“But based on the preliminary findings,” Goldberg said, “I believe the blood at the park belongs to your son.”
27
Broome leaned in closer. “Cat got your tongue, Megan? I asked you about your old beau, Ray Levine.”
At the mention of Ray’s name, Megan felt her heart tumble down.
“Hello?”
“It’s not what you think,” she said.
“Gee, I didn’t expect that line. Let me come back with an unexpected one of my own: What’s not what I think?”
Megan didn’t even know what to say, how to explain it. She flashed back again to last night, to how she felt in Ray’s arms, to Lucy looming above them almost protectively.
“How could you lie to me like that?”
“I didn’t lie.”
Broome slapped something down on the table. “Did Ray Levine take this picture?”
It was the anonymous picture of Carlton Flynn in the park.
“I know your old squeeze used to be a big-time photojournalist-and I saw your face when I first showed this to you. So let’s stop with the lies, okay? Ray Levine took this picture, didn’t he?”
Megan didn’t reply.
“Answer me, damn it. If he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to worry about.”
“Right, sure,” Megan said. “Just like that Ricky Mannion guy you told me about. How long has he been in prison?”
Broome sat next to her. “Eighteen years for something he didn’t do. You want to help him get out?”
“By having him trade places with another innocent man?”
“Hey, Megan, I know he used to be your boyfriend and all, and, man, that’s just so sweet, but this is a hell of a lot bigger than you guys or your summer romance or whatever game you two were playing with Stewart Green.”
“Game?”
“Yeah, Megan, game. The night Stewart Green disappeared-Ray Levine was there, wasn’t he?”
She hesitated just long enough.
“Damn,” Broome said. “I knew you were holding something back-I just didn’t know what. So let’s follow this through, shall we? Ray Levine was at the park the night Stewart Green vanished and-lo and behold-seventeen years later he’s there again when Carlton Flynn vanishes. That about sum it up?”
She couldn’t protect Ray, at least not by lying. “It’s not what you think.”
“Yeah, you said that already. Was Ray there the night Stewart Green disappeared or not?”
Megan tried to think how best to put this. “We were supposed to meet there, yes, but Ray showed up late.”
“Late when?”
“After I ran.”
Broome made a face. “After you ran?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t get it. How would you know what happened after you ran?”
“He told me.”
“Ray?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Broome couldn’t have looked more incredulous without plastic surgery. “Let me get this straight: Ray Levine told you that he showed up after you saw Stewart Green lying there.”
“Yes.”
Broome shrugged. “Well, heck, that’s enough for me. I might as well close the book on him. He’s clearly innocent.”
“Very funny.”
“He told you this last night.”
“Yes.”
“And you, what, just believed him?”
“Yes, but…” Megan again wondered how to put this so he’d understand. “Do you want the truth?”
“No, no, really, I mean, now that Harry’s dead and Carlton Flynn’s blood was all over that park, what I really want from you, Megan, is more lies.”
She tried to slow herself down. Her heart raced in her chest, her mind pulled in a hundred different directions. “I told you the truth about the night in the woods. I saw Stewart lying there by that boulder. I thought he was dead.”
Broome nodded. “And you were supposed to meet Ray?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t see him?”
“That’s right.”
“Go on.”
Megan took a deep breath. “Well, I’d been pretty badly abused by Stewart. I told you about that too.”
“Did Ray know?”
“I guess he did. But that’s not the point.”
“What is?”
“Stewart Green was a bad combo: a violent bully and a real citizen. I mean, if he was just a run-of-the-mill degenerate, would you still care about his whereabouts, after all these years? Would you still visit his wife on the anniversary of his disappearance? If some, I don’t know, working stiff with no wife and kids went missing instead, would you cops care this much?”
The answer was obvious: No. That hit home for Broome. It explained why no one had seen the Mardi Gras connection. Berman’s wife hated him. Wagman was a truck driver passing through. Her accusation was true-and yet it was also, for the sake of Ray Levine’s possible role in these cases, totally irrelevant.
“We cops play favorites,” Broome said, folding his arms. “Big news flash. So what?”
“That’s not my point.”
“So what is your point?”
“When I saw Stewart Green lying there, when I thought he was dead, it naturally crossed my mind that Ray had something to do with it.”
“You were in love with Ray?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t give me maybe.”
“Okay, suppose I was.”
Broome started pacing. “So you didn’t just run away to protect yourself. You ran away to protect the man you loved.”
“The cops would put it on one of us, that was for sure,” Megan said. “If I stayed, one of us-or hell, maybe both of us-would have ended up in prison. Like Ricky Mannion.”
Broome smiled now.
“What?”
“That all sounds great and dramatic, Megan, except for one thing: You thought Ray did it, didn’t you? He was protecting you, and part of you was relieved to get this creep off your back. Plus, really, when you stop and think about it, Stewart Green had it coming, right?”
She didn’t reply.
“So that night, you see Stewart Green. You think he’s dead. You’re relieved, but you also think your boyfriend, Ray Levine, killed him. You ran so he wouldn’t get caught.”
She wasn’t sure how to reply so she went with, “I’m not denying that.”
“And”-Broome held up his hand-“you ran because you really didn’t want to stay with Ray or marry him or whatever, because now, justified or not, you viewed Ray Levine as a killer. You ran away from that too, didn’t you?”
Broome stepped back. He could see that he had hit the mark. For a moment, they sat there in silence. Broome’s phone buzzed. He looked down and saw it was Goldberg paging him up to his office.
“All these years,” Broome said, “you thought Ray killed Stewart Green.”
“I thought it was possible.”
He spread his arms. “So that leads up to the big question: What made you change your mind?”
“Two things,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“One”-she pointed to the table-“Ray sent you that picture.”
Broome waved it off. “To toy with me. Lots of serial killers do.”
“No. If he’d been killing men all these years, he’d have started toying with you years ago. You didn’t have a clue that Carlton Flynn had ever been to the park. Without that photograph, you’d know nothing. He sent it in to help you find the real killer.”
“So he was, what, being a good citizen?”
“In part, yes,” she said. “And in part because he, like me, needs to know the truth about that night. Think about it. If Ray hadn’t sent you that picture, you’d still be at square one.”
“And pray tell, how did he happen to take that picture?”
“Think about that too. Why this year? Why not last year or the year before? If Ray was the killer, he could have sent you a new one every year, right? He would have sent them on Mardi Gras. But you see, for Ray, the big day was February eighteenth. That’s the last time we were together. That’s when it all ended so horribly for us. So Ray goes there-on the anniversary, not Mardi Gras. He takes pictures. That’s what he does. That’s how he processes. So he wouldn’t have pictures of your other victims-because he wasn’t there on Mardi Gras, except when it overlapped with February eighteenth. He’d only have pictures of Carlton Flynn.”