Harlan Coben - Stay close

“You sure he was dead?”

Ray turned to him. “I didn’t go over and check vital signs if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then you weren’t sure?”

Ray mulled it over. “There’s something else you might want to know. Not about that night, but about this February eighteenth.”

“Go on.”

“I worked a job that night. After I took the pictures in the park.”

“A job?”

“Yeah, a bar mitzvah, as a hired paparazzo.”

Broome shook his head. “Glamour profession.”

“You have no idea. Do you know what job I just came from? Grand opening of a Ford dealership. They had a red carpet out and anyone who stopped by got to walk it and we crowded them and took pictures, and then they tried to sell them a Focus or an Escort or whatever. Anyway, when I was leaving the bar mitzvah, I got jumped. Someone stole my camera.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

“Right, like I wanted to waste a whole night on that. But that’s not my point. At first, I figured it was just a routine mugging, but then I wondered how come the guy only took my camera and didn’t at least try to grab my wallet.”

“Maybe he felt rushed.”

“Maybe. But when I got home, I saw Carlton Flynn on the TV. That’s when I realized I had a picture of him. See, the pictures were still on my camera, but I have a Wi-Fi connection that automatically uploads them to my home computer every ten minutes or so. But the mugger wouldn’t know that.”

Broome saw where he was going with this. “So you think the mugger may have been after the picture?”

“It’s possible.”

“So you sent it to me anonymously?”

“I wanted to help, but I wanted to keep my name out of it for obvious reasons. Like you say, the fact that I was there for both disappearances was suspicious. I can see from your face that it still is. But that’s why.”

“You get a look at the guy who jumped you?”

“No.”

“Height, weight, white, black, tattoos, anything?”

“Nothing. I got hit with a baseball bat. I went down. I mean, I tried to hold on to the camera, but sorry, that’s all I know.” Ray filled him in on the whole incident, how he took more than one blow, how he fought for his camera, how the attacker finally ran.

“Were you drunk?”

“What? No.”

“Because you drink a lot, right?”

“I’m also of legal age. So what?”

“I hear you have blackouts. That true?”

Ray didn’t bother responding. Broome reached into his pocket and took out the age-progression picture of Stewart Green with the shaved head and goatee. “Could this have been the guy?”

When Ray Levine saw the image, the bloodshot eyes widened. He looked as though someone had whacked him anew with that baseball bat. “Who the hell is that?”

“Do you recognize him or not?”

“I… No. I mean… no, he’s not the guy who attacked me.”

“I thought you didn’t see your attacker.”

“Don’t be cute, Broome. You know what I mean.”

Broome lifted the picture higher, nearly shoving it in Ray’s face. “Have you ever seen this guy before?”

“No.”

“So why the startled face?”

“I don’t know. Who is he?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Cut the crap, Broome. Who is he?”

“A suspect. You either know him or you don’t.”

“I don’t.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.” Broome put the picture away, wondering what to make of the reaction. Had Ray seen Stewart Green? He’d go back to it later. Time to change direction a bit, keep him off balance. “Now earlier, you stated you go up to the iron-ore ruins every February eighteenth.”

“No, I didn’t. I said, most.”

“Right, okay, forgetting the years you were away. Do you have proof?”

“Proof that I was up there on various February eighteenths?”

“Yes.”

“Why would I need that?”

“Humor me.”

“You’re investigating murders and disappearances. I don’t think I’m much in the mood to humor you.”

“Who said anything about murders?”

Ray sighed. “Wow, did someone just buy you a boxed set of old Columbo episodes? You don’t think I know that Cassie-or what did you call her? Megan? You don’t think I know she visited Harry Sutton? He was murdered, right? It’s in all the papers.”

“Oh. Fair point. So let’s stop with the games. Can you prove you were taking pictures at the park”-Broome made quote marks with his fingers-“‘most’ February eighteenths?”

Ray thought about it. “Actually, I think I can.”

“How?”

“The photographs I take. They’re date stamped.”

“Can’t you fix that? Like make it look like another date?”

“I don’t know, frankly. You can have your experts look for themselves. You can also check weather reports maybe, see if it was raining or snowing or what that day. I still don’t get it. What difference does it make what day I was there?”

Simple, though Broome wouldn’t say it now. If Ray Levine could show he went up on February eighteenths-and not Mardi Gras-it would back his story. Of course, Broome would subpoena all the photographs and see what other dates he was in that section of the park. But it would be a start.

It was coming to an end. Broome could feel it. After seventeen years of hunting, searching, never letting go, he was so damn close to breaking this case open. Odd when you thought about it. Every February eighteenth-well, “most”-Ray Levine visited that park and reflected on a certain incident. Meanwhile, on that same day, Broome visited Sarah Green and reflected on the very same incident. Except “reflected” wasn’t really the right word, was it? Broome had been obsessed with the Stewart Green case from day one. While all the other cops in town dismissed it as yet another philandering creep who ran off with a stripper, Broome had held on with a ferocity that surprised even him. Yes, getting to know the family Stewart left behind-Sarah, Susie, and Brandon-had helped him focus, but even back then, he recognized that Sarah was somewhat deluding herself, that all would not be well in that sad, lonely house if her beloved husband were returned safely.

In truth, even way back then, Broome had believed that Stewart Green’s disappearance was more than it seemed, much more, something dark and horrible and almost beyond his comprehension. Now he was sure of it.

“Are we done here, Detective?”

Broome checked his cell phone. Goldberg was going to text him when he got the subpoena and had it served. He didn’t want Ray Levine heading home before then, perhaps tampering with or destroying evidence.

“That picture you sent me anonymously-that wasn’t the only one you took that day, right?”

“No, of course not.”

“Where are the rest of the pictures?”

“On my hard drive at home, but I back them up to a cloud.”

“A cloud?”

“That’s what they call it. For safe storage. It’s like a disk in the sky. Think of it as e-mailing stuff to yourself. I can access them from any computer with the proper codes.”

Whoa, Broome thought. “I have a laptop in my car,” he said. “Would you mind?”

“What, now?”

“It could really help. My car is right around the corner.”

Broome had parked on South Michigan Avenue near Caesars. While the computer booted up, Ray said, “I sent you the last picture I took. Once someone else came on the scene, I figured it was time to go.”

“So that’s the only picture of Carlton Flynn?”

“That’s right.”

“And there was no one else in any of the other pictures?”

“Right. Before that, I had the place to myself.”

The computer came to life. Broome handed it to Ray. The sun was bright, putting glare on the screen, so they slipped into the car. Broome watched the people exiting the casinos. They always did it the same way-with a stumble, a shade of the eyes with one hand, big-time blinking.