“Plus a whole lot of what you don’t need,” Charlie muttered.
“That’s my problem. And Denton?” Monty pinned Charlie with a meaningful stare. “Shore won’t be getting any heads-up on why I want to see him. Just like what you told me about your sister, this is confidential and off-the-record.”
“Don’t worry.” Charlie waved away Monty’s pointed message. “I’m steering way clear of this one. Any involvement on my part would be career suicide. But I’ve got to give you credit, Montgomery. You’ve got balls.”
“And proud of it,” Monty returned drily.
“Speaking of balls…” Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “That quart of soup and can of soda just hit my bladder. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“No problem.”
A grin tugged at Monty’s lips as Charlie dashed around his desk and took off for the men’s room. Bless Rhoda’s soup. It had done the trick.
He waited ten seconds. Then he leaned forward, plucked the manila folder off Charlie’s desk, and quickly flipped through it.
Lots of extraneous crap. Paperwork. More paperwork. Interoffice memos. Legal documents building Jack’s case against Angelo. Intermittent mention of his meetings with the CI in question. One bunch of xeroxed pages clipped together.
Those, Monty rapidly scanned. They referenced the original paperwork on the CI’s arrest, with all names and specifics blacked out, and only the CI number substituted.
The last few pages of the packet had the NYPD logo on them.
Those had potential.
With lightning speed, Monty ran through them. He knew these forms like the back of his hand. The final page was a poor-quality photocopy of the online booking sheet the arresting officer had supplied.
Monty held the sheet up to the light, frowning when he couldn’t see through the black marker. Damn.
His time was running out. Denton would be back any minute. There had to be something.
Bingo.
Way at the bottom of the sheet, was the perp’s contact info, blacked out just like the rest of the data. Only here the marker had grown faint near the end of the line. Monty could make out the last four digits of the phone number: 0400.
Finally. Something to go on.
Monty replaced all the documents and laid the file neatly on Charlie’s desk.
THERE WAS NO time to waste in driving back to Queens, so Monty went directly to Lane’s apartment, flipped on the computer, and started his search. He punched in the 212 area code—the only one that existed in NYC thirty years ago—and tried every conceivable exchange. He knew damned well he could be royally screwed; if the phone number had been disconnected or transferred to another party decades ago, finding out who it belonged to back then would be a bitch.
Luck was on his side, because thirty minutes later, he hit pay dirt.
The number 212-555-0400 was still very much in existence. It belonged to a mega-successful real estate development company that had been thriving for many years—the same company Charlie Denton had mentioned before.
Kellerman Development, Inc. The company where, thirty years ago, Daniel Kellerman’s brand-new son-in-law, Arthur, had been corporate counsel.
Another solid indicator that the CI in question was George Hayek.
The timing of all this fit with Monty’s theory. Hayek had made the call after his gunrunning arrest. That explained how he’d become an informer for the D.A. Arthur must have contacted Jack, and they’d struck a deal. Jack got a great inside informer, and Arthur got Hayek off the hook—probably for Lenny’s sake.
Interesting. Arthur had lied to Monty about never having spoken to Hayek since he left Lenny’s.
That made two distortions on the congressman’s part: his unexplained shirt change at the Kellermans’ Christmas Eve party, and the phone call from Hayek and subsequent deal cut with Jack.
What else had he lied about?
Monty had all Denton’s paperwork to pore over; details, dates and times to match up. And after that, he and Congressman Shore were going to have a nice, long chat.
Hours passed.
Monty was deep into reading and note taking, when his cell phone rang.
Annoyed, he glanced down at the caller ID. He had no intention of answering, until he saw that it was Morgan.
He punched on his phone. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“I’m not sure.” Morgan sounded more emotional than scared. “I just got a very unnerving package.”
“A package?” Monty was on instant alert. “What kind of package? And what do you mean by unnerving?”
“It’s a Tyvek envelope. And I don’t mean dangerous, so don’t panic. There are no twisted threats. It’s only a card, a note, and a Post-it. It’s just that—” Morgan’s voice broke, then she resumed. “It’s not something I can get into on the phone. I’ll only cry, and that’ll waste time. I spoke to Arthur’s doorman. He said the Tyvek arrived by delivery service, specifying Friday-afternoon delivery. I’m not sure why, unless the sender knew Arthur would be away and Elyse would be at the gym. I’m pretty thrown, and I don’t want to discuss this with anyone before I talk to you. Jill’s on the phone dealing with a client. Can you meet me somewhere?”
“I’m at Lane’s, using his computer to run down some leads while he’s in the Poconos. I’m alone. Here’s what I want you to do. Slide the package into a Ziploc, just in case there are any discernible fingerprints on it—which I doubt there are. Then tell one of the security guys inside the apartment that you’re running out to do an errand—with your bodyguard. That way, Jill won’t be alarmed when she hangs up the phone and comes looking for you. Grab the package and head over here.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Morgan,” Monty added firmly. “I meant the part about taking your bodyguard. You’re not going anywhere alone.”
“Believe me, I don’t intend to.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Monty read the Post-it, handwritten note, and business card—not once, but twice. Then he glanced at the Tyvek. There was no return address.
He raised his head and looked at Morgan. “I assume this is your mother’s handwriting?” he asked, pointing to the card and the note.
“Yes.” Tears clogged her throat.
A nod. He patted her arm, lowering his head to study the items again.
The business card had Lara’s name, and the address and phone number of her Brooklyn shelter printed on it. Beneath the address, she’d scribbled her home number. The note wrapped around the card was bent, and the words had faded a bit with time. But they were definitely visible.
J—Call anytime—L.
“J,” Monty muttered. “I wonder who that is.” He glanced at the Post-it, obviously penned recently—judging from the ink smear—and in a different, but also feminine handwriting.
There was no salutation and no signature. It simply read, Your mother once helped me. I’m returning her kindness by helping you. Look close to home. Trust no one.
“I called the messenger company,” Morgan supplied. “It’s downtown on West Twenty-second Street. They said a woman dropped off the package with specific instructions to deliver it to me at the Shores’ apartment between noon and five today. She was wearing a hooded black coat and sunglasses. Which means we have no description. And she paid by cash.”
“Great,” Monty said drily. “So much for increased security measures. She could have been dropping off an envelope of anthrax. What sender’s name did she provide?”
“Jill’s. So that does us no good, either.”
“Someone went to a hell of a lot of trouble to get this to you—and to remain anonymous doing it.”
Morgan raked a hand through her hair. “The only reason for her to do that would be because she knows something about who killed my parents, and because she’s terrified to come forward.”
“Or because she was hired to lead us on a wild-goose chase.”
“Huh?” Morgan’s brows arched in puzzlement.
“The timing
is interesting,” Monty noted. “But before we get into my theory, let’s explore yours. Say that whoever sent this heard about the break-in at your house, and that she has reason to tie it to the murders. Adding all the pieces together, she became afraid for you—afraid enough to come forward. But anonymously, because she’s also afraid for herself. Makes sense.” Another glance at the Post-it. “Let’s focus on the ‘close to home’ reference. If you’re right, that’s a pointed warning with some ugly implications. If you’re wrong, it’s an equally pointed diversionary technique orchestrated by a perp who feels the walls closing in on him.”
“That’s the wild-goose chase you’re referring to,” Morgan concluded. “But who’s the puppet who delivered the message and who’s the puppeteer initiating the chase?”
“Don’t know the puppet. Might know the puppeteer.”
Morgan made a frustrated sound, then called Monty on the carpet. “Okay, I’ve been patient. Now I want an explanation. You know something. I sensed it yesterday and I’m sure of it now. What is it? And in full sentences, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Monty gave her a crooked grin, trying to soften the blow she was about to be dealt. But she was the client. She had a right to know. “It’s possible Arthur spent some time with another woman the night of the murders. If so, she’s a new lead. Suspect, witness, woman scorned—anything’s possible. Maybe this is from her. Or maybe it’s from someone who knows about her.”
Morgan was staring. “What are you talking about? Arthur was at the Kellermans’ party the night of the murders. He was with Elyse. How could he have hooked up with another woman? And, even if he did, why would she want to kill my parents?”
“I can’t answer that. Not until I find out who she is and what her agenda was. For now, all I have are gut feelings and seemingly disconnected pieces to this puzzle.”
“I want to hear all of them, starting with why you suspect Arthur was with another woman that night.”
Monty filled her in on Lane’s discovery, showed her the color prints with the zoomed shots of Arthur’s neck clad in two different dress shirts.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Morgan said, having reviewed the prints three times for confirmation. “Arthur’s no saint, but he’s not about to slip out of his in-laws’ party just to have sex with some woman. He has more than ample opportunities for that.”
“True. But when sex is involved, men rarely think with their heads. Either way, I need an explanation for the shirt change. And if Arthur was with someone that evening, I need to know who and when.”
It was the “when” that struck home.
Morgan’s eyes widened. “When you said you might know the puppeteer—you’re not implying that Arthur is a suspect?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating that everyone who knew your parents has to account for his or her whereabouts between the hours of seven and eight on the night of the murder. If Arthur was away from the party during those hours, then, yes, he has to provide an alibi.”
“Have you talked to him about this?” Morgan asked woodenly.
“Not yet. But I did talk to Elyse. She had a hard time keeping it together when I showed her the photos.”
“I can imagine. Is that why you wanted to see her alone yesterday?”
“Yup.”
“No wonder she was such a mess after you left. Monty, don’t rub her nose in Arthur’s indiscretions. It’s painful enough as it is.”
“I’m hunting down a killer. That takes precedence over being sensitive to a wife with a cheating husband. I’m sorry. But that’s the way it is.”
Morgan searched the hard lines of his face. “You were hunting down a killer seventeen years ago, too. That didn’t stop you from being compassionate.”
“You were a helpless, traumatized child whose entire world had been shattered. Elyse is a full-grown woman who’s chosen to stay in a complicated marriage. Defenseless victim. Victim who allows herself to be victimized. There’s no parallel.”
“Fair enough,” Morgan had to acknowledge.
“I’ll set up a meeting with Arthur for tomorrow morning. I need some answers. Once he provides them, I’ll have a better idea where we stand.” Monty frowned, his gaze returning to Lara’s business card and note, and the Post-it that had accompanied it. “Any way you look at it, this note was written by your mother and the business card it’s wrapped around was meant for the recipient, not just plucked off a reception desk. People don’t scribble their home phone numbers on random business cards.”
“The logical assumption is that they were meant for one of the women my mother worked with at the shelter.” Morgan chewed her lip. “Maybe Barbara would know.”
“Barbara. She’s the woman you mentioned at that counseling center—Healthy Healing.”
“Yes. She knew my mother—and the women she worked with—very well.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“It’s after five. But I’ll see if she’s still in her office.” Morgan opened her cell phone and punched in the number for the Healthy Healing Center. She reached Jeanine, explained the situation, then agreed to hold on. Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, she murmured to Monty, “Barbara’s away until tomorrow night. I spoke to her assistant and explained how important this is, and that it concerned my mother. Jeanine is trying to reach Barbara on her cell phone to make special arrangements.” She tugged her hand away from the phone. “Yes, Jeanine? Sunday would be great. Please thank her. She can call me anytime tomorrow tonight, no matter how late, to nail down a time and place.” Morgan hung up.
“Sunday?” Monty’s brows raised. “That’s pretty dedicated.”
“That’s Barbara.”
“Good. So I’ll have a busy weekend. Arthur tomorrow and Barbara on Sunday.”
“I don’t want to be there when you interview Arthur.”
“You shouldn’t be. No one should. This is a private conversation. Arthur and I will find a private place to conduct it.”
“I’m not sure I want to be there when he gets home, either.”
The sound of a key turning in the front door lock interrupted their discussion.
“I think your solution is about to walk through that door,” Monty replied.
An instant later, Lane strolled in. He saw them, stopped, and blinked in surprise. Then he nonchalantly leaned back outside, glanced at the number on his building, and gave a decisive nod. With that, he reentered the brownstone, plopped down his camera bag, and shrugged out of his parka. “This is my apartment,” he announced. “I was just checking.”
“Sorry,” Morgan said with a rueful grin. “I didn’t mean to invade your space. Something came up and I needed to see your father ASAP. He was working here. So I showed up in a panic.”
“No apology necessary.” He winked. “You’re the intruder I could get used to coming home to. No offense, Monty.”
“None taken.”
“And why the panic?” he asked Morgan.
She sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“You can fill Lane in after I cut out of here.” Monty stood up and stretched. “Which I’m about to do. I got what I needed. Thanks for the use of your computer.”
“No problem. But what was so urgent that it couldn’t wait till you got to your office?”
“A pressing telephone-number search.” From behind Morgan’s back, Monty shot Lane a “later” look. “How was the skydiving?”
“Incredible.” Lane got the message and went with Monty’s subject change. “Great form, great weather, great footage.” His gaze flickered to Morgan. “But I was ready to head back. So was Arthur. And Jonah’s a little under the weather, so even he’d had enough. Obviously, I missed something significant at this end.”
“We haven’t found the killer. Anything less than that doesn’t count as significant.” Monty grimaced. “Puzzling, yes. Complicated, definitely. As they say, the plot thickens. In any case, I’m outta here. I’ve got a ton of paperwork to go through. I’ll do th
at at home. I’ve barely seen your mother all week. And I’ll call the congressman on my cell while I drive.” He gathered up his stuff. “Morgan will bring you up to speed. Tonight’s yours. But tomorrow, I’ll need you. All day long. So clear your calendar.”
“Consider it done.”
“I’ll call you in the morning when I’m heading back into the city.” Monty grabbed his coat, glanced back at them as he headed toward the door. “O’Hara’s outside?”
“In a car across the street,” Morgan supplied. “I promised you I wouldn’t go anywhere without my bodyguard and I haven’t.”
“Good girl. Anyway, I’ll stop by his car on my way out, tell him to take the night off. I doubt you’ll be needing his services before morning.” Monty waved as he walked out. “See you.”
The door shut behind him.
Morgan’s gaze darted to Lane’s, color tingeing her cheeks. “I never said anything about spending the night.”
“I know.” Lane came over and tipped her chin up. “But you have to admit, it’s a good idea.” He kissed her, then raised his head, studied her expression. “Unless you don’t want to.”
She smiled, and for a moment she felt giddy, happy. In contrast to the past day’s gravity, it was like the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders, however temporarily.
“Don’t want to,” she repeated. “Funny, that doesn’t seem to be a phrase I’d associate with whatever’s going on between us.”
“Good point.” Lane kissed her again, this time pulling her close, gliding his fingers through her hair. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you today,” he murmured when the kiss finally ended.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. This is all new to me.”
“I know.” Morgan rested her forehead against his sweater. “And it’s scary to me.”
“I know.” Lane was quiet for a moment. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Plus, I want to hear about what freaked you out enough to race over here to see Monty.”
“And I want to discuss those color prints you made of Arthur, and their possible implications—the gist of which Monty just laid out for me and now plans to lay out for Arthur. That’s why he’s calling him, and why I’m preparing for fireworks.”