Because they were unsure how many days this particular job would take, Ken and Barbie had rented a two-bedroom suite at the sleek skyscraper hotel called the Borgata. The Borgata was supposedly the nicest hotel in Atlantic City, plus it had the added advantage of being away from the Boardwalk, the cesspool strip of gamblers, drug addicts, sinners, carnival barkers, and overall filth.
Still, Barbie thought, the Borgata had a filth all its own. You could not escape it in Atlantic City, and truth be told, she didn’t really want to. She was disgusted and exhilarated in equal measure. She wanted to dive into the filth and take a bath at the same time.
Barbie had grown up protected but she was not naïve. She understood that human beings were complex. There was a draw to sin, an allure, or there wouldn’t be a need to rail against it. The key was to have some sort of healthy outlet. She felt now that she and Ken had that. Their victims—if that was the right word—were scum. Ken and Barbie hurt them, yes, but none were pure or undeserving. Sometimes, the pain even opened the victim’s eyes, brought on a form of redemption. Tawny, for example. Barbie felt good about that. She had experienced momentary pain that could, in the end, save the rest of her life.
Staying here at the Borgata—living for a short while in the devil’s lair, in the very heart of temptation—worked for her. It educated her. It was like sneaking into enemy camp and learning their secrets. When Barbie walked through the casino, she could see the looks of lust on the men’s faces, but she also half expected someone to point at her and shout, “She doesn’t belong!”
“How did you trace back the number?” Barbie asked.
She sat on the love seat facing the window. In the distance she could see the lights of the Boardwalk.
“Online,” Ken said.
“You were able to trace a cell phone on the computer?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I Googled ‘trace cell phone.’”
She shook her head. “That’s it?”
“Well, they did charge me ten dollars.”
Ken looked over the keyboard and smiled at her. Barbie felt it in her toes. A pink shirt collar popped over his lime-green sweater. His khakis were pleated. He looked, she thought, very handsome. They always held hands as they walked through the hotel. She loved that, the feel of his hand in hers, but sometimes, when a man’s gaze would linger too long, she could feel his grip tighten against her. She could feel the heat then, the rush, the tingle.
“So whose phone is it?” she asked.
“A man named David Pierce.”
“And who is he?”
“I’m not sure. He’s a labor attorney in Jersey City. I don’t see any connection to our work here. He seems to be a citizen. Married, two kids.”
“A woman called Harry Sutton’s cell phone,” Barbie said.
Ken nodded. “There are four T-Mobile cell phone lines under this account. I assume one for him, one for his wife, one for each of his two children. The number we traced was not the main number—the one usually used by the billing name.”
“How old is the daughter?”
“Fifteen. Her name is Kaylie.”
“The woman I spoke with was, well, a woman.”
“It has to be the wife then. Her name is Megan.”
“How does she fit in?”
Ken shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I just plugged in their address in Kasselton into MapQuest. The drive shouldn’t take us more than two hours.” He turned toward her, and she could see the glint in his eye. “We could go up there right now and get the answers. The kids might not even be in bed yet.”
Barbie bit her fingernail. “A suburban mother with two children?”
Ken said nothing.
“We normally hurt those who deserve it,” she went on. “It is why we work in this particular world.”
Ken rubbed his chin, considered her point. “If this Megan Pierce is involved with Harry Sutton, then she is far from an innocent.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He held up his car keys and gave them a little jangle. “Only one way to find out for sure.”
Barbie shook her head. “This is really big. We should check in with our employer first.”
“And if he gives us the okay?”
“Like you said.” Barbie gave a shrug. “They’re less than two hours away.”
18
HALF AN HOUR EARLIER, Megan had heard the sickly sweet voice on Harry Sutton’s phone say, “Mr. Sutton’s phone automatically rings to me when he’s indisposed. I’m sorry, Cassie. I didn’t catch your last name.”
Megan disconnected the call.
Fester was standing next to her at the bar. “Something wrong?”
Megan stared at her phone. She tried to conjure up Harry’s office in her head. There was one desk, one window, a file cabinet, a worn couch.…
But there was no place for a receptionist.
So who had just answered his phone?
A very bad feeling started gnawing in the pit of her stomach.
Fester said, “Hello? You still here?”
“I have to go.”
“Whoa, I thought you were looking for Ray. Why don’t we wait till he replies?”
“Tell him I’ll meet him at Lucy.”
“Huh?”
“Just tell him that. Lucy at eleven o’clock. If I can’t make it, I’ll call you at this bar.”
“Wait a second,” Fester said.
But she didn’t. She hurried out of the Weak Signal, wading her way through the crowd, desperation coming off them in waves. When she reached the street, she had to stop for a moment and suck in oxygen. She hurried over to Harry Sutton’s office, passing a young couple in the hallway, but the lights were out and the door was locked.
That was when she decided to find Broome.
At the station, after Broome’s partner, a woman who introduced herself as Detective Erin Anderson, left the room, Megan filled Broome in. He listened without interrupting. She finished up by saying, “I’m worried about Harry.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be,” Broome said. “I mean, not based on this. You know Harry. He’s a player from the word go. I know he loves the girls, but he also loves the girls, if you know what I mean. One of them probably answered his phone.”
“And pretended to be his receptionist?”
“Sure, why not? She was probably just trying to be funny.”
“Yeah,” Megan said with a frown. “Hilarious.”