreled away. No bags packed, nothing sold off, no sign at work that he had any plans to run. In fact, sitting at his tidy, methodically organized desk, nearly completed, was the biggest deal of Stewart’s career. Stewart Green had a steady income, a good job, ties to the community, loving parents and siblings.
If he had run, all signs pointed to it being spur of the moment.
“All right, I’ll ask around. See if Flynn liked one girl in particular. What else?”
So far, Broome had been able to locate ten men who might roughly fit the missing-person pattern. His ex-wife and partner, Erin Anderson, had even secured photographs of three of them. It would take time to get more. He handed the pictures to Rudy. “Do you recognize any of these guys?”
“They suspects?”
Broome frowned away the question. “Do you know any, yes or no?”
“Sheesh, all right, sorry I asked.” Rudy shuffled through the photographs. “I don’t know. This guy might look familiar.”
Peter Berman. Unemployed. First reported missing March 4, eight years ago.
“Where do you know him from?”
Shrug.
“What’s his name?”
“I didn’t say I know him. I said he might look familiar. I don’t know when or how. Might have been years ago.”
“How about eight years ago?”
“I don’t know, maybe, why?”
“Show the pictures around. See if anyone recognizes any of them. Don’t tell them what it’s for.”
“Hell, I don’t know what it’s for.”
Broome had checked all the other cases. So far—and it was early—the only one with a missing female attached to it was, of course, Stewart Green’s. Her name when she worked here had been Cassie. No one knew her real name. The feds and most cops scurried away when the stripper entered the picture. Rumors swirled, reaching the Greens’ neighborhood. Kids could be mean. Susie and Brandon had to hear the teasing from friends about Daddy running off with an exotic dancer.
Only one cop—one probably very stupid cop—hadn’t believed it.
“Anything else?” Rudy asked.
Broome shook his head, started for the door. He looked up and saw something that made him pause.
“What’s the matter?” Rudy asked.
Broome pointed up. “Surveillance cameras?”
“Sure. In case we get sued. Or, well, two months ago, this guy rings up a tab for twelve grand on his credit card. When his wife sees it, he pretends that someone stole his card or it’s fraud, some crap like that. Says he was never here. Demands his money back.”
Broome smiled. “So?”
“So I send him a surveillance photo of a double lap dance and tell him I’d be happy to send the full video to his wife. I then suggested he add on an extra tip because the girls worked hard that night.”
“So how long before you tape over?”
“Tape over? What is this, 2008? It’s all digital now. You don’t tape over nothing. I got every date in here for the last two years.”
“Can I get whatever you have for February eighteenth? This year and last.”
R AY DROVE TO THE F ED E X O FFICE IN N ORTHFIELD . He logged on to his computer and printed off the photograph of Carlton Flynn in the Pine Barrens. He knew that if he just sent the JPEG, the photo file could lead back to the originating camera. So he
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