“Something like that. I go, I sit, I take pictures, I contemplate.”
“Contemplate?”
“Yep.”
“All because your girlfriend ran off on you there?”
Ray didn’t reply.
“Because, if you don’t mind me saying, Ray, you sound like a pussy-whipped pansy. Your girl left you—so what? Grow a pair and move on with your life. Instead you go back to where she dumped your pathetic ass and take pictures?”
“She didn’t dump me.”
“No? So Megan has been biding her time under a pseudonym with the rich husband and two kids, just waiting for your career as a fake paparazzo to take off?”
Ray actually smiled at that. “Does sound kind of pathetic.”
“So?”
“So I’m pathetic,” Ray said with a shrug. “I’ve been called worse. Anything else I can help you with, Detective?”
“Let’s go back seventeen years to that night by the ruins.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Ray’s voice sounded canned. “I was supposed to meet Cassie. I saw Stewart lying there. I figured that he was dead, so I took off.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“You didn’t call an ambulance or help him?”
“Nope.”
“Wow, Ray, you’re quite the humanitarian.”
“Did Cassie tell you what Stewart Green was like?”
“She did, yes.”
“So you get it then. Half of me wanted to do the Snoopy happy dance when I saw him.” Ray held up a hand. “And, yes, I know that gives me a great motive, but I didn’t kill him.”
“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?”