Dark Room (32 page)

“Tell that to Elyse.”

“Your family’s another story. I’d suggest filling them in immediately, so they’re prepared. For what it’s worth, I think your wife would forgive you anything. But the way you handle her, Jill, and Morgan is up to you. So what’s the verdict?”

Bitterness glinted in Arthur’s eyes. “What do you think? I’ll have the papers drawn up first thing tomorrow.”

“Please, Arthur.” Karly spoke up for the first time, her body taut with suppressed anger, but her tone emanating the selfless plea of a mother. “His anemia’s getting worse. If the wound doesn’t heal on its own, he’ll need surgery. Can’t you reach your attorney tonight?”

“Probably not.” Arthur’s gaze shifted to Karly. “But I’m not a monster. I won’t jeopardize Jonah’s life for a piece of paper. The legalities can wait
until morning. I’ll start the cross-match process tonight.” He turned back to Monty. “Give me an hour to talk to my family. Then send a medical tech over to my apartment. He can draw blood and rush it to the hospital. I can already tell you I’m AB negative. So, barring any unforeseen complications, Jonah will have his transfusion.”

L
ane was distinctly uneasy.

An hour ago, Arthur had swung by his brownstone, features drawn and tight, and requested that Morgan come with him to his and Elyse’s apartment for a family discussion. Lane had almost blocked Morgan’s path when she left, but that wasn’t his place, nor did he want to tip Arthur off to just how suspicious of him he was. So he stood aside, watching Morgan ride off in Arthur’s limo, wondering what the hell was going on and when she’d be back.

He tried Monty’s cell phone. Voice mail. That meant he was still following that lead. Damn.

Lane left a terse message, then hung up to wait—again.

He was already itching for his other callback, the one that would come on his secure line. He’d initiated that particular call not only because of Monty’s request, but because he’d spent the day contemplating possibilities.

It was something Lenny had said during his visit with Jonah. Something
about Arthur. Innocuous in and of itself. But when combined with the rest of the puzzle, it could be a connecting piece.

“Shaken not stirred. That’s what we used to call him. Like one of James Bond’s martinis.”

“You’re a Bond fan?”
Jonah had asked.

“Big-time. Arthur and me. We never missed a movie when he was a kid…”

That struck a chord in Lane’s head; snippets of the conversation he’d eavesdropped on that day at Lenny’s. Monty had questioned Arthur about Hayek. Arthur had responded by saying that Hayek had joined him and Lenny on their father-son trips to the movies.

Father-son trips to the movies. No doubt that included seeing their mutual favorite: “Bond. James Bond.” And one thing all Bond enthusiasts knew was that 007’s weapon of choice was the Walther PPK.

From the get-go, Monty had been puzzled by the use of a Walther PPK to kill Jack and Lara Winter. Lane could still remember his father’s preoccupation over the odd choice of weapons.

Maybe not so odd after all.

“George never forgot the breaks my father gave him,”
Arthur had said.
“His loyalty ran deep.”

Just
how
deep was the question. Deep enough to save Arthur’s ass when he got in way over his head? Especially when Arthur had saved
his
ass when he was facing gunrunning charges?

A good chance the answer was yes.

Lane had picked up the secure phone in his photo lab and punched in the usual number.

“Yeah.” The standard greeting.

“Listen, we have a situation here,” Lane had stated flatly. “You know what my father’s like. He’s all over this murder investigation. And Hayek’s name is screaming in his ear.” Succinctly and sans emotion, Lane repeated Monty’s earlier diatribe. “As you can see, he’s not going away. That can only end up making trouble for all of us. So here’s a suggestion. Contact Hayek. Ask him three specific questions. Get me the answers. If they check out, my father will be satisfied, and you won’t be hearing from me about this again.”

Silence. Then: “Your father’s a pain in the ass. No promises. Give me the questions.”

“Where was Hayek on December twenty-fourth, 1989, between seven and nine p.m.? Prior to that date, did he supply someone with a Walther PPK? And did he hire someone to trash Morgan Winter’s brownstone last Wednesday night and run my father off the road two nights later?”

“Hayek’s not going to confess to murder. And we’re not asking him to.”

“I don’t think it’ll come to that. I think he’ll have an alibi. And I think he’ll remember it. If he doesn’t, that’ll be our problem. And if it turns out he’s guilty of anything short of murder, grant him immunity. He’s your contact. You need him. My father doesn’t. All he needs is the information Hayek possesses. Believe me, Monty doesn’t want anyone but the killer. Help us get him. You’ll keep what you want, and I’ll owe you one.”

Another long pause. “I’ll let you know.”

Click.

That had been hours ago. Damn, Lane wished he had his answers.

Frustrated, he channeled his energies into something productive.

He pulled up the digitized negatives of the Kellermans’ Christmas party on his monitor. Time to focus on those, give his mind a break from the crime-scene shots in the hopes that a little space would grant him new perspective.

Now that he knew Arthur had worn two different shirts during the course of the evening, he concentrated on that visual detail. It was easy to differentiate the before-and-after shots, since the images were in sequential order. In the majority of the shots in which Arthur was present, he was wearing the second shirt. That fact supported his claim that the inopportune need for a change of clothes had come early in the evening.

Turning to the first shots—the one in which Arthur was wearing shirt number one—Lane focused on those depicting the Winters and the Kellermans together. Once again, he was struck by the level of tension their body language conveyed. There was definitely something going on here, some really bad feelings between “friends.”

He turned his attention to the next image—the first one Arthur appeared in after the shirt change. The photo was of Elyse and Arthur, standing alone together in front of the panorama of windows, raising their flutes
of champagne in a toast. Judging from their full glasses and enthusiastic poses, Lane would guess it was the initial toast of the evening. Made sense, both sequentially and in conjunction with Arthur’s story. The champagne moment was just as he’d described. New shirt. Arm around his wife’s shoulders. The political guest of honor and his lovely spouse. Arthur’s hand was wintry red, a clear sign that he’d just been outside. His rosy cheeks confirmed that, as did his hair, which was visibly windblown. Clearly, he’d just returned from his mystery jaunt.

From behind the happy couple, Lane spotted what appeared to be a reflection in the window—a tall, narrow, wood-toned object. Frowning in concentration, he tweaked the image.

A grandfather clock.

As expediently as possible, Lane zoomed in on the clock’s reflection. He then reversed the image and adjusted the shadow, midpoint, and highlight levels, until he could clearly make out where the hands were pointing.

Eight forty-five. An hour and a half after Arthur had claimed he’d returned to the party.

For a moment, Lane sank back in his chair, absorbing the significance of what he was seeing. It wasn’t unshakable proof. But it was a big step in that direction.

He wished Monty would call.

More important, he wished Morgan would call, let him know she was okay. The idea of her being with Arthur Shore—even with Jill and Elyse there—was making him increasingly uneasy.

The phone rang shrilly, making him start. But it wasn’t his cell. It was his secure line.

He snatched it up. “Montgomery.”

“Hayek was in Vegas on Christmas Eve 1989, sharing the holiday with a lady friend,” his contact informed him. “He was there from the twentieth of December to the day after New Year’s. Our surveillance records confirm it. So forget the homicides. Not only didn’t he commit them, he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.”

“Got it.”

“He only bought one Walther PPK, and it was thirty-some-odd years
ago. He bought it for his boss, to protect him from a string of local robberies. Who might or might not have borrowed that gun, he has no way of knowing. And, yeah, he did arrange for a couple of recent scares, one at the brownstone you mentioned and one on the Taconic Parkway, but only because he was pressured into doing so. Seems he was warned that his CIA asset status could be changed overnight into a liability status. Guess that’s an easy threat to make when you’re a congressman with friends in high places. Friends like the director of the CIA.”

“Yeah.” Lane heard everything that was, and wasn’t, being said. “Can I use any of this?”

“Nope. Just to move that pain-in-the-ass father of yours in the right direction. Tell him he’s got his answers. Time to get off our backs and go find his killer.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“This subject’s now permanently closed.”

MONTY DROVE KARLY
home so he could prep her on what to expect next and how to handle the press when they figured things out.

She got out of his car after they exchanged promises to keep each other apprised the second either of them heard any news. She had tears in her eyes as she thanked him. Then she gathered up her purse, climbed out, and walked into the lobby of her lovely Upper East Side apartment.

Monty eased away from the building, pulling over to the next fire hydrant and shifting the car into park. He needed some time alone to think. His mind was crammed with the day’s events. Karly Fontaine’s crisis might be on the verge of resolution, but the ramifications of what Monty learned today had shoved his investigation of the Winter homicides into overdrive.

Arthur Shore was a piece of work. He’d stood there in Monty’s office—ninety percent politician and ten percent human being—as he watched his world teeter and struggled to right it. The ten percent was that tiny, redeemable part of Shore that cared about family, the part that had raised Morgan as his own and now wanted to save the life of a son he never knew he had. Of course, it didn’t hurt that his actions would give a huge boost to his popularity. Any way you sliced it, Shore stood to win
big from playing the hero.

But what about seventeen years ago? Back then, he’d have been screwed any way he turned. Nothing good could have come from Karly’s pregnancy. And with a young family and a career that was just beginning to skyrocket, his entire life would have gone up in smoke if Lara and Jack had called him on the carpet.

That provided a hell of a motive to keep them quiet.

Monty rubbed the back of his neck, torn about what to do next. He was just a mile away from Lane’s place. He should go there, talk to him. He knew Lane was waiting on pins and needles. How could Monty blame him? Lane had no idea what was going on. He, on the other hand, did. But he wasn’t at liberty to reveal the details. Hopefully, Morgan would solve that problem for him—and soon.

So, yeah, he was stalling. Which sucked, not only for Lane but for himself. He was itching to get on with this investigation and move the process along, armed with the newly discovered info on Arthur. But he couldn’t do that, not without providing Lane with an explanation he wasn’t authorized to provide.

Like it or not, his hands were tied.

His cell phone rang.

So much for stalling. It was Lane.

He punched on the phone. “Hey. I got your message.”

“Then why didn’t you return it? And why didn’t you answer in the first place?”

“I was in a meeting. I turned my phone off.”

“Great. I need to speak with you.”

“I know.” Monty cleared his throat. “Based on what’s been going on at my end, I’m not surprised about Arthur collecting Morgan for a family meeting. It’s nothing to freak out about.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“No. But I’m sure Morgan can. Have you heard from her?”

“Finally. O’Hara’s bringing her over in ten minutes.”

“Good.”

“That’s not the only reason I’m calling.” It didn’t take a psychic to figure out that Lane was irked by his father’s cryptic response. “I made that
call you asked me to, and applied some pressure. I’ve got your answers, plus one. I also found something in one of the party photos that contradicts Arthur’s time line.”

Monty’s hand was already on the gearshift. “I’m on my way.”

“No, you’re not.” Lane’s words stopped him in his tracks. “I want some time alone with Morgan. She and I need to talk. I realize that’s not
your
agenda, but it is mine. Life happens. You’re the one who got me involved in this investigation. And now I
am
involved, far deeper than I expected. So this time we’re playing it my way. I need an hour, maybe two. Then I’ll call you and you can come over.”

Comprehension struck, clear as glass. So did frustration. “I hear you. But I’m less than a mile away from your place and—”

“I’ve got a lead for you to run down that should fill the time. Call Lenny Shore. Buy him a cup of coffee. Find out where the gun he used to keep at the deli went, and how long it’s been missing.”

“What gun?”

“That was the ‘plus one’ I was referring to. Remember the individual you wanted me to check into more thoroughly?” Lane kept his reference intentionally vague.

“Right.” Monty got the message, and the Hayek reference, no problem.

“Seems that about thirty years ago he gave his boss a gift. Something to keep an 007 aficionado safe. A Walther PPK.”

“Holy shit.” Monty sucked in his breath.

“I’ll fill you in fully later, face-to-face. In the meantime, it should be interesting to find out if the gun was ‘borrowed.’ And, if so, why didn’t Lenny report it?”

“Consider who supplied it. If the gun was hot, Lenny probably didn’t want to get his employee in trouble.”

“Makes sense,” Lane acknowledged. “Incidently, you know we can’t use this—not officially.”

“I assumed not. But it’ll steer us toward things we can. I’ll call now. Maybe he’ll still be at the deli, cleaning up.”

“Good. And, in the meantime, I’ll take care of things at my end.” Lane paused. “Monty, don’t think for a minute that I don’t want the real killer as much as you do. But this isn’t just about a case for me. Not anymore.”

“I get it. Probably better than you think.” A corner of Monty’s mouth lifted. Lane was every bit his father’s son. He’d been fiercely single. Now he’d be fiercely a couple. “Do your thing, daredevil. Good luck. I’ll wait for your call.” A chuckle. “If I finish up with Lenny before I hear from you, I’ll use the time to call your mother. This news will make her day.”

“I’m sure. Later, Monty.”

“Yup—later. And Lane? Nice work.”

MONTY ENDED THE
call, rummaging through his car until he found an old take-out menu from Lenny’s with the deli’s phone number and operating hours on it. Sunday night—open till eight. It was a little past that now. No doubt, Lenny would still be there.