Dark Room

  Time to start calling in the results.

  He flipped open his cell and started the process as he walked to his car. By the time he paid the parking attendant and pulled out of the lot, he had enough information.

  AT TWO-THIRTY, MONTY was in his office, poring over specific aspects of the old case files he’d requisitioned, when the doorbell rang.

  Good. Right on time.

  He tossed down the notes he’d been reviewing—and was about to put to use—rose from his chair, and headed to the front door.

  In one smooth motion, he pulled it open, his expression unreadable. “Denton,” he greeted. “Come on in.”

  The A.D.A. was planted on the front stoop, hands shoved in his coat pockets, looking harried and pissed off. He gave one guarded look around, then complied, striding into the office with a definite air of irritation.

  “I’m not thrilled about meeting here,” he began, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it on a chair. “My involvement in this case is being kept pretty well under wraps. If I’m seen, I’m screwed. But you made it sound important.”

  “It is. As for being seen, none of my neighbors would know who the hell you are if they fell on you. And, believe me, you’d rather have this conversation here than in the D.A.’s office. The walls there have ears. Plus, you’re not here because I made it sound important. You’re here because you want to gauge how much I know. Have a seat.” Monty pointed toward the cluttered sitting area.

  Charlie remained in place for a moment, studying Monty with a wary expression. Then he crossed over, perching at the edge of the settee. “Okay, your shock and awe worked. I’m all ears. Get to the point. What’s the goal here, to interrogate me into spilling my guts the way you do some two-bit criminal? I’m a prosecutor, Montgomery. A good one. Don’t try to play me. Just tell me what you want to know, and why.”

  “Fair enough.” Monty spread his hands in an affable gesture. “Let’s start by talking about your professional loyalty to Morgan’s father. It’s pretty strong, considering the man’s been dead for seventeen years.”

  “That’s not exactly a news flash. You’ve known from day one how much I admired and respected Jack Winter. He was a hell of a role model. I learned the ropes from him when I was a rookie, right out of law school. He took me under his wing, just like he did everyone on his team.”

  “But in your case, he also took you into his confidence.”

  Something glittered in Charlie’s eyes. “Every case that comes into the D.A.’s office is confidential.”

  “Some more than others.”

  A hardened look. “I’m not playing cat and mouse with you, Montgomery. If you’ve got something to ask me, ask.”

  Monty jerked his thumb in the direction of the thick file sprawled across his desk. “That’s the Angelo case file. The Central Clerk’s Office did me the favor of digging it out of storage. I’ve been going through it, document by document—from initial arrests to prosecution and conviction. I paid special attention to the trial transcript, analyzing it with a fine-tooth comb. I’m sure you remember the trial; it concluded just a few months before Jack and Lara Winter were killed.”

  “I remember it. I also remember it was one of the cases Morgan suggested we revisit to find her parents’ killer. Clearly, you’re zeroing in on it for a reason.”

  “Yup.” Monty rose, strolled over to the desk, and flipped through the file contents. “Angelo had clusters of gunrunning, drug-trafficking scumbags on his payroll all over the country. A bunch of them are still out there; high-level ones, too, who are still taking orders from their incarcerated boss. One of them could easily have arranged for a hired hand to steal that van and run down Jack Winter’s daughter—especially if she was getting close to figuring out that Angelo had something to do with her father’s murder.”

  Clearly, that wasn’t what Charlie was expecting to hear, and it got his attention big-time. “You think that hit-and-run was meant for Morgan?”

  “It’s possible. The specs of her physical description are identical to Rachel Ogden’s. And she was headed for the St. Regis that day, just like Rachel was.”

  “Jesus.” Charlie ran a palm over his jaw. “I figured the incident was meant as a scare, not a hit.” He shot Monty a quizzical look. “Even if you’re right, what makes you think it was Angelo who was behind it? Jack put away a lot of well-connected criminals.”

  “True. But this case has a hook to it the others don’t. One of the witnesses who testified against Angelo was a confidential informer for the D.A.’s office. A long-term CI, one who played a key role in helping Jack Winter put Angelo away.” Monty waved a piece of paper in the air. “Here’s a transcript of his witness testimony. According to him, Angelo hired him when he was twenty-six—that would be thirty years ago and thirteen years before the trial—to transport hot guns for him. The perp was caught in the act and arrested. Funny thing was, the charges were dropped and the file was sealed, even though he wasn’t a juvie.”

  “So? The D.A. cut a deal. The guy got off and became an informer.”

  “For Jack.”

  “Fine, for Jack. What’s the red flag?”

  “You tell me. I want to know this CI’s name.”

  Charlie’s jaw hardened. “If you’re suggesting I get that information for you, forget it. I don’t have access to the master files linking CIs’ names with their registration numbers, and you know it. The control officers guard that information like Fort Knox.”

  “Take it easy. I don’t expect you to break into restricted files. Like I said, I’ve got a transcript of this CI’s testimony right here, complete with his registration number. Now all I need is paperwork that’ll help me put a name to the number. That paperwork is accessible in Jack Winter’s files. Documents. Forms. Records of basic interactions between Jack and this guy, along with the dates of those meetings. Anything you can find with the same CI number on it. Make copies of the documents and get them to me. By comparing what I see, I’ll be able to figure out if it’s the guy I think it is.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “I’ll let you know afterward—if I’m right.” Monty leveled a steady gaze at Charlie. “You didn’t happen to work with Jack Winter on the witness list for that case, did you?”

  “No. Nor did I know the identities of any of his informers.” Charlie bristled. “I don’t know where you’re going with this, but if it’s to put the screws into me because you think I know something, don’t bother. I don’t know anything. I was a newbie. There’s not a chance I’d be privy to such high-level restricted info.”

  “But you stuck close to Jack Winter. He thought a lot of you. You were his protégé.”

  “So?”

  Monty leaned forward. “So you’re hiding something. My guess is it’s either something personal about Jack, or something that’s a potential political nightmare. Which is it?”

  Charlie stood up. “This conversation’s over. Whatever it is you think you have on me, run with it. You’ll only come up empty.”

  “If you’re so sure of that, why did you take the bait on my shock and awe? Why’d you show up?”

  No reply.

  “Sit down, Denton,” Monty stated flatly. He walked around to the fridge, pulled out two bottles of water, and tossed one to Charlie. Twisting open his own bottle, he took a long, deep swallow, then regarded Charlie intently.

  “First, I’m not accusing you of anything except maybe a misplaced sense of loyalty, at least where it comes to the powers that be.” A shrug. “Then again, who am I to judge? I thumbed my nose at the powers that be, and they had a party the day I retired. So drink some water and relax.”

  With obvious ambivalence, Charlie lowered himself back into the chair. “You’re right. I walk the straight and narrow. That doesn’t mean my loyalties are as black-and-white as you’re implying.”

  “I hear you.” Another gulp of water. “Okay then, here it is. I’m not a cop anymore. I’m not part of a pissing match between the NYPD and t
he D.A.’s office. I’m also not trying to screw you out of a promotion or nail you for something you didn’t do. Like I said, my sources say you’re honest. So do my instincts. My agenda’s simple: I just want to figure out who killed Morgan’s parents. I think you want the same thing. You’re obviously wrestling with something. I think it’s about Jack Winter, not his office. Tell me what you know so I can help.”

  Charlie stared at his unopened bottle for a moment. Then he twisted off the cap, sinking back into the chair as he drank. “I don’t know anything,” he declared after a few reviving gulps. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Another prolonged silence. “I’ve played this back in my head a hundred times. There’s nothing there but circumstantial events and supposition.”

  “Go on.”

  “You’re right. It’s about Jack. He wasn’t himself those last few weeks. He was moody and short-fused. Something was obviously eating at him.”

  “One of his cases?”

  “Uh-uh.” Charlie shook his head. “He was a bulldozer about nailing the accused, but he wasn’t the type to transfer that sharp edge to the junior staff. Besides, this wasn’t about work. I know, because I heard him on the phone—not once, but several times. He was behind closed doors, but my cubicle was near his office. I could make out his tone, and I picked up a word here and there. The conversations weren’t pleasant. They were deep, heated—and personal. He was upset when he hung up. I could hear him pacing, flinging files around. When he came out, he looked like hell.”

  “Do you know who he was arguing with?”

  “His wife.”

  That was one Monty hadn’t expected. “Lara? You’re sure?”

  “Yes. He said her name enough times. Plus, the last argument was in person. She came to the office. She looked as upset as he sounded. Again, I didn’t hear specifics; Jack shut the door. But judging from their tones, it was serious. Lara was crying when she left. And I heard Jack tell her something about principles having to trump personal feelings, no matter how deep those feelings ran.”

  “Interesting.” Monty pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Do you think they were having marital problems?”

  “It’s possible. I’m just not sure. All I can say for certain is that there was definite friction between them, and that they were coming from different places about the way something should be handled. It was a major issue. Whether it was their marriage, or something else, I have no idea.”

  “But whatever it was, it was something they felt passionately about. Which means that if it wasn’t personal, it was something professional with a personal impact.”

  “Like?”

  “Like a high-risk case that made Lara afraid for her husband.”

  The bottle of water paused halfway to Charlie’s mouth. “You’re talking about the Angelo case again.”

  “My gut still says so. Which means I need you to get me those CI documents. I’ll give you the guy’s registration number. Take it. Pull any papers with a matching number. Photocopy all communications between him and Jack. Do it fast. If this guy is who I think he is, we might have found a solid revenge motive. One that would explain a lot. Because it extends beyond the courtroom, to the closest people in Jack and Lara Winter’s lives.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  It was just after one-thirty when Lane, Arthur, Jonah, and their guide, Rob, put on their fat skis in the thigh-deep snow and checked their safety equipment in anticipation of their last run of the day.

  Lane gazed around him, experiencing a sensory high. He was transfixed by the beauty of the snow-covered mountains—powerful, defiant, and free from man’s interference, except for the insignificant lines carved by their skis in the huge expanse of white that rose all around them. Even those would be gone in a day or so, and all traces of their presence would be wiped out, buried under a new fall of snow.

  Maybe that was nature’s way of cleansing herself from intruders.

  Eager to preserve the image, Lane shot some stills, then twisted around and focused on Arthur, who was giving Jonah a few pointers. The scene looked so natural and appealing. A middle-aged man and a high school teen standing side by side, their postures alike, their minds in sync, as one taught, the other learned. From an artistic and a human standpoint, it was inspiring. And from a pragmatic standpoint, it made Congressman Shore come across as that much more human, seeing him share his knowledge and experience with a budding young man.

  This spread for Time was going to knock their readers’ socks off.

  JONAH’S SKIING HAD gotten progressively better, particularly with Arthur’s periodic coaching. His inexperience was transforming into confidence. Until now, he’d restrained himself from letting loose with his newfound skill. But now…the day was almost over. His chance of reveling in the full experience was nearing an end, despite the soreness and fatigue he was starting to feel.

  For the last run, they’d agreed to let him lead.

  Time to show off his recently acquired prowess.

  Adrenaline thrumming through his veins, Jonah headed down the hill. Using his poles, he pushed off.

  At first, his rhythm matched the grade perfectly. He was able to ignore the twinges and weakness in his muscles. But as time passed and his descent continued, the weakness intensified. His legs began feeling rubbery and nonresponsive.

  Unwilling to give in, he started into the next turn. His mind issued instructions, but his body wouldn’t—couldn’t—comply.

  The grade sharply increased. So did Jonah’s speed.

  He lost the battle.

  Pitching forward, his momentum sent him careening down the mountain, tumbling through the deep snow until his fall was broken by a small tree. He struck it and bounced off. Stunned, his lungs gasping for air and his body throbbing, he lay there, buried in the snow, clutching his side and moaning in pain.

  The others quickly caught up to him.

  “Jonah, are you all right?” Lane was kneeling beside him.

  “I…I think so,” he managed.

  “Are you able to stand?” Arthur demanded.

  They all watched as Jonah tried to comply, and failed, wincing as he did.

  Rob, their guide, who was also a trained EMT, sprang into action. He partially unzipped Jonah’s shell so he could feel for any bleeding. Jonah groaned when his left side was touched.

  “Let’s get him checked out,” Rob determined.

  “I’m fine.” Jonah was struggling to get up, visibly upset and embarrassed by his fall and the scene it had caused.

  “Probably,” Lane agreed, helping him to his feet. “But we’re not taking any chances. And, by the way, we all take spills. That was a tough section. Not your best skiing of the day, but you held your own for most of it.”

  “Pretty agilely at that,” Arthur added, manning Jonah’s other side as Rob radioed the chopper pilot and directed him to their location. “I’ve got to tell you, Jonah, I’m impressed. You’ve got a natural stance and aptitude for this. That was some pretty impressive heli-skiing for a first-timer.”

  “Thanks, sir.” Jonah’s breathing and color were returning to normal.

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” Lane retorted. “What you did was still reckless.”

  “And we both would have done the same thing,” Arthur amended drily. “Right, Lane?”

  Lane shot him a look. “You’re not helping, Congressman.”

  “I know.” Arthur grinned. “Then again, I can afford to be honest. I’m not the one who has to face his parents.”

  By this time, the sound of the chopper reached their ears.

  “Let’s go,” Rob instructed.

  They removed their skis, and Rob motioned to Arthur to help him with Jonah. Slowly, they carried him down the mountain, Lane following just behind with their equipment.

  After what seemed like forever, they reached a flatter section of terrain and headed over to where the helicopter had perched. Lane scrambled aboard and with Arthu
r and Rob’s help from the ground, he lifted Jonah and guided him into the nearest seat. Then Arthur climbed aboard while Rob quickly loaded their gear and joined them in the chopper for the descent down the mountain. Once they were safely aloft, the pilot radioed ahead for an ambulance.

  “I feel so stupid,” Jonah muttered. “I’m just a little banged up, and we’re making such a big deal out of it. Plus, we cut the whole day short.”

  “We were finishing up anyway,” Lane assured him. “The afternoon shadows were about to move in. And we’re not making a big deal. This is standard procedure. You’ll get checked out and we’ll be on our way home.”

  THE DOCTOR AT Telluride Medical Center examined Jonah thoroughly. As expected, his left side was bruised and tender to the touch. But the acute pain had subsided—a positive sign that seemed to rule out internal injuries. When Arthur informed the doctor that he had a private jet at Telluride Regional Airport waiting to fly them home, the doctor gave the green light for Jonah to travel—on the condition that should he exhibit any worsening symptoms, he would immediately check into a New York hospital and have a CT scan performed to ensure there were no internal injuries. Lane and Arthur assured him there’d be no arguments on that score.

  They were on their way within the hour. Arthur had called ahead to have the jet’s sofa made up into a bed. Jonah was lifted out of the car, placed on his back on the bed, and secured with a seat belt.

  The doctor had given Jonah a dose of oxycodone, so that by the time the plane took off, he was fast asleep. Once they were airborne, Lane called Jonah’s parents and gave them a calm but thorough heads-up. He also told them that Arthur had already arranged for a car service to pick them up at home and drive them to Teterboro to meet their plane so they could see for themselves that Jonah was fine, after which he could ride home with them. Initially, they were upset, but Lane succeeded in putting their minds at ease. They were also very grateful to the congressman for his generous assistance.

  With everything under control and all the necessary preparations made, Lane settled himself in one of the plush leather seats and made the personal phone call he’d been itching to make.