Monty hadn’t arrived yet. Neither had Karly, who knew her arrival would cause a world of tension for Arthur and, unfortunately, for Elyse. So she was timing it just so, on Monty’s instructions.
Pausing to pick up a glass of eggnog, Morgan perused the room, wishing Lane would arrive. He’d promised to get there as soon as possible, but he was focused on one of the crime-scene photos, and wanted to see it through first.
Privately, Morgan suspected he’d just figured it was best to study the most graphic photos when she wasn’t there. Maybe he was right. The last thing she needed was more horrifying images to exacerbate her nightmares. They’d already grown to epic proportions.
But whatever he was looking at, she wished he’d hurry.
WHAT LANE WAS looking at were the same images that had been bothering him all week—the first close-ups taken of the Winters’ bodies. Initially, he’d focused on the areas around each body, hoping to find minute details in the shadows. That hadn’t happened. Instead, he’d noticed some flash glare in the close-ups of the blood around Jack Winter’s body. At first, he’d figured the CSI tech was either inexperienced or careless. But the glare repeated in several shots. Same locations, same intensity. All the other pictures were properly exposed, despite the difficult lighting conditions. It didn’t make sense.
Bugged by the discrepancy, Lane applied his PhotoFlair filter to those specific areas. Originally developed by NASA, the Photoshop plug-in was nothing sort of amazing. Interesting, he noted. Not all the bloodstains in the same pictures appeared to have the same reflective quality. Some of the stains appeared fresh, as if still wet. And they were scattered in a random pattern, not pooled tightly around the body.
Something felt wrong.
On a hunch, Lane picked up the phone and made a quick call. He’d just finished leaving a message, when Monty walked into the photo lab.
“I’m leaving,” he announced, awkwardly looping his tie. “Karly should be there by now. With any luck, we’ll pull this off. Are you coming?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting for a return call.”
“It had better come soon. Or you’ll miss all the excitement.” Monty frowned as he made his third attempt to tie his tie. “Dammit. Have I mentioned how much I hate these?”
“Seven or eight times.” Grinning, Lane stood up and walked over. Smoothly, he knotted his father’s tie. “Too bad you weren’t paying attention when Mom taught me how to do this.”
“Yeah. Right.” A curious glance at the monitor. “What is it you’re working on so intently?”
“The first crime-scene photos. Some of the blood around Jack Winter’s body looks wetter than the rest.”
“I remember.” Monty shrugged. “There were a couple of wet spots. But both victims bled out. The drying process happens as the blood is exposed to air. It’s not unusual to see some differences.”
“It’s the pattern of the differences that’s bugging me. The wet blood is in random splatters. And where they’re located…it’s just not sitting right with me. That’s why I made that phone call. I’ve got an old college buddy who’s now a hematologist. I want his take on this.”
“Hey, if you’ve got a gut instinct on this, go with it,” Monty said. “But don’t take too long. Morgan’s gonna need you. Besides…” A hint of a grin. “She’s a knockout in that black dress—what little of it there is. It’s got no back, no straps, and a neckline that’s way too low to leave her alone in a roomful of horny men.”
Lane shot his father a look. “I’ll be there in a half hour. If anyone comes near her before then, pull out your Glock and shoot to kill.”
THE PARTY WAS in full swing when Monty arrived.
He handed his overcoat to the attendant at the door, accepted a glass of eggnog and a plateful of his all-time favorite hors d’oeuvre—pigs in a blanket.
“Detective Montgomery.” Jill Shore happened to be standing close by when he appeared. She looked surprised, and a little uncomfortable, at seeing him. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
He flashed her that magnetic smile that Lane had inherited. “Morgan invited me,” he explained. “I think she took pity because, with all the overtime I’ve been putting in, I haven’t seen my wife all week. Also, aside from the couple of meals I’ve had at your grandfather’s deli, I haven’t eaten anything that’s not out of a can.”
Jill’s natural grace took over. “That does sound pretty bleak.”
“It is. These pigs in a blanket look like a five-star gourmet feast.” Sobering, Monty lowered his voice to a quiet undertone. “Please don’t worry. I’m aware the walls have ears. I’ll act accordingly.”
Gratitude flashed across Jill’s face. “Thank you. And happy holidays.”
“The same to you.” Monty paused, feeling like a shit for misleading her into thinking his motives here were strictly celebratory. Jill Shore was a warm, likable young woman. She didn’t deserve the fallout she was about to endure. Justice or not, the whole thing sucked. “I’m sorry your family’s been turned upside down,” he heard himself add.
“I know you are.” Jill reached out and squeezed his arm. “But I also know you’re helping Morgan. She’s part of my family, too. So enjoy Winshore’s contribution to the season. Eat, drink, and be merry.”
“No need to ask twice.” Monty gave her a paternal wink, then headed off to the left. He’d spotted Morgan, who was standing in a less hectic niche, chatting with Karly. Karly’s high color said she’d either just arrived or she was very nervous. Probably both.
“Ladies,” he greeted. “You both look beautiful.”
“Hi, Monty. You look very handsome yourself.” Morgan’s gaze flickered past him. “Is Lane with you?”
“He had a few loose ends to tie up. He’ll be here within a half hour.”
“Hello, Detective.” Karly smoothed a fold of her black chiffon Chanel cocktail dress. “And thank you for the compliment. You can never get too many of those.”
Actually, now that Monty was seeing Karly close-up, he had to rectify his original assessment. The heightened color was definitely from the winter chill. Rather than nervous, she looked determined, a purposeful glint in her eyes as she readied herself to right a heinous, seventeen-year-old wrong.
“How did your visit with Jonah go?” Monty asked quietly.
That elicited a spontaneous smile. “He’s a terrific kid. Smart, talented, and with a great future ahead of him. Speaking of which, he talks about your son as if he walks on water. He’s obviously been an amazing mentor.”
“He likes Jonah—his photographic instincts, his drive, his energy. Between you and me, he thinks he’s going to be a world-class photographer.” Monty glanced at Morgan, who was definitely pale and on edge. “Hey,” he said, calling for her attention. “I’m supposed to find out if any of the guys have hit on you. I have orders from Lane to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Morgan’s lips quirked. “You always know how to make me smile.”
“I wasn’t kidding. Lane’s become very possessive these days.” Without changing expressions or altering his demeanor, Monty asked, “Where’s Arthur? Has he spotted me yet?”
“He and Elyse are diagonally to your right and halfway across the room,” Morgan supplied, all humor having vanished. “And I don’t think so. There’s a small cluster of guests blocking his view.”
“How many guests?”
Morgan counted. “Five.”
“Can you go over there and join them, shift the group over a little so he’ll have an unimpeded view?”
“I can try.”
“Good. Do it.” Monty’s gaze shifted back to Karly. “Do you have a clear view of him?”
“Yes,” she supplied, after a quick check.
“Don’t look directly at him. Just keep him in your peripheral vision. Keep making idle chatter until Morgan’s done her job. Once Arthur sees us, glance around, like you want to talk to me in private. Then pull me aside—but not out of his line of sight. Act like you have
something vital to discuss, like we’re having a heated conversation. It shouldn’t take long—maybe five or ten minutes. Take your cues from me. Once our conversation’s over, go mingle. Enjoy yourself, but keep up a certain level of tension, in case any of the Shores are watching you. Remember, they all know who you are now, and the part you played in Arthur’s life. The rest is up to me. Any questions?”
“I don’t think so.” Karly drew a slow, calming breath. “I’m good to go.”
“Morgan?” Monty arched a quizzical brow. “Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Her pallor had intensified, and there was a pained moment-of-truth awareness in her wide green eyes. It wasn’t hard to figure out she was holding on by a thread—and that at any moment that thread could unravel.
Monty frowned. “We can do this without you.”
“No.” She gave a hard shake of her head, visualizing her mother and father, and finding the necessary strength to secure the justice they deserved and, by doing so, the closure she needed. “I’m on my way.”
LANE PRESSED ON while waiting for the callback from his hematologist friend.
Four of the bloodstains on the concrete floor were wetter than the others, all in proximity of Jack Winter’s body. Interestingly, there was also one other bloodstain, with the same glistening consistency, on Jack’s face.
Lane zoomed in. The cement chips and stones had done a number on Jack’s face, as had the fight that preceded it. The cuts and gouges were on the right side of his face, which suggested that was where he’d landed when he hit the floor. The contusion from the gun was on the left side of his head.
The odd part was that there was a wet blood splotch on the left side of his face, directly below the cheekbone. So he must have gotten that during the fight. But why would that have dried more slowly than the gashes sustained afterward, during the point of impact with the floor? If the perp had knocked him down, then grabbed for the gun, he wouldn’t have waited to slug Jack again. He’d simply have shot him before he could regain his strength and strike back. The execution-style position confirmed that.
So why the differing blood consistency?
Lane zoomed in closer, focusing on that spot on Jack’s left cheek. In addition to the odd splotch, there were several bruises in the area, plus a rivulet of dried blood from his nose—all signs of a fistfight. When Lane applied his PhotoFlair filter, several blood splatters and a previously unnoticed mark came to the forefront. The mark itself wasn’t jagged. Actually, it looked etched—two straight, distinct perpendicular lines—a longer vertical line and a short horizontal line at the base that jutted left. Lane found himself wondering what could have caused that particular shape—a knife? A razor blade? It had to be something specific.
His gaze returned to the shiny splotches of blood, which were just below the gash. Something was odd. Upon point-blank inspection, Lane could see that it was, in fact, a series of four small splotches, all in a row, forming a distinct pattern despite their random appearance. Four irregularly shaped ovals, roughly one inch apart.
Fingerprints.
No. Knuckle prints.
THIRTY-FIVE
Monty stopped the server who was passing by, and helped himself to two baby lamb chops with mint jelly to go along with the three mini-quiches and four more pigs in a blanket he already had on his plate. He was just being practical. The food was great, he was starved, and he needed his energy for the tête-à-tête he was about to have.
Plus, he was having too much fun watching Arthur Shore squirm to rush things.
Ever since the congressman had seen Karly pretending to spill her guts to Monty—her body taut with anxiety, Monty’s features focused and grim as he fired terse, intentionally drowned-out questions at her—he’d been in freak-out mode. He obviously knew some damning information had been exchanged. Monty had made sure to drive home the fact that Arthur was the subject of that damning information by instructing Karly to edge a few quick, furtive glances in his direction while she spoke.
Now it was a waiting game, one Monty was taking full advantage of. The longer he waited, the testier Arthur was getting. And it was a lot more fun being the hawk than the prey.
In the end, it was Monty’s eye contact with Morgan that made him act. She was standing off by herself, looking on the verge of collapse, and pretending to be overseeing the servers.
Monty strolled over, leaned past her to set down his empty plate, and muttered, “It’s time. I’ll use one of the yoga rooms in back, so it stays private. You hang tough. Lane should be here any minute.”
“I’ll try.” Her hands were trembling, and she kept glancing over at Jill. “In some ways, this is even a bigger nightmare than the original one. A faceless killer is easier to live with than a man you thought of as a second father. As for Jill—I don’t know how she’s going to get through this. Elyse, either. I realize she’s been covering up for him, but infidelity’s one thing. Murder is another. I’m sure she’s in denial. I pity her. And Jill…” Morgan’s voice trailed off.
“They’re not alone,” Monty replied flatly. “You were. They have each other and you. You had no one. They’re adults. You were a child. What you lived through was hell. Death is permanent. Prison’s not.”
“You’re right. It isn’t.” Morgan reached over for two icy bottles of water. She handed one to Monty, and uncapped one for herself. “Thanks for the verbal slap in the face. Good luck.”
LANE WAS STARING at the blood splotches on his monitor when the phone rang.
The caller ID said private. Lane grabbed it on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Lane? It’s Stu McGregor.” In the background were the distinct medical center sounds and intercom pages of a hospital. “My service said you needed some urgent information.”
“Stu, thanks for getting back to me so fast. I’m fighting the clock on a criminal investigation, and I’m stumped on a blood issue. It truly is time critical, or I wouldn’t be jumping on you like this.”
A chuckle. “I should have known you’d be up to your ass in intrigue. Okay, tell me what you’ve got.”
As thoroughly and comprehensively as he could, Lane explained what he was seeing in the photos on his monitor. “What it doesn’t explain—at least not to me—is the glossy consistency of the blood. It dried under the same set of environmental circumstances. So what could cause some blood to dry more slowly?”
A pensive silence. “Okay, this is just speculation on my part, since I obviously have no firsthand knowledge of either person involved or his medical history. But what if you’re looking at bloodstains from two different sources—the victim and the killer? Following that logic, I’d say one of them is on some kind of anticoagulant. Those are taken under certain medical conditions in order to reduce the risk of blood clotting.”
“So they thin the blood, like aspirin does.”
“Differently. Aspirin thins the blood and keeps it flowing properly through the arteries. Warfarin, the anticoagulant I was referring to, reduces clotting in lower-pressure areas, like the legs, where the blood is stagnant. I don’t think aspirin alone would explain the liquidlike appearance you’re talking about. For that kind of sticky consistency to be present, I’d suspect the patient was on warfarin. That’s prescribed when a patient has either an artificial heart valve, deep vein thrombosis, atrial fibrillation, or in some cases after heart attacks or strokes—”
“Wait,” Lane interrupted. Everything inside him ran cold as Stu’s words struck home.
I’ve got this thing with my heart. Lenny’s words, spoken in Jonah’s hospital room. Atrial fibrillation—a big name for a not-so-big problem. I’m on medicine…it thins my blood, keeps it from coagulating.
“Did you say atrial fibrillation?” Lane asked.
“Yes. In layman’s terms, that’s an irregular heartbeat. In chronic cases, the blood doesn’t flow quickly enough from the heart, making it more likely that clots will form. If that happens, and a clot is pumped from t
he atria to other parts of the body—kidneys, intestines—major problems can occur. And in the worst-case scenario, if the clot is pumped to an artery leading to the brain, it can cause a stroke.”
“And you said the drug prescribed is warfarin?” That didn’t ring a bell. It wasn’t the name Lenny had used. And before he jumped to an unthinkable conclusion, he had to be sure. “Is that the only anticoagulant of its type on the market? Or is it known by any other name?”
“The most common brand name is Coumadin.”
Coumadin. That was the drug Lenny had mentioned.
Lane was beginning to feel sicker by the minute. “How long has Coumadin been on the market?”
“Let’s see—President Eisenhower was given Coumadin after his heart attack in 1956. It’s been prescribed on a regular basis ever since. Does that answer your question?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Is Coumadin prescribed long-term? Could it be taken, say, for seventeen years?”
“Sometimes for life. One important caveat—patients taking Coumadin must get their blood levels checked, at least monthly. The therapeutic window—the difference between the dose necessary to adequately slow the anticoagulant process and the dose that would cause spontaneous bleeding—is very narrow. So the dose must be carefully monitored and adjusted.”
That triggered another memory. Lenny. At the deli last week. Nicking himself while slicing a sour pickle and bleeding way too much for a simple cut. And Arthur, nudging him to have his blood tested, explaining to Lane and Monty that his father was on blood-thinning medication and was supposed to get his levels checked every month, doctor’s orders.
Shit.
“Lane?” Stu prompted. “Are you still there?”