had anything to do with that.”
“Maybe not you,” Broome said. “Maybe someone who cares about you. Maybe someone who wanted to protect you.”
Again she gave him the confused look.
“A boyfriend, a parent, a close friend.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Sadly her confusion was justified. She had no one, other than a poodle named Ralphie. Dead end.
“When did you last see Flynn?” Broome asked.
“Night before he, uh, left or whatever.”
“Where did you two go?”
“Here first. He liked to watch me dance. He’d buy random guys lap dances and he’d smile and watch and then he’d take me home and call me a slut for dancing with them and hurt me bad.”
Broome tried not to show anything. You want to come here, get your rocks off, whatever, he didn’t judge. But the thing they never tell people is, it’s never enough. So Carlton Flynn started off as some two-bit player, getting some ass, but after a while, you crave more. That’s how it always works. Everything is a gateway drug to the next. Broome’s grandfather said it best: “If you were getting pussy all the time, you’d want a second dick.”
“Did you make plans to see him again?” Broome asked.
“He was supposed to meet me the night he, you know, disappeared.”
“What happened?”
“He called and said he’d be late. But he never showed.”
“Did he say why he’d be late?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he went earlier that day?”
Tawny shook her head. The stale stench of hairspray and regret wafted toward him.
“Anything you can tell me about that day?”
More head shaking.
“I don’t get it,” Broome said. “This guy kept hurting you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It was escalating.”
“Huh?”
Broome bit back the sigh. “Getting worse and worse.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.”
Broome spread his hands. “How did you think it’d all end?”
Tawny blinked, looked away, considered the question for a moment. “The same way it always does. He’d get tired of me. Move on to the next thing.” She added a shrug. “Either that or he’d kill me.”
8
T HE WORDS “L AW O FFICE OF Harry Sutton” were stenciled into the pebbled glass. Old-school.
When Megan gently rapped on the pebbled glass, Harry answered with a resounding “Enter!”
She reached for the knob. A few hours ago, she’d called home and told Dave that she wouldn’t be home till late. He wanted to know why. She told him not to worry and hung up. Now here she was, back in Atlantic City, in a place she had known all too well.
Megan opened the door, knowing that doing so would probably change everything. The office was still a seedy one-room operation—small-time with a lowercase
s
—but Harry would have it no other way.
“Hey, Harry.”
Harry was not an attractive man. His eyes had enough bags under them to take a three-week cruise. His nose was caricature bulbous. His hair was a shock of white that wouldn’t come down without the threat of gunfire. But his smile, well, it was beatific. The smile warmed her—brought her back and made her feel safe.
“It’s been too long, Cassie.”
Some called Harry a street lawyer, but that wasn’t really whatHarry was. Four decades ago he had graduated Stanford Law School and started on a partnership track at the prestigious law firm of Kronberg, Reiter and Roseman. One night, some well-meaning colleagues dragged the quiet, shy attorney down to Atlantic City for gambling, girls, and general debauchery. The shy Harry dived in—and never left. He quit the big firm, stenciled his name upon this very office door, and decided to champion the city’s underdogs, who, in many ways, consisted of everyone who started out here.
Very few people you meet have a halo over their head. They aren’t beautiful or angelic or working for charities—in Harry’s case, he
“Maybe not you,” Broome said. “Maybe someone who cares about you. Maybe someone who wanted to protect you.”
Again she gave him the confused look.
“A boyfriend, a parent, a close friend.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Sadly her confusion was justified. She had no one, other than a poodle named Ralphie. Dead end.
“When did you last see Flynn?” Broome asked.
“Night before he, uh, left or whatever.”
“Where did you two go?”
“Here first. He liked to watch me dance. He’d buy random guys lap dances and he’d smile and watch and then he’d take me home and call me a slut for dancing with them and hurt me bad.”
Broome tried not to show anything. You want to come here, get your rocks off, whatever, he didn’t judge. But the thing they never tell people is, it’s never enough. So Carlton Flynn started off as some two-bit player, getting some ass, but after a while, you crave more. That’s how it always works. Everything is a gateway drug to the next. Broome’s grandfather said it best: “If you were getting pussy all the time, you’d want a second dick.”
“Did you make plans to see him again?” Broome asked.
“He was supposed to meet me the night he, you know, disappeared.”
“What happened?”
“He called and said he’d be late. But he never showed.”
“Did he say why he’d be late?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he went earlier that day?”
Tawny shook her head. The stale stench of hairspray and regret wafted toward him.
“Anything you can tell me about that day?”
More head shaking.
“I don’t get it,” Broome said. “This guy kept hurting you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It was escalating.”
“Huh?”
Broome bit back the sigh. “Getting worse and worse.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.”
Broome spread his hands. “How did you think it’d all end?”
Tawny blinked, looked away, considered the question for a moment. “The same way it always does. He’d get tired of me. Move on to the next thing.” She added a shrug. “Either that or he’d kill me.”
8
T HE WORDS “L AW O FFICE OF Harry Sutton” were stenciled into the pebbled glass. Old-school.
When Megan gently rapped on the pebbled glass, Harry answered with a resounding “Enter!”
She reached for the knob. A few hours ago, she’d called home and told Dave that she wouldn’t be home till late. He wanted to know why. She told him not to worry and hung up. Now here she was, back in Atlantic City, in a place she had known all too well.
Megan opened the door, knowing that doing so would probably change everything. The office was still a seedy one-room operation—small-time with a lowercase
s
—but Harry would have it no other way.
“Hey, Harry.”
Harry was not an attractive man. His eyes had enough bags under them to take a three-week cruise. His nose was caricature bulbous. His hair was a shock of white that wouldn’t come down without the threat of gunfire. But his smile, well, it was beatific. The smile warmed her—brought her back and made her feel safe.
“It’s been too long, Cassie.”
Some called Harry a street lawyer, but that wasn’t really whatHarry was. Four decades ago he had graduated Stanford Law School and started on a partnership track at the prestigious law firm of Kronberg, Reiter and Roseman. One night, some well-meaning colleagues dragged the quiet, shy attorney down to Atlantic City for gambling, girls, and general debauchery. The shy Harry dived in—and never left. He quit the big firm, stenciled his name upon this very office door, and decided to champion the city’s underdogs, who, in many ways, consisted of everyone who started out here.
Very few people you meet have a halo over their head. They aren’t beautiful or angelic or working for charities—in Harry’s case, he
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