Stay Close by Harlan Coben Page A

guy, twomore just pop up in its place. Or, better the devil you know—the one you can somewhat control and who won’t knock off real citizens and who will give you some dough—than the devil you don’t. Or, removing the sleaze from this city was like emptying an ocean with a tablespoon. Whatever, Goldberg had a million of them.
     
    But in this circumstance, justification was even easier: The guy slipping him the Ben Franklins seemed, at least on the surface, to be on the same side as the angels.
     
    So why was Goldberg hesitating?
     
    He dialed the number. It was picked up on the third ring.
     
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Goldberg!”
     
    Reason one for his hesitation: The guy’s voice gave him the heebie-jeebies. The man—he sounded really young—was unfailingly polite and spoke in exclamation points, as though he were trying out for an old-time musical. The sound chilled Goldberg. But there was more to it than that.
     
    There were the rumors about this guy. There were stories of violence and depravity done by this guy and his partner, the kind of stories that make grown men—big, tough, world-weary, seen-it-all men like Goldberg—stay up at night, pulling the covers just a wee bit higher.
     
    “Yeah,” Goldberg said. “Hi.”
     
    Even if the rumors were exaggerated, even if a quarter of the whispers were true, Goldberg had gotten in on something he wanted no part of. Still, the best course of action would be to take the money and shut up. In a sense, what choice did he have? If he tried to back out now or return the money, he might anger that voice on the other end of the phone.
     
    The voice said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Goldberg?”
     
    In the background, Goldberg heard a noise that was making his blood freeze.
     
    “What the hell is that?” he asked.
     
    “Oh, nothing to worry about, Mr. Goldberg. What did you want to tell me?”
     
    “I might have another lead.”
     
    “Might?”
     
    “I’m not sure, that’s all.”
     
    “Mr. Goldberg?”
     
    “Yes?”
     
    What the hell was that sound in the background?
     
    “Please tell me what you know.”
     
    He had already leaked them whatever he could on the disappearance of Carlton Flynn. Why not? He and his partner were interested in finding the missing guy too, and the pay was pretty damn sweet.
     
    The last thing Goldberg had leaked was what he learned from Broome: Carlton Flynn had a stripper girlfriend who worked at La Crème.
     
    There was whimpering in the background.
     
    “Do you have a dog?” Goldberg asked.
     
    “No, Mr. Goldberg, I don’t. Oh, but I had the best dog when I was a kid! Her name was Ginger Snaps. Cute, right?”
     
    Goldberg said nothing.
     
    “You seem reluctant, Mr. Goldberg.”
     
    “It’s Deputy Chief Goldberg.”
     
    “Would you like to meet in person, Deputy Chief Goldberg? We can discuss this issue at your house, if you’d like.”
     
    Goldberg’s heart stopped beating. “No, that’s okay.”
     
    “So what can you tell me, Deputy Chief Goldberg?”
     
    The dog was still whimpering. But now Goldberg thought that maybe he heard another sound too, another whimpering maybe, or something worse, underneath the first—a terrible, pain-stricken noise so nonhuman that paradoxically it could only come from another human being.
     
    “Deputy Chief Goldberg?”
     
    He swallowed and dived in. “There’s this lawyer named Harry Sutton.…”
     

10
     
    T HE DOOR TO H ARRY S UTTON ’ S office opened, and Cassie walked in.
    She looked pretty much the same.
     
    That was the first thought that hit Broome. In those days, Broome had even known her a little, seen her at the club, and so he remembered her. She’d changed her hair color over the years—she’d been more platinum blond, if he recalled correctly—but that was about it.
     
    Some might wonder, if she hadn’t changed very much, why Broome hadn’t been able to find her in the past seventeen years. The truth was, disappearing is