“Wow.” Lane loosened his grip around her waist. “You have had a hectic day. Tell you what. I’ll open a bottle of wine and get a fire going. You grab some blankets from the hall closet and join me in the living room. We can unwind, and talk.” A frown. “Unfortunately, my fridge is pretty empty.”
“Do you have bread?”
“Sure.”
“How about peanut butter and jelly?”
“Yup. Standard fare.”
“Cans of soup?”
“Better—I have a quart of Rhoda’s chicken soup that I picked up yesterday for when I got home tonight.”
“Perfect. You take care of the ambience. I’ll do dinner. It’ll be a gourmet feast of PB and J and homemade soup. What could be better?”
“At the moment, I can’t think of a single thing.”
A HALF HOUR later they were sprawled on blankets in front of the fire, munching on sandwiches, spooning up soup, sipping wine, and talking.
Lane listened intently while Morgan described her surprise package and what it contained.
“Seeing your mother’s note and card—it must have hit you hard,” he surmised.
“It did. I’m counting on Monty to figure out what it means. He’s running with a couple of different theories.” Morgan dipped her spoon into her soup, stirring it around. “He’s planning on pinning Arthur down tomorrow, asking for an explanation and an alibi. I’m not looking forward to the results. Arthur’s going to bust a gut.”
“It’ll be difficult. But it’ll clear up a lot of questions. And if all that was involved was an affair, it’ll be business as usual. Monty will corroborate Arthur’s story, then verify that the woman in question can account for her whereabouts during the time of the murders. If all that checks out, it’ll be a done deal and Monty will keep the whole thing under wraps. The only people who will know about it are us and the Shores. If it’s Elyse you’re worried about, I’m sure she won’t be shocked. She knows who she’s married to.”
“You’re right. She does.” Morgan raised her chin and stared straight ahead, watching the crackling flames of the fire. “I could never accept that, never live that way,” she heard herself say. “To me, marriage is more than blind, passionate love. It’s a union—a union that includes fidelity. Not the kind you offer because you have to. The kind you offer because you want to.”
“True. But that’s not always the hard part,” Lane answered quietly. “Even with unwavering fidelity, marriage is a huge, complicated commitment. And you’re right—love’s not enough to make it work. I saw that with my parents. They were crazy about each other. But they were also very different people. They wanted and needed entirely different things. That pulled at their marriage until it frayed, then finally snapped.” He paused. “On the other hand, they never stopped loving each other, and one day they realized that mattered more than the differences. So who knows?”
“Maybe no one. Maybe it’s all about taking chances. Huge, complicated chances, as you just pointed out.” Morgan swallowed, dropping her gaze to the blanket. “I’m not sure I’m up for something of that magnitude. What’s worse is that the description you just gave of your parents’ contrasting personalities sounds disturbingly like us. Which probably means we should walk away now, while I’m still in one piece. Much longer, and it’ll be too late.”
“It’s already too late,” Lane countered. “Walking away’s not an option. Not for me. I’m in too deep—way too deep.”
His words swirled through Morgan like an aphrodisiac. “So am I,” she admitted. “You have no idea how deep. So what do we do?”
“We see it through. We trust our instincts. We shove dinner aside and go upstairs to bed.” He was following words with actions, pushing away bowls and plates and rising to his feet. “We spend the rest of the night blocking out all the vast unknowns and losing ourselves in each other. Then we deal with the rest as it comes. How’s that for a plan?” He held out his hand to her and waited.
Morgan drew a sharp breath, exhaling in a rush. It was no use. She couldn’t fight these feelings. Come hell or high water, they were here.
Placing her fingers in his, she scrambled to her feet. “Plan approved.”
IT WAS SNOWING lightly as Monty’s Corolla turned onto the Taconic State Parkway and toward home.
Reflexively, he clicked his wipers on, his mind preoccupied with the case’s most recent developments. He was counting on Barbara Stevens and Arthur Shore to fill in some blanks.
The congressman had sounded strained and pissed off at Monty’s demand for an early morning meeting. Especially when he’d heard it was personal. His reaction could have been rooted in fatigue and stress. Or it could have been rooted in guilt.
Monty was so deep in thought that he scarcely noticed the BMW 325i that barreled down the entrance ramp and onto the Taconic, downshifting as it accelerated past his beaten-up Toyota. It rounded one of the parkway’s winding bends and disappeared.
Just how deep did Arthur Shore’s involvement run? Monty mused. Fidelity and morality were clearly dispensable in his book. So was honesty, since he’d lied about having spoken to George Hayek since he’d left his job at Lenny’s. That could have been at the D.A.’s request. Or not.
Monty was nearing the Route 132 exit, where the road narrowed from three lanes to two when, out of nowhere, a pair of flashing hazard lights appeared, outlining a car that was at a near standstill. It was practically invisible in the snowy evening sky. And Monty was almost upon it.
“Shit!” He hit his brakes, swerving to the left lane, narrowly missing the BMW’s rear end.
Still muttering, Monty glanced into his rearview mirror and glared at the other vehicle. He was half tempted to turn on the dome light and give the guy the finger for being such a road menace. But he restrained himself, instead concentrating on accelerating up the incline as he reached the overpass.
His headlights illuminated the falling object a split second before it hit.
Then his front windshield exploded.
Spiderlike cracks gave way to shards of glass that sprayed everywhere. Monty raised his arms to protect his face, simultaneously slamming on the brakes as the car swerved out of control. He managed to hook his elbow into the steering wheel, giving it one hard shove so the car veered to the right, away from the center divider.
The Corolla slid off the road, bouncing down the uneven ground of the wooded decline until it struck a tree and came to a stop.
Dazed but conscious, Monty angled his head toward the passenger seat, and saw the brick lying beside him. A foot or two closer and he’d be dead.
SATISFIED THAT HIS goal had been accomplished, the driver of the BMW slowed his vehicle down, stopping only long enough to pick up the man waiting just under the overpass.
MONTY SWORE, AWARE that there was blood trickling down his jaw. Fragments of glass were everywhere—on the dashboard, the seats, the floor, and all over his parka. His hands had been spared, thanks to his gloves, and he used them now to gingerly brush as much glass off himself as he could.
At that moment, he heard the rumbling sound of another car approaching. The BMW that had been creeping along.
It wasn’t creeping now.
Headlights off, its running lights were barely visible as it blew by. Monty tried to make out the license plate, but it was too dark, since the Taconic had no streetlights. As for his own car, it was in no shape to move, much less launch into a high-speed chase.
Ripping mad, he stared after it. Clearly, Morgan wasn’t the only one the perp wanted scared off.
Well, the son of a bitch didn’t know who he was dealing with.
But he was about to find out.
WEAK MORNING SUNLIGHT was trickling into Lane’s bedroom when the telephone on his night table rang.
Morgan made a soft sound of protest, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders and burying her head in the pillow. After an all-night lovemaking marathon, she was in no shape to move, much less function.
??
?Let the machine get it,” Lane mumbled, wrapping an arm around her.
“Mm-hmm.” Morgan was already drifting back to sleep.
The ringing stopped, then started again.
“Goddammit, Monty,” Lane muttered, reaching across Morgan and groping for the phone. His gaze fell on the clock. “It’s seven fucking thirty.” He plucked the receiver off the hook and crammed it against his ear. “It’s Saturday,” he said bluntly. “I’m sleeping. And I’m not meeting you till ten. So forget it.”
“Lane?” a woman’s hesitant voice inquired.
He blinked in surprise. “Who’s this?”
“Nina Vaughn, Jonah’s mother. I’m sorry to call so early, but we’re in the emergency room at Maimonides Medical Center. Jonah’s been admitted.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jonah wasn’t doing well.
His parents were doing worse.
Nina Vaughn rushed over to Lane the minute he walked into the ICU waiting room. “They’re doing a CT scan,” she informed him. “I told them everything you said about Tuesday’s skiing accident. The doctors said this could definitely be related.” Her voice quavered. “Eddie and I are total wrecks. I should be more helpful; I am a hospital aide. But I work in pediatrics. I don’t know anything about sports injuries. And he was in so much pain. We rushed him here by ambulance.”
“Pain doesn’t necessarily mean a critical injury,” Lane tried. “I’ve torn ligaments and literally seen stars.”
Jonah’s mother nodded, but Lane wasn’t even sure she’d heard him. “At least they’re giving him something for the pain,” she murmured. “He’s more relaxed now. Oh, and they drew blood. We’re waiting for the results. Something about a CBC to check for internal bleeding.”
Lane nodded. “That makes sense.” He turned to greet Ed Vaughn with a handshake. “How are you holding up?”
Jonah’s father shrugged, his face drawn with worry. “I’m okay. I just wish they’d tell us something.”
“They will.” Lane forced a smile. “Hey, I spent half my teen years in the ER for stuff like this. My mother used to say that the hospital should be issuing me frequent flier points.”
At that moment, the hallway doors swung open and an orderly wheeled Jonah down on a gurney. He looked lousy—half out of it, pale and scared, and like he was fighting back tears. His parents hurried over, flanking the gurney as it made its way down the hall.
Jonah spotted Lane, and surprise darted across his face.
“Hey.” A self-conscious grimace. “Did my mom drag you down here?”
“No, I came to find out how soon you’d be back at work. We’ve got the congressman’s photo essay to finish, remember?”
“I’ll do my best.” Jonah forced a smile. “But right now, I feel kind of crappy.”
“Yeah, I’ve been there. But it gets better.”
“Glad to hear it.” Jonah shifted, wincing a little at the discomfort. “Would you do me a favor and call Lenny? He’ll need someone to sub for me. I feel bad leaving him in the lurch.”
“You’re not leaving him in the lurch. You’re getting better.” Lane walked alongside the gurney until the orderly reached Jonah’s ICU room. “I’ll take care of it. Anything else you need?”
Jonah eyed his parents’ drawn expressions. “Yeah. Convince my parents I’m not gonna die.”
“They already know that.” Lane winked at Nina and Ed, trying to lift their spirits. “But they’re your parents. They worry. That’s their job.”
“Lane’s right,” Ed told his son in an encouraging tone. “And your job is to heal fast so we have one less thing to worry about.”
“I’ll try.”
Lane paused outside the room. “I’ll be out here,” he informed Jonah. “Rules say only one or two visitors at a time. So spend some time with your parents and I’ll visit later.”
Once Jonah was settled inside with his parents, Lane left the building. First, he called Lenny. Then he called Monty, filling him in on what was going on with Jonah and rearranging their plans. Next, he followed up on an earlier call he’d made to O’Hara, confirming that the bodyguard was back on duty, parked right outside Lane’s brownstone where Morgan was staying. And last, he called Morgan, gave her a preliminary update, and made sure she was okay. She sounded warm and drowsy, her voice husky with sleep, and he told her to stay that way until he got home. He found himself smiling as he hung up. There was something very primal, very natural—not to mention very erotic—about her waiting for him in his bed.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it.
By the time he got back upstairs, Jonah’s parents were reconvening in the hall, poised with nervous anticipation as the doctor treating Jonah strode toward them, carrying his test results. He plucked out Jonah’s chart and skimmed it, mentally assessing the compiled data.
“Dr. Truber, what do we know?” Nina asked anxiously.
“First, Jonah’s anemic. Normal hemoglobin is above twelve grams, and normal hematocrit is above thirty-six percent. Jonah’s hemoglobin is nine grams and his hematocrit is twenty-seven percent. And the CT scan shows that Jonah has a lacerated spleen. The good news is that it appears to be an incomplete laceration, rather than a complete rupture. That means it’s possible it will heal itself without requiring surgery. Time will tell. The other positive news is that his vital signs are currently fine.”
“So other than monitoring him and waiting, what can we do?”
“Donate blood, in the event that surgery or a transfusion is necessary.” The doctor glanced questioningly from Nina to Ed. “Does either of you know your blood type? Because Jonah is AB negative, which is the rarest of all blood types. Less than one percent of the population has it. We need to start the cross-match process right away.”
“I’m B positive and Ed is O positive,” Nina supplied. Seeing the puzzled expression on Dr. Truber’s face, she explained, “Jonah is adopted.”
That news clearly didn’t make the doctor happy. “That complicates matters. Are you acquainted with any of Jonah’s biological relatives?”
“No.” Tears slid down Nina’s cheeks. “This is so ironic. We were just in the process of hashing this out with Jonah. He’s determined to try contacting his birth mother. He’s under eighteen, so he needs our permission to do so. We’re torn; we understand his feelings, but we want to protect him. What if his birth mother wants no part of him? Jonah’s young, vulnerable. We’re afraid a flat-out rejection would devastate him. The timing seemed wrong.”
“It just became right. For medical reasons, I urge you to initiate the search—immediately.”
ARTHUR’S CONGRESSIONAL OFFICE was quiet. It was Saturday morning, and no one was in.
Monty and Arthur made their way into Arthur’s private office with the cups of coffee they’d picked up down the street. Arthur pointed Monty to a chair, then sat down across from him. “Okay, Montgomery, you made it clear that this meeting was urgent, and personal. Let’s hear it.” He frowned as Monty unzipped his parka and lowered the hood, revealing a bunch of facial cuts and lacerations. “What happened to you?”
“I skidded off the road last night and hit a tree. I’m fine.” Monty didn’t mince words. “A couple of things have come up. We need to address them.” He took out the color prints Lane had made and placed them in front of Arthur. “The night the Winters were killed and sometime during the hours of the Kellerman party, you had reason to change your shirt. These are the before-and-after shots. I need to know if you left the party to do so, anyone you might have interacted with during that absence, and what time this took place. Also, if you did leave the party, why didn’t you mention it either during the initial murder investigation or now.”
Arthur took a sip of coffee. His posture and jaw were rigid, but otherwise he was composed. If he was blown away by Monty’s line of questioning, he was hiding it well. “That was certainly blunt and to the point.”
“Just procedural.” Monty flipped open a notepad, took out his pen, and waited.
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“Fine. Then I’ll be equally blunt. I never mentioned it because it didn’t factor into the investigations, then or now. And there are parts of my life I try very hard to keep under wraps.” A humorless laugh. “Not that the tabloids let me.”
“So we’re talking about an affair?”
“More like the unwinding of an affair. But, yes, I left the party. And, yes, I met a woman.”
“Fine. I’m not interested in hearing the details of your sex life, or in sharing them with anyone else. Just give me the who, when, and where. I’ll check it all out discreetly, make sure the woman in question has an alibi for the time of the homicides, and then let it go.”
“Fair enough.” Arthur put down his coffee container and interlaced his fingers on the desk. “Her name was Margo Adderly. She was an intern in my Washington office. We had a brief fling. She wanted more. I didn’t. She showed up in New York the week before Christmas. She called, came by my office. I avoided her and her messages. The night of the Christmas party she got pretty insistent. She threatened to barge into the Kellermans’ and make a scene if I didn’t meet with her. That was the last thing I needed. I didn’t see that I had a choice.”
“So you met with her.”
“At her hotel room, yes. I slipped out of the party with as little fanfare as possible. At first, the visit was civil. She took my jacket, offered me a drink. I turned her down. Not that she would have noticed. She was smashed enough for both of us. I wanted to talk, to get through to her that whatever we’d had was over. She wanted to reignite things, to remind me how good it had been. I tried to explain, but I was getting nowhere. Instead of listening, she was removing my tie. Then I got blunt, maybe even cruel. I told her the relationship was over—in no uncertain terms. I finally got through her drunken haze. That’s when things got dicey. She went a little crazy—screaming, throwing things. One of those things was her drink, which she flung at me. Her aim sucked, she was so loaded. Fortunate for me, because she missed, other than splattering my shirt. She threw me out. I went home, changed shirts, and went directly back to the party. The whole incident took maybe forty minutes. The party had barely gotten under way. End of story.”