IT WAS 2 A.M. and Monty still hadn’t slept.
He rolled onto his back, giving up the fight and reconciling himself to a sleepless night. He glanced over at Sally, feeling a surge of peace and contentment at the sight of her lying beside him. They’d been remarried for six months now, and he still felt like the luckiest man alive. After three decades in law enforcement, he’d seen more tragedy and ugliness than he let himself dwell on—certainly more than enough to know that Sally encompassed everything that was good and beautiful. And this time around he had the maturity and wisdom to hang on to that.
Sally’s deep, even breathing told him she was sound asleep. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he slid out of bed, yanked on a pair of sweats, and headed down to the kitchen. As always, during his restless nights, he followed the same counterproductive but enjoyable routine—counterproductive because every aspect of it was guaranteed to prolong his insomnia. He brewed a pot of strong, black coffee, found a relatively fresh donut—which he microwaved for precisely nine seconds—and plopped down at the table to snack and think.
Tonight’s thoughts were all about the resurrection of the Winter homicide cases.
Gabelli was a good guy. During the quieter part of his workday, he’d managed to make a copy of the entire original file—from interviews to written reports to crime-scene photos. After that, he’d packed it up and left the precinct for the night, making a quick detour to Little Neck. According to the voice mail he’d left Monty, he’d slid the file under Monty’s office door, so it would be the first thing he tripped over when he walked in tomorrow morning.
Monty couldn’t wait to get his hands on that file. Not that he needed it to remember the crime-scene details; those were forever etched in his mind. But he did need it to review and reevaluate each investigative step they’d taken, this time with a fresh eye and the more sophisticated forensic tools at their disposal.
Checking for a DNA match would be easy—provided the perp was already in the system. But if he wasn’t, if the murders had been, as Monty suspected, personal and committed by someone without a record, there’d be zip to go on.
The crime-scene photos were another matter. True, they’d been taken in the late eighties. But their quality had been pretty decent, and the area and angles they’d covered had been comprehensive. Which was a good start. Because, as luck would have it, Monty knew the best damned image-enhancement and photo-retouching expert in the business. A pro whose skill at interpreting photos had earned him respect within the law enforcement community and beyond.
Monty took another belt of coffee. It was the middle of the night. If he remembered his dates right, his poor son had just gotten home from Europe a few hours ago. He was probably sprawled in his bed, dead to the world.
Okay, Monty would give in to his paternal instincts—for one night.
But tomorrow Lane was getting a phone call.
MORGAN JERKED AWAKE, plagued by that gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach–the feeling that something was wrong, but not quite grasping what it was.
Abruptly, she remembered, and everything inside her went cold.
She sat up in bed, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them. Arthur would set things in motion. And Detective Montgomery would be on this case like a bloodhound. Still, it wasn’t enough. It was her parents who’d been shot to death, and she couldn’t take a passive role in figuring out who’d really pulled the trigger.
There had to be something more she could do.
She scrambled out of bed, went back to the spare bedroom, where she’d left her parents’ memorabilia. Maybe there was something here that could help her. The problem was, all the photos were personal, as were the mementos. And the newly discovered journals were her mother’s. They dealt with plans to aid abused women, to offer them counseling and medical care. That had been Lara’s passion—and why Morgan had initiated the pro bono branch of Winshore. If she could help women who’d survived abusive relationships find healthy ones, she’d be contributing to her mother’s dream.
As for her father’s things, there were no notes, no old date books, nothing personal other than the framed photo of her and her mother, and the handsome pen set he’d kept on his desk.
However, along with the stack of photos her mother had collected were newspaper clippings, tributes to major cases that Jack Winter had prosecuted and won.
Carefully, Morgan laid out the articles. She’d been reading through every one word for word. The names and convictions didn’t ring any bells. Then again, she’d been a child when they occurred. The fact was, any of those criminals could have had outside contacts or angry family members who’d “take care of” an A.D.A.
Bottom line—any of these articles could contain the kernel of a motive, one she didn’t have the knowledge or expertise to spot.
Damn. Morgan sat back on her heels, swamped by a sense of frustration. She was grasping at straws. But at least she was grasping. No matter how worried about her Arthur and Elyse were, how insistent they were that she stay out of the line of fire, she couldn’t. She had to take an active role in this investigation.
Her posture rigid with purpose, she refolded the articles and slid them into an envelope. She’d give them to Detective Montgomery. Maybe the names would mean something to him. If not, maybe they’d ring a bell with Charlie Denton, or with another attorney who’d been with the Manhattan D.A. at the time.
It was a potential avenue.
One she had to take.
SIX
As luck would have it, Hank Reynolds reached Lane before Monty did.
Lane had just finished his workout and was gulping down a bottle of water when the phone rang.
He draped a towel across his shoulders and walked across the room he’d converted into a home gym when he renovated the Upper East Side brownstone he’d bought from his brother-in-law, Blake. The place was great, roomy enough for an extensive digital photo lab, a gym, and a media room.
With a quick glance at the caller ID, Lane picked up. “I must admit, you’ve got balls,” he informed his editor. “I know that I wouldn’t mess with me this soon after the ten days I just had and the bed I’ve barely slept in.”
“Well, I would,” Hank replied. “Plus, I know you. You always swear you’re going to be zoned for a week, then you’re bored after eight hours. You sound out of breath. Bet you’re just back from the gym.”
“Nope. I worked out at home.” Lane grinned, polishing off the water. “But you’re right. I bounce back fast. And bed gets boring when you’re by yourself.”
“Yeah, well, get out your BlackBerry, pick a name, and click for company. That’ll solve your lonely bed problem by tomorrow.”
Chuckling, Lane tossed aside his towel and sank down on the padded bench against the wall. “I think you’re exaggerating just a little. But I like the image, so I won’t argue. Now, tell me about this piece on Congressman Shore you’re so hot to run. And skip the current political events update. I might globe-trot like a lunatic, but I do have Internet access.”
“Fair enough. But there’s a new scandal in the congressman’s life—one that has nothing to do with politics.”
Lane groaned. “This isn’t going to be an exposé is it? I’ve heard all the rumors about his younger women. I’ve read the blogs on ‘Arthur’s Angels’ claiming he has—and enjoys—the best-looking interns in D.C. I couldn’t care less.”
“This is Time, Lane, not the Enquirer. The piece has nothing to do with his sex life. It has to do with his best friends’ murders, which happened seventeen years ago. Apparently, the killer who confessed didn’t do it.”
“What?” Lane’s head came up. “Are you talking about Jack and Lara Winter—those murders?”
“The very same. There was a major screwup. It’s just now surfaced. Who knows how many asses it’ll come back to bite.”
“My father worked that case. He was the lead detective.”
“I know. So does the congressman. Which makes hi
m twice as eager to have you be the one assigned to do this photo-essay piece.”
“Why?” Lane was instantly wary. “I was sixteen when it happened. I wasn’t privy to the case details. And I wouldn’t pass them along if I had been.”
“Take it easy. He’s not looking for a mole. He doesn’t need you to pry information out of your father. He hired him. Actually—it was the Winter’s daughter who hired him. But it’s the same difference. She’s been Shore’s ward since her parents died. Anyway, the point is, Shore is a busy man. Meeting with you about the article, while he touches base with your father about the case, will save him time and give him peace of mind.”
“How’s that?”
“Trust. He wants to have editorial approval over the photos and text we use to portray this angle.”
“‘This angle’—meaning the reopening of the Winter’s homicides?”
“Yup. Given that Pete Montgomery is your father, Shore feels comfortable you’ll respect his wishes and limit your coverage. In other words, you’ll depict concern and intensity, but nothing more.”
“He doesn’t want to blast the system—at least not publicly, and not yet.”
“Right. He’s restricting his media appearances to discussions of his proposed legislation. Nothing on the Winters’ murders. No interviews. No official news conference. He’s deflecting any questions on what he considers to be a highly sensitive and personal issue. If pressed, he’ll say only that all inquiries should be directed to the authorities. So, with regard to this subject, you’re it.”
Lane rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Fine, so I’m getting a preliminary exclusive. I’ll hear the lowdown on the homicide investigation, take a few candids of him and my father.” A pause. “We should do this at Lenny’s. It’ll add a familial touch. The shots will be homey but earnest. Not to mention that I’ll be well fed. My father and I have been regulars at Lenny’s since I was a kid.”
“You and the rest of the five boroughs. But you’re right; it’s a good idea. The subtle reminder of the congressman’s humble roots will play out well in contrast to the charismatic and successful politician he’s become.”
“I can pick Shore’s brain about his proposed legislation there, too. Afterward, I’ll take some shots of him among his constituents. Now, what about the thrill-seeking angle? Where does that come in?”
“I was wondering how long it would take for you to get to that,” Hank replied wryly. He knew Lane, and how he’d be chomping at the bit to strike out on some high-risk adventures. “Not to worry. From what he said, the congressman has great plans in store for you. He mentioned heli-skiing in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains, and skydiving in the Poconos—not the run-of-the-mill jumps you’ve done a dozen times, but some accelerated free falls. He’ll tell you all about it tonight.”
“Tonight?” Lane interrupted. “What’s tonight?”
“Oh…that.” Hank cleared his throat. “I sort of promised him you’d drop by his place for cocktails. He wants to run through the key points of the photo essay and go over the itinerary for next week.”
“And he wants me to take some at-home shots of him and his family. That way the public will see for themselves how well the Shores are coping with this bomb that was dropped on them. At the same time it’ll show their solidarity, and portray the congressman as a loving family man. He could use that now; it might just neutralize whatever negative impact those rag magazines are generating by running nonstop pieces on his extramarital affairs with twenty-five-year-old women.”
“You got it.”
Lane shrugged. “Works for me. I would have appreciated having a little more than six or seven hours’ notice, but what the hell. What time does he want me?”
“Six o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
MONTY SPENT THE entire morning poring over the file Gabelli had shoved under his door, updating notes and making a list of every possible ball the NYPD had dropped.
His analysis was interrupted first by the expected phone call from Arthur Shore and then by the less expected visit from Morgan Winter.
The congressman offered Monty every means of support he had and all the resources that were at his disposal. He said he’d be speaking to both the Manhattan and Brooklyn D.A.s, using his political clout to ensure their cooperation. And he requested weekly meetings between himself and Monty so he could act as a liaison between the official and unofficial investigations and, at the same time, protect Morgan from taking the brunt of this traumatic situation.
Their phone conversation was interrupted when Arthur got a return call from the Manhattan D.A., which he signed off to take—but not before arranging an initial meeting with Monty. Monday. Noon. At Lenny’s. For lunch.
Barely had Monty agreed and hung up, when his doorbell rang. Morgan was standing on the front step, hands shoved in the pockets of her wool overcoat. She came in long enough to proffer an envelope of articles regarding convictions her father had won, then asked what else she could do.
Monty cleared his throat. “Look, Morgan, I’m going to be honest with you. I got my hands on a copy of the case file. It’s not pretty. The details are gory and the photos are graphic. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you—”
“I want to see it.” Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides. “I need to see it.”
He had to admire her pluck. He also understood the basis for her resolve. But he knew better than she what she was letting herself in for, and the emotional preparation she needed to face it.
“Here’s the deal,” he told her. “I need time to scrutinize every report, every interview, every lead. In the meantime, you need time to steel yourself. What you’re about to see will be hell. So let’s each take a couple of days to prep. When we’re both ready, we’ll walk through that door together. Just understand that that not only means digging up painful memories, but reliving a nightmare. I’m sorry—but there’s no other way.”
“I understand,” she said tonelessly. “I knew what I was signing on for when I hired you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I spoke with Congressman Shore. He’s worried about you, and your ability to handle the repercussions.”
“I know he is. And I’m grateful to him for it. But this is something I have to do. If that means living through more intense and frequent nightmares, so be it.”
A terse nod. “Fair enough. Give me a day or two.”
“Then we’ll talk?”
“More than talk. We’ll get into a detailed recap. You were there that night. Till now, you’ve been fixated on the scene you walked in on, the memory of discovering your parents’ bodies and all the horror that went with it. Now you’ll have to think beyond that. You might have seen or heard something that could amount to a clue. And that’s just the beginning. I want to go over whatever you remember about the weeks leading up to the night of the murders. Telephone calls your parents received. Conversations. Arguments.”
Morgan’s eyes widened. “Detective, I was ten years old—hardly privy to the details of my parents’ lives or their marriage.”
“You’d be surprised. Kids pick up on a lot more than they realize.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“To the same place you were going when you collected these newspaper clippings for me. Was this a random killing or was it personal? Your father was a prosecutor. He put away criminals. That means he made his fair share of enemies. Did one of them go after him and your mother for revenge? If so, there might have been warning signs. Signs your parents discussed, and you overheard.”
“So back to square one.” Morgan raked a hand through her hair. “With all our digging, this might still turn out to be a burglary gone bad.”
“Yeah. It could. This personal vendetta angle could be a dead end. It’s just as likely that some strung-out junky killed your parents for their cash and jewelry. But, no matter who’s responsible, I plan to find him.”
“If he’s still alive.”
&nb
sp; “Even if he isn’t, I want to find out who he is—was. We all need the closure.”
PONDERING HIS OWN words after Morgan left, Monty admitted to himself that they were bullshit. There was only one way to find real closure. And that was to find that son of a bitch alive and make him pay. Anything less would leave a gaping void—for him and, more important, for Morgan.
He opened the file again, studied the photos of the murder scene. Christmas Eve, 1989. Lara and Jack Winter shot dead in the basement of a renovated building on Williams Avenue where Lara ran her women’s abuse center.
The murders had taken place between 7:30 and 8 p.m. At the time, Lara and Jack had been there alone—except for Morgan, who’d begged to come along and help decorate for the center’s first annual holiday party. They’d come straight from a Christmas Eve political bash for Arthur, hosted by Elyse’s parents in their posh Park Avenue penthouse. Talk about a modern Tale of Two Cities—Manhattan at its most affluent and Brooklyn at its most indigent. But from what Monty had learned, the Winters’ hearts had been far bigger than their egos.
And their reward? Being shot dead, left crumpled in pools of their own blood on a filthy, broken-up cement floor, only to be discovered by their ten-year-old daughter, who’d come down to see what was taking her parents so long to carry up the paper goods.
His gaze darting from one photo to the next, Monty reached for the phone and punched in a number on speed dial.
“Hey, Monty. Your ears must be burning,” Lane greeted him.
“Huh?”
“My editor at Time and I were just talking about you. He told me you’re working with Congressman Shore. That means you and I will be having lunch together on Monday. Pastrami on rye at our favorite deli—just like old times.” Lane paused, cleared his throat roughly. “Actually, once Hank told me you were taking on the Winter case—again—I was going to give you a call, make sure you were okay. I know that investigation was a tough one for you. This news must have hit you hard.”