Dark Room

  “None clear enough to lift. And nothing that matched our database. Believe me, I’ve already called my old precinct and told them to rerun your parents’ personal belongings for new DNA evidence. They’re tearing through red tape to get what they need.”

  “Red tape.” Morgan’s tone was bitter. “Manhattan and Brooklyn will still be embroiled in a turf war and you’ll have solved the case.”

  “That’s the plan. Let them fight it out. It’ll keep them busy and off my back.”

  “You don’t think the DNA testing will show us much.”

  Monty shrugged. “I wouldn’t rule anything out, but DNA testing wasn’t nearly as sophisticated in the eighties as it is now. Not to mention, the turnaround time sucked. So did the number of facilities capable of doing it. Talk about a hassle—the evidence had to be driven up to a lab in Massachusetts, and it took two weeks to get our answers. Now everything’s different.”

  “So…”

  “So it all depends on what we have to work with.”

  The vagueness of his response wasn’t lost on Morgan. “In other words, we’d have to exhume the bodies to find anything concrete. Even then, we’re grasping at straws. My mother probably never touched him. And my father might have punched him out, but that doesn’t mean we’d find skin cells or hair, especially not after seventeen years.”

  “You’ve been watching forensics shows on TV.” Monty tried for some dry humor.

  “Just reading up on a subject that’s integral to my life.”

  “Well, you’re right. So, no, I don’t think our answers are as likely to lie there as with the file and the photo negatives. Mostly with the negatives, and Lane’s expert analysis.” Monty watched her studying the photos. “And with you.”

  Morgan extended her hand, palm up. “In that case, let me see the rest of the photos.”

  “No.”

  The adamancy of Monty’s refusal startled Morgan, and her head came up.

  The look on his face left no room for argument.

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s no need for it. It wouldn’t add anything to the investigation. You’d been escorted from the room when crime scene took the photos. There’s nothing positive that can come out of your looking at them now.”

  “Tell me what you’re not letting me see.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “It is to me.”

  Monty’s stare was piercing—and uncompromising. “There’s not a single thing in these photos that’s as gruesome as what you saw when you walked into that basement. You have my word on that. But you’ve done your homework; you know how crime-scene photos work. After the initial shots, the bodies are shifted around so different angles can be photographed.”

  “And? Was my father brutalized during the fistfight? Was something more done to my mother than I know?”

  “No and no.” Monty blew out a breath, ran a hand over his face. “Look, Morgan, what goes on during the crime-scene procedure appears very dehumanizing, especially to someone who loved the victims as much as you loved your parents. It’s no secret that we’re all dust in the wind. But there’s no need to shove that in our faces. Remember your parents as they were—caring, vital human beings.”

  “As opposed to objects, bodies without souls.” Morgan lowered her gaze, staring at the carpet as she tried to cope with the indescribable pain lancing through her. “You made your point. In which case, I’m not sure how much more help I can be. I described everything as I saw it. After that, I fuzzed out. You probably remember more of what came next than I do.”

  “What about before?”

  “Before?”

  “Before the party preparations. Before that night. Any memories come to mind? Think about it.” Monty rose, went into the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of springwater. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Morgan took the bottle with a tight smile. “Are you sure you’re not a therapist? Mine asks the same kind of questions. He even gets me water when he wants me to have quiet time to think.”

  “Did it work—not with your therapist, with me?”

  A long, silent moment. “That night was Christmas Eve. It was all about the holiday party my mother had arranged for the abuse center. She and I spent the day shopping for decorations and little gifts to put under the tree—enough for all the women who’d be attending. We made eggnog and Christmas cookies. We would have cooked, but Lenny donated all the food.”

  “Did your father stay home to shop and bake with you?”

  “No, he had to go to work. But he came home early; I don’t remember what time. I do know the party was set for eight-thirty. My parents and I got there two hours early so we could set up. Our only detour was to the Kellermans’ penthouse; they were hosting a holiday party in Arthur’s honor. We didn’t stay long. I remember feeling bad about that, because I wanted to play with Jill, since we hadn’t seen each other in a while. But it wasn’t the night for it. My mother was itching to get to the abuse center. She, my father, and I headed over there straight from the Kellermans’. It would have been a magical night for those women. And not just because of the things we bought. Because of my mother.”

  Morgan raised her head and met Monty’s gaze, tears glistening in her eyes. “I wish you’d known her. She was so amazingly empathetic. Even in her journal entries, you can feel her personal involvement with the women who came to her. I feel as if I knew them. When one of them turned her life around, my mother’s life turned around, too. And when one of them gave up, felt trapped and incapable of escaping her own hell, my mother refused to walk away. She stayed by their sides until she found a solution. Near the end, she helped one woman and her daughter make a fresh start. She also stood by a teenage girl who was sexually abused as a child, messed up her whole life, and found herself pregnant and abandoned.”

  “Your mother was quite a human being,” Monty replied. He sat back in his chair. “Tell me, how did your father react to this? Having a wife whose heart is in so many places must take its toll.”

  More memories. Conversations at the dinner table. Loving debates about who was more married to their work.

  “He was proud of her,” Morgan murmured, remembering as she spoke. “Sometimes he got upset. He thought she was being taken advantage of. He worried about her. In retrospect, I realize he was obviously more cynical than she was. He was a prosecutor. She was an idealist.”

  “During the weeks before the murders, were there any situations in particular that concerned him?”

  Morgan forced herself to think. Flickers of recall. Some closed-door conversations. Passionate more than heated.

  “My mother was grappling with how to handle something. I think she and my father had different ideas about the best way to do it. They didn’t have a big shouting match. But they were on edge. Neither of them was sleeping. I’m not sure why. It could have pertained to my mother’s work. Or it could have pertained to one of my father’s cases. My mother always agonized over the more dangerous ones he took on. That’s why I gave you those newspaper clippings. My father prosecuted some scary, high-profile criminals. Maybe he was prosecuting one of them when he died. I just don’t know. As for the tension in the house, I’m not sure if it was caused by my father’s current caseload. In her journals, my mother talks about a teenager at the shelter she was trying to help. Maybe it was that. Or maybe it was something unrelated I knew nothing about. I’ve been sitting in my den reading my mother’s journals all week. I can sense the urgency in her tone. On the other hand, my father—”

  Morgan broke off, dropping her head in her hands. “I’m going around in circles. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. Maybe none of my babbling means anything. I was ten years old. I didn’t understand what pressures existed in my parents’ marriage. Nor was I invited to try. When it came to private discussions, they talked alone, in their bedroom, at night. What I’m recalling now are fragments. And what I’m trying to do is resurrect childhood memories and interpret them with an
adult mind. I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  “Hey, you did great.” Monty squeezed her arm. “Look, we’ve covered more than enough for one day. Let me cogitate on what I’ve heard. Plus, I need to set up appointments with Rachel Ogden and Karly Fontaine. You take tonight off. Hang out with Jill, watch some TV. And get a good night’s sleep. You’ve got dinner plans tomorrow night. And my son’s a night owl.”

  EIGHTEEN

  With its rustic beamed ceilings and warm, low lighting, the great room at the Inn at Lost Creek was the perfect place to unwind and enjoy après-ski cocktails after a long day.

  It was five o’clock, and Arthur, Lane, and Jonah were sitting around the large crackling stone fireplace. Holding his old-fashioned filled with the area’s best single-malt scotch, Arthur settled himself more comfortably on the plush brown velvet sofa. His cell phone, for the moment, was blissfully silent, and he took advantage of the time just to lean back, savor his drink, and relax in front of the fire.

  Across the way, sprawled in one of the room’s matching club chairs, Jonah vegged, sipping his Coke and checking out the beautiful people strolling into the lounge.

  And on the opposite sofa, Lane nursed his own scotch, rolling the old-fashioned between his palms and thinking how pumped he felt physically, how psyched he was about hitting the slopes tomorrow—and how antsy he was about what was going on back in New York.

  The latter was a first for him.

  Home never accompanied him on these thrill-seeking ventures. His bouts with nature were all about living in the moment, with the rest of his life tucked away on the back burner. Consequently, nothing—and no one—permeated his cerebral high.

  But this time was different. And that difference had a name.

  Morgan Winter.

  He was definitely involved with her. Partly because of the role he was playing in the reinvestigation of her parents’ homicides. And partly because of Morgan herself.

  Yup, he was surprisingly involved with her. More surprisingly, he wanted to deepen that involvement.

  He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock eastern time.

  He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the home number she’d given him.

  The line rang twice, then she picked up. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Lane.”

  “Hi.” She sounded surprised, and emotionally drained. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow. Is there a change in plans? Do you have to postpone our dinner?”

  “Not a chance.” He was startled by the fervor of his reply. But he didn’t retract it. “I’m waiting with bated breath.”

  A hint of laughter. “Now that I doubt. Not with the rush of those majestic snow-covered mountains just waiting to be conquered.”

  “I’m psyched about the heli-skiing. I’m just as psyched about tomorrow’s dinner. I want to see you.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “I know. I want to see you, too.”

  Her admission elicited a surge of pleasure. “It looks like we’ll be finishing up on the slopes around four. After that, it’s homeward bound. My guess is I’ll be landing in Teterboro between nine and ten eastern time. I know it’s late, but—”

  “I like late dinners.”

  “Good. I’ll call you when we’re airborne. But that’s not the reason I’m calling now. You’ve been on my mind. You—and your meeting with Monty today. It must have been tough. I wanted to check on you, make sure you were okay.” He paused, abruptly changing gears. “I also wanted to hear your voice. It’s sexy.”

  This time her laughter came naturally. “You know every right thing to say.”

  “Maybe. But I mean every word.”

  “I…” She cleared her throat. “Thank you. And thank you for checking up on me. It was a very sensitive thing to do. As for the meeting, you’re right. Looking at those photos, reliving it all—it was even more brutal than I expected. I remembered all kinds of things I’d buried away. But your father was amazing. He walked me through it. And he made it bearable.”

  “I’m glad.” Lane leaned back, took a sip of scotch. “You’ll fill me in tomorrow. But tonight, I don’t want you to think about it. I want you to put it away—the meeting with Monty, the memories—all of it. Relax. Pour yourself a glass of wine. Curl up in bed with a good book or a movie. Think of me. Not in that order, of course.”

  “Of course.” He could hear her smile. “Actually, Jill and I are having a girls’ night. We just ordered a million calories of comfort food. As for the wine, we opened a bottle of Chianti twenty minutes ago. I’m halfway done with my first glass. And we rented two different chick flicks, so the movies are covered.” She paused, lowering her voice a tad. “For the record, I’ve already been thinking of you. But I promise to keep doing so.”

  Lane’s entire body reacted. “Do that. And don’t stop until I get off the plane. I’ll take it from there.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  ACROSS THE WAY, Arthur’s solitude was shattered by the buzzing of his phone against his side. He’d put it on vibrate, and shoved it in his pocket, but that still didn’t make it go away.

  Grimacing, he pulled it out and glanced at it, hoping against hope it was someone he could ignore.

  He saw the caller’s name. Definitely not someone to ignore.

  He punched on the phone. “Hi, hon.”

  “Hi.” Elyse’s tone was dry. “Are you sure you know which ‘hon’ you’re talking to?”

  Clearly, he had his work cut out for him. “Come on, Lyssie. I only have one hon, and that’s you. So, yes, I know exactly who I’m talking to.”

  “Good start. Let’s move on. Who did you spend last night with?”

  “You know the answer to that. I had dinner with Larry Cullen to secure his support for my bill. I met him in Jersey because his office is near Teterboro. I spent the night at the Marriott, and was on the plane heading out here by ten a.m. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is the missing hours; you know, the ones between dinner and flight time. Who was she this time, one of your regulars or a new one?”

  “I was alone, Elyse. Please let’s not do this. I love you. And I miss you. Only you.”

  She blew out a resigned breath and Arthur realized, with some degree of relief, that this round was over. Still, it wasn’t like Elyse to be so openly confrontational. Something was wrong.

  “Elyse?”

  “I didn’t mean to jump at you like that,” she replied. “It just hasn’t been a stellar day. Or a stellar week, for that matter.”

  The glass of scotch paused halfway to Arthur lips. “Why? What happened?”

  “Detective Montgomery showed up at the gym today. He thinks that hit-and-run accident near the St. Regis yesterday was a blatant warning to Morgan to back off this investigation. Especially after I told him about the things that’ve been happening to me this week.”

  Arthur tensed. “You’d better explain.”

  She did.

  Arthur’s jaw set as he listened to his wife’s recounting of the week’s incidents and the subsequent conversation she’d had with Monty. “Dammit, Elyse. It’s my ear you should be chewing, not Montgomery’s. Why didn’t you talk to me first?”

  “First? In other words, so you could put the right spin on my story? What would you have suggested I tell him?”

  “Certainly not details that would shove us even further into the limelight. I’m trying to control what leaks out on the investigation. That’s why I’m dodging questions on the subject, and spearheading the effort to keep Montgomery’s investigation on track and under the radar. I want to keep a low profile on this, keep the focus on my bill. There’s enough smut about me in the tabloids as it is. I don’t need another personal exposé to cloud my agenda.”

  “A personal exposé? This is about threats to Morgan, and possibly to us. That’s criminal activity, not social scandal.”

  “Exactly. Which increases the likelihood of it getting out. I’ve been keeping a lid on my publi
c statements regarding the reopening of the double-homicide investigation. The whole country knows that Jack and Lara were our closest friends. If I make any kind of impassioned statement, it will piss off either the cops or the D.A.’s office. I can’t risk that. Primarily for Morgan’s sake. It’ll send the media flocking in her direction. Plus, it’ll throw all kinds of monkey wrenches into this investigation—an investigation I want wrapped up fast and without any additional personal or political uproar.”

  “Primarily for Morgan’s sake?” Elyse’s words were tinged with more than a trace of cynicism.

  “Yes, dammit. I don’t want her harassed. And I don’t want her suffering any more than she already has. But if you’re asking if it’s for my sake, too, the answer’s yes. I don’t need the controversy at this time in my political life. The press are like a flock of vultures. Keeping a lid on this has already been like holding back a dam with my bare hands. So if this new information leaks out—”

  “Then people will know we’re human, vulnerable. Maybe that’ll generate positive press. Or are the details of that positive press the real source of your concern? Tell me, Arthur, are you more worried about word of the threats getting out, or about the profile of the hit-and-run victim getting out? From what I heard, she was young, beautiful, and drawn to older, successful men. Anything you want to tell me?”

  Arthur swallowed the rest of his drink. “You’re being ridiculous, Elyse. There’s no link between me and that woman. I never met her. I don’t even know her name. And I sure as hell don’t know who ran her down.”

  “Her name is Rachel Ogden. The name of the eyewitness who saw her get hit is Karly Fontaine. Both of them are Winshore clients. And, like I said, Rachel is definitely your type.”

  “Thanks for the news flash. But I’m not sleeping with her. Like I said, I don’t even know her. Or the other one—Karly Fontaine.”

  “That’s good. Because Detective Montgomery is interviewing them both tomorrow.”

  “Shit.” Arthur dragged a palm over his face. “Why is he letting this sidetrack him? Those women are not going to help him solve the case, not if Morgan’s the common link here. All he’s going to succeed in doing is to escalate the hype.”