Dark Room

  “That’s it.” Monty reached over, caught Morgan’s arms. “Lane, get her out of here. Buy her breakfast and tuck her in. She’s had enough for one day.”

  “Done.” Lane was already there, looping an arm around Morgan’s waist and leading her out of the room.

  “I have more questions for Ms. Winter,” Stockton protested.

  “They’ll wait.” Monty blocked the path between Morgan and Stockton. “Ms. Winter will be reachable by cell. I’ll give you the number.”

  Stockton frowned. He glanced uneasily at Jill. “Are you feeling up to going through your room with us for verification purposes?”

  With a shaky nod, Jill agreed. “Sure.”

  “Ten minutes, Sergeant,” Arthur instructed. “Then we’re calling it a morning. My family’s been traumatized. And Detective Montgomery’s right—you’ve got your work cut out for you. Stay here as long as you like. Bag evidence. Dust for fingerprints. Fill out your report. Then figure out who did this. We’re leaving.” He pulled out a pad, scribbled something down, and ripped off the sheet of paper. “Here’s my home phone and my cell phone. You can reach me any hour of the day or night.”

  “Okay.” Stockton nodded, taking the paper. “That’ll work—for now. But, with all due respect, sir, I will need to follow up with your daughter and Ms. Winter. This is their home.”

  “Yes. And they’ll be staying at mine.” Arthur’s tone left no room for argument. “Thank you for your sensitivity.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I’m fine,” Morgan told Lane as soon as they were outside the brownstone.

  “Right.” His grip around her waist didn’t loosen. “You almost fainted.”

  “I didn’t almost faint,” she retorted. “I never faint. But I’m glad I was convincing. If you believed me, hopefully so did Sergeant Stockton.”

  “Huh?” Lane shot her a puzzled look.

  “The sooner I got out of there with this”—she held up her tote bag—“the better. Stockton hadn’t gotten around to asking me if I had taken anything with me, and I wasn’t waiting around to give him the chance.” A smile curved her lips. “You might have saved your father from being charged with interfering with a police investigation, but I was wide open for obstruction of justice.”

  Lane stared at her for a moment, then began to laugh. “Very clever. You certainly had me going. Here I thought I was rescuing you.”

  “You were.” Morgan zipped her jacket way up to her chin. She was still shivering from the shock of the past hour. And the frigid temperatures weren’t helping. “I don’t think I could have stayed in there another minute without coming apart. The sense of violation is bad enough. But that horrifying display on my bed…I’ll never get that image out of my mind.”

  “Yeah. It was pretty gruesome.” Lane tucked her close to his side, picking up their walking pace. “Let’s give the subject a rest. You may not be about to faint, but you are on major overload. We’ll head back to my place. I cook a mean plate of bacon and eggs.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I know. But you’ve got to eat. Monty’s orders, remember? Food and rest. Besides, I have a feeling he’ll be showing up as soon as he’s finished with Stockton. That’ll give him, you, and me a chance to get on the same page.”

  “True.” Morgan considered that concept, and nodded. “Although I’m not sure he’s going to like what I have to say.”

  MORGAN WAS RIGHT. Monty didn’t like what she had to say. But he wasn’t surprised by it, either.

  He arrived at Lane’s place about forty minutes after they did, stalking through the door and into the kitchen just as they were finishing breakfast.

  “I used my key,” he announced. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “If I minded, I would have thrown the dead bolt. We’ve been expecting you.” Lane rose and went over to the fridge. “There’s extra bacon. I’ll crack open a few more eggs. I assume you’re starved.”

  “I am.” Monty pulled up a chair and straddled it, giving a terse nod of approval as he glanced at Morgan’s near-empty plate. “You’re eating. Good.”

  A weary smile touched her lips. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t dare disobey your orders.”

  “Smart girl.” Monty took a gulp of the coffee Lane had poured for him. “Speaking of which, nice touch back at your place, that whole swooning routine. Next time give me a sign. If I didn’t have the reflexes of a cat, you’d have been splat on the floor.”

  Morgan stopped chewing, and her head came up, her brows knit with concern. “Did Stockton guess?”

  “That you were conspiring to get out of there? Nah. He was way too busy placating Arthur. It went right over his head. Besides, he’s not as sharp as I am.”

  “Or as modest,” Lane commented drily as he scrambled eggs on his cooktop.

  “You’re just pissed because you didn’t pick up on Morgan’s act, either.” A smug look. “Then again, I didn’t expect you to. You can’t be the White Knight and Columbo at the same time.”

  “Cute.” Using the spatula, Lane scooped the batch of eggs onto a plate, placing four strips of bacon beside them. “Here.” He handed it to Monty. “Give the wisecracks a rest and eat.”

  “Good move keeping your parents’ personal belongings to yourself,” Monty told Morgan.

  “They’d get lost at the police precinct. Either intentionally or unintentionally.”

  “No argument. The Seventy-fifth wants the double homicide—and the D.A.—to go away. The Nineteenth wants to close out today’s incident as a B and E. The precincts won’t play nicely together and neither wants to devote time and resources to a complex case that’s a political nightmare waiting to happen. So keeping your stuff to ourselves and out of the cops’ hands will keep both precincts like mushrooms—in the dark and bathed in fertilizer—and out of my hair.”

  “Are Jill and Elyse okay?” Morgan asked abruptly.

  “They’re fine.” All banter vanished, and Monty folded his hands on the table in front of him, regarding her intently. “Nothing was taken from Jill’s room, not even the diamond studs sitting in clear view on her dresser. The cops waited while she and Elyse packed suitcases—enough to last each of you a couple of days. Arthur took Elyse and Jill home. He canceled his morning appointments. He’s expecting me to deliver you to his apartment in a couple of hours—after you’ve had a chance to rest.”

  “I’m not tired.” Morgan raked both hands through her hair. “Monty, look. You know how I feel. I’m haunted by the fact that whoever killed my parents is still out there. I was willing to risk anything—including my own life—to catch him and put him behind bars. But it’s not just my life he’s threatening anymore. It’s the Shores’. He stalked Elyse on the day of the hit-and-run. And now? In order to pull off that sick break-in, he had to be watching both Jill and me, to know when we’d be out. That means he’s following Jill, too. As for Arthur, his schedule’s an open book, which makes him a walking target. And with that grotesque warning we found on my bed—”

  Morgan broke off, struggled for composure. “The threat is clear. Either I back off, or the Shores will die. I can’t let that happen. If I were the sole target…but I’m not.” A hard swallow. “Please understand. They’re the only family I’ve got left. I can’t lose them. I’m dropping the investigation.”

  “And then what?” Throughout Morgan’s speech, Monty had sat calmly, his face devoid of reaction. Now it was his turn. He leaned forward, met and held Morgan’s gaze. “Do you think that will make this bastard go away? If so, you’re deluding yourself. He’d pop up again—in your life, in someone else’s life. He’s like a cancer. He needs to be cut out and destroyed. It’s the only way everyone’s going to be safe—and that includes the Shores.”

  “But—”

  “I need you to trust me.” Monty never changed his tone or averted his gaze. “He’s scared. He knows we’re getting close. That’s why he took the risk of breaking into your house and leaving that crap on your bed. And it was quite
a risk. Before now, law enforcement was leaning toward the theory that some two-bit punk killed your parents during a robbery, and that he might very well be dead by now. But last night changed all that. Our guy exposed his hand. He told us he’s out there. He told us he’s a pro. Most of all, he told us he’s feeling cornered. He took that risk because he’s counting on you to walk away. So don’t.”

  Tears gathered in Morgan’s eyes. “I’m afraid,” she whispered. “What if he hurts Jill or—”

  “He won’t. I won’t let him,” Monty interrupted. “You have my word. Morgan, I was there the first time. I know what he stole from you. I’d never let you go through that again. I’ll get him. I promise. Just trust me.”

  “I do. I…” Indecision warred on Morgan’s face. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. We’ll see this through.”

  “Yeah. We will.” Monty resumed eating his eggs. “Did Lane feed you enough?”

  A watery smile. “More than enough.”

  “Then go lie down. Recoup your strength.”

  “Good idea.” This time Morgan didn’t argue. She rose, turning to Lane with a self-conscious expression. “May I use your couch? Or a spare bedroom?”

  Monty snorted. “No need to stand on ceremony. Not for my sake. I may be middle-aged, but I’m not dead. Use Lane’s room. As you know, it’s got that comfortable, king-size bed.”

  “Actually, I—” Morgan broke off, color staining her cheeks as she met Lane’s gaze.

  “I’ll take Morgan up and get her settled.” Once again, Lane came to her rescue—this time in an entirely different way. “Finish eating,” he advised Monty. “When I come down, we can get back to the scanned photos.”

  Monty paused over his bacon. “Speaking of scanned photos, Morgan, while you’re resting, would you mind if I took a look at your photos and the rest of your parents’ mementos?”

  “Of course not.” She went over to her tote bag and pulled out all the material Monty had requested. “Here. I’m not really comfortable carrying this around with me anymore, anyway. I feel like any minute it’s going to be snatched—either by the cops or the killer.”

  “How about if I store it here for you?” Lane suggested. “I’ll put it where I keep my negatives—in a fire-resistant safe that’s secured with a high-tech alarm system. We’ll be the only ones with access to it.”

  “That would do a lot toward giving me peace of mind.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Monty announced. “Now sleep tight.”

  LANE WALKED BACK down to the kitchen a few minutes later. Monty had organized Morgan’s memorabilia into piles, and was studying the personal photos.

  “Morgan was asleep before her head hit the pillow,” Lane notified him.

  “I’m not surprised.” Monty’s head came up. “Given the morning she’s just been through, following a hectic all-nighter—” A pointed look. “I take it you two never even made it upstairs.”

  “Butt out, Monty.”

  “No wonder she’s wiped.”

  “Monty…”

  “I’m not prying, Lane. Just reminding you that she’s in a fragile state.”

  “I know.” Lane recognized where his father was going with this. He’d already gone there himself. And what he’d come up with was a hefty punch in the gut. It would require a lot more thought, a couple of deep conversations, and some major getting used to.

  “Something on your mind?” Monty inquired.

  “Nothing I’m ready to discuss with you yet,” Lane returned bluntly. “Just know that what’s happening between Morgan and me is good. For now, let’s leave it at that. Let’s put our energies into our work, not my relationship.”

  “You got it.” Monty’s eyes twinkled as he returned to the snapshots. “Looks like you’ll be bringing someone up to the farm for Christmas after all. Your mother will be thrilled.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Lane was leaning over Monty’s shoulder, scrutinizing the photos. “Who took these?”

  “Mostly, the Winters and the Shores, with an occasional stand-in behind the lens when it’s a group shot. They’re family vacations, parties, major events in their lives.” Monty grinned, holding up a photo of two bright-faced little girls in Halloween costumes—one Sleeping Beauty, one Cinderella. The snapshot was labelled: Jill and Morgan, Halloween, 1987. “Look at those smiles. No wonder their parents took this one. You’ve got to admit, Morgan made an adorable Cinderella. Hope you’re up to the role of Prince Charming.”

  A corner of Lane’s mouth lifted. “Yeah, she had that rare, delicate beauty, even then.” He sobered, reaching over to sift through the pictures. “Are these in chronological order?”

  “No, but I pulled out the ones taken the night of the Kellermans’ Christmas Eve party. They’re the last pictures of Lara and Jack Winter taken before they died.”

  Nodding, Lane picked up the shots, scrutinizing them one at a time. They were typical party pictures, some with the host and hostess, some with the guest of honor, some with his family and friends. Morgan and Jill were in a few of the pictures, although they were clearly more interested in running around among the guests than they were in being photographed.

  Lane came to a photo of Arthur and Elyse, standing with Jack and Lara. Something about it caught his eye, and he paused, studying them with a frown. Their body language. It was tense. The same tension that was mirrored on their faces.

  He continued examining the party shots, only this time more slowly and carefully. He found himself organizing the evening into two segments: pre-and post-inebriation, giving him a sense of the order of events. In the post-inebriation shots, everyone was much more relaxed and uninhibited. The ruddy cheeks and glazed eyes said it all.

  Lane spotted a photo of Arthur and his father-in-law, clearly taken when the festivities were well under way. There were champagne flutes in their hands and they were making a mutual toast, facing the camera in a staged—if slightly off-balance—pose. Lane concentrated on each and every detail. Then he looked back at a previous shot of Arthur, taken much earlier in the evening. His gaze narrowed as he compared the two.

  “What is it?” Monty asked, seeing the intent expression on his son’s face.

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. Give me some time to find out.” Lane snatched up the two photos and headed toward his lab.

  “How much time?” Monty called after him.

  “Twenty minutes. A half hour, tops.”

  “Great. And you’re not going to give me a hint about what you’re looking for?”

  “Be patient. If I’m right, it’ll be worth the wait.”

  NORMALLY, MONTY WOULD be pissed off about being held at bay when so much was at stake. But the truth was, he had plenty to keep him busy for the next thirty minutes.

  Something about that damned B&E wasn’t sitting right with him. The timing had been just a little too convenient, the technique too professional. Plus, whoever hired the perp had brains. He’d arranged for his guy to have all the necessary newspaper clippings and Internet printouts before going to Morgan and Jill’s place. Quite a painstaking task, considering some of those archived news stories dated back months and had to be researched to find.

  The whole incident was like a well-rehearsed play, one whose acts had been coordinated by someone who knew the story and the characters intimately.

  This wasn’t just a pro. This was an inside pro.

  Pensively, Monty refilled his coffee mug. His instincts told him it was time to reexamine some vital loose ends.

  HE WAS JUST reading through a fax, when Lane emerged from his lab.

  “I was right,” Lane announced, holding up two eight-and-a-half-by-eleven color prints. “Now we just need to figure out what this means.”

  Monty shoved aside his fax. “Show me.”

  Lane laid out the original photos, then placed his color prints beneath them, side by side. The prints were zoomed images of Arthur from chin to chest, with his neck, shirt, and tie center stage.

  “What am I looking for?
” Monty asked.

  “The shirt.”

  “A white dress shirt—hardly original.”

  “Right. They all pretty much look alike. Which is probably why Arthur made the mistake.” Lane pointed at the photo taken earlier in the evening. “Look at the collar. It’s a standard three-point spread.” His finger shifted to the other print. “Now check out the collar here.”

  “It’s narrower.” Monty picked up the two prints, scrutinized them closely. “These are two different shirts.”

  “Yup. Which means Arthur changed while the party was going on.” Lane’s tone took on a skeptical note. “He could have spilled a drink on himself.”

  “Drink, my ass. If that were the case, he would have mentioned it during one of the dozens of conversations we had about the night of the murders. More likely, he slipped out to boff one of his ‘Angels.’” Monty ran a palm over his face. “Another red flag with Arthur Shore’s name on it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I just got a fax from my contact who ran a couple of background checks for me. One was on Charlie Denton. Seems that as a kid in law school, he worked on Congressman Shore’s—then State Assemblyman Shore’s—campaign. Their parting was abrupt and, evidently, not amicable. I’m coming up dry on the specifics. But Denton never mentioned it.”

  Monty picked up the fax, skimmed through the pages. “Then there’s the other link to the Shores. George Hayek. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s involved in this. He goes way back with the Shores. If I’m right, he was a CI for Jack Winter. His file is sealed, so I have no idea where things stood between him and Jack, or him and Arthur, when he moved to Belgium. But my sources tell me that he’s been a busy little beaver these days, raking in money from everywhere. Could be legitimate weapons trading. Could be illegal and unsanctioned. Plus, my contact says that Hayek’s got a slew of markers he could call in from ‘associates’ with diplomatic immunity in the U.S.—‘associates’ sophisticated enough to have pulled off the trashing of Morgan’s place. No surprise—a few of those bastards are always hanging around the U.N., their consulate, or running up parking tickets all over the city and never paying.”