Dark Room (11 page)

An immediate nod. “You’re right. He does. That’s Monty’s MO—taking care of the people he loves, and the people he feels responsible for.”

“Well, the night my parents were killed, I certainly fell into the latter category. Actually, I still do because, in your father’s mind, he never fulfilled his responsibility to me. Not really. Not when the real murderer is still walking the streets.”

Lane folded his arms across his chest, eyeing Morgan with undisguised admiration. “No wonder you’re so good at what you do. You’ve got quite a handle on human nature.”

“Hey, that’s what a master’s degree in human behavior will do for you.”

“Maybe the master’s degree helped. But what I’m describing isn’t acquired in a lecture hall. It’s innate. You really get what makes people tick. And what you lived through obviously enhanced that ability.”

“What I lived through is something I was hoping to relegate to the past. So much for that idea.” Morgan massaged her forehead, visibly affected by reliving that night.

“You’ve been through hell,” Lane observed quietly.

“Yes,” she agreed. “And it looks like I’m back there again.”

It was with great restraint that Lane didn’t reach over and take her hand. But instinct told him she wouldn’t welcome the physical contact.

He was about to suggest they change the subject, when the waiter solved the problem by choosing that moment to arrive with their food.

A look of sheer relief flashed across Morgan’s face. “This looks fabulous.” She smiled her thanks at the waiter, then turned her attention to her burger, picking it up and taking a big, juicy bite. “Yum.”

Lane followed her lead, falling silent as he prepared his own food, took a few appreciative bites. “Don’t forget the lamb chops,” he reminded her a few minutes later. “We’re splitting those.” He indicated the two plates.

“Don’t worry. I won’t. In fact, I’m so hungry that if I were you, I’d protect my half.”

He chuckled. “Feel free. I’ll order more, if necessary.”

Morgan took another bite, chewed slowly, then swallowed, watching Lane as she did. She put down her burger and tucked her hair behind her ear. “We’ve discussed the hell out of me. Let’s talk about you for a change.”

He made a wide sweep with his arm. “I’m an open book. What do you want to know?”

“What got you interested in photography?”

“Life did. Life and my personality. I always found it fascinating to capture the essence of an entire story in one shot. There’s a great deal of truth to the expression ‘a picture’s worth a thousand words’—if it’s the right picture, of the right story, taken by the right photographer.”

“Which, in your case, it is.”

“Usually. Hopefully. Added to that was my fascination with photographic technology. F-stops and photo-lab chemistry were cool enough. Then came the modern age—digital cameras and computer image enhancement. I’m in my glory.”

“Not to mention traveling all over the world, and inserting yourself right in the middle of high-risk situations like civil wars and natural disasters, and participating in thrill-seeking adventures like the ones you and Arthur are about to embark on.”

Lane grinned. “Yeah, that, too. I admit there’s a lot of daredevil in me.”

“How long have you been photographing professionally?”

“Since college.”

Morgan whistled. “That’s impressive.”

“Not when you hear how I made my money back then. I was full of myself, my skills, and my immortality. I wanted a fast life and a fast buck. So job number one was as a paparazzo.” A corner of his mouth lifted as he saw Morgan’s reaction. “Pretty skanky, huh? Following the rich and famous in the hopes of catching them doing something newsworthy, or gossip-worthy, that no one else has snapped them doing before?”

“It’s not a career I would aspire to. That doesn’t mean I don’t understand why you did it.”

Now
that
comment irked him. He wasn’t sure why. Yeah, actually he
was. The way she said it, so clinically, as if she were figuring him out so she could properly place him—it made him feel like one of her clients. Which was the
last
thing he wanted to be.

“This should be interesting,” he noted drily. “I can’t wait to hear your analysis of what drives me.”

Her brows rose. “Testy, aren’t we?”

“Just skeptical.”

“In other words, I’m good at what I do so long as I don’t do it to you.”

Dead-on again. “That’s not what I meant.” He wasn’t giving up without a fight. “It’s just that, given how differently we approach life, I can’t imagine you understanding my motivations.”

“Why not? Because I don’t enjoy pushing the boundaries of my own mortality? That’s not because I don’t understand. It’s because I know how fragile life is.”

He’d walked right into that one. And he felt like a bastard. “Morgan, I…”

“Don’t. I’m not offended.” Morgan dismissed his upcoming apology. Interlacing her fingers, she rested her hands on the table and regarded him intently. “I’m not going to analyze you. I don’t know you well enough. Plus, I’m not a therapist. But I go to one often enough to understand the fundamentals of human behavior. So here’s my take on your paparazzo stint. You were sixteen when your parents split up. Your foundation was rocked. Risk became more palatable, since there was less you could count on. Anticipation was infinitely more appealing than complacency. So you went with it. The adrenaline rush felt great, growing in intensity after each assignment. So you kept on going, pushing the boundaries more each time, to up the ante and heighten the rush. It worked. It still does, even though you’ve changed the direction your assignments take. It’s still exciting, still dangerous, still a major adrenaline rush. Am I warm?”

“Hot.” Lane propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, which, of its own accord, tightened into a fist. He could feel his blood pumping, the same way it had the other night at the Shores’. There was something about this woman that made all his senses come alive. She went from disarming him and making him want to comfort her, to challenging
him and pissing him off, to exciting him and making him want to bury himself inside her until neither of them could breathe.

The last part was what was driving him crazy right now.

“Thrill seeking is like sex,” he muttered, his voice barely audible above the piano. “Pushing the boundaries, upping the ante—it all heightens the rush, and intensifies the pleasure.”

She got his meaning, loud and clear. Color stained her cheekbones, but she didn’t avert her gaze. “The rush. The pleasure. What about the risk?”

“It’s worth it.”

“Maybe. If the experience is as incredible as you claim.” A heated glint lit her eyes. “Still, I’m a pretty grounded woman. I like to have a clear picture of my odds before I plunge in.”

“And how do you manage to get that clear picture?”

“This, coming from a master photographer?”

“Yes. This, coming from a master photographer.”

There wasn’t an iota of teasing in his tone. He was dead serious.

She answered in kind, responding to his fervor with her own. “By taking my time. By letting the excitement build. If thrill seeking is like sex, then anticipation is like foreplay. It has its own rewards. It’s also an adrenaline rush unto itself. Plus, waiting has other merits, like reaching a modicum of certainty.”

“Ah. Looking for something stable and secure.”

“No, just something that feels right. Life is tenuous. Who knows what’s stable? And security—that’s never a guarantee. But feeling good mentally is just as important as feeling good physically. And when you feel both at the same time, well, it doesn’t get any better than that.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Do that. In fact, try it. You might reach new levels of pleasure that surprise even you.”

She let her words hang in the air for a moment, until the tension was drawn so tight, it felt like it might snap.

Exhaling on a wispy sigh, Morgan reached forward, picking up the serving fork and spearing the lamb chops, placing a few on each of their plates. “Let’s eat these before they get cold,” she murmured.

“Right.” Lane was still staring at her heatedly, making no attempt to disguise what he wanted. And it wasn’t the lamb chops.

“There you go.” As she felt his scrutiny, Morgan’s hand trembled ever so slightly as she handed him a plate. “Equal portions.” She sat back, her lashes lifting so she could meet his gaze head-on.

“Enjoy,” she urged softly. “Savor every bite. Oh, and never let it be said I didn’t meet you halfway.”

T
he early lunch crowd was already congregating at Lenny’s when Monty crossed Delancey Street, strode down to the middle of the block, and pushed open the glass door.

He was greeted by the enticing smell of hot pastrami and potato knishes, and the familiar shouts of orders being called across the counter and the whoosh of razor-sharp knives slicing repeatedly through deli meat that was then placed on platters or between slices of Jewish rye.

There were still some things in life you could count on. Lenny’s deli was one of them.

Monty shrugged out of his parka and glanced around the restaurant, glad they’d set up this meeting for noon. By twelve-thirty, the place would be a madhouse. He wouldn’t be able to hear himself think, much less update Arthur Shore on the murder investigation.

“Hey, Monty!” Lenny bellowed his name, waving and gesturing for him to wait a minute. Without missing a beat, he continued entering
numbers into the cash register while handing over a hefty shopping bag bulging with food to one of his customers. Simultaneously, he beckoned at Anya, his stout, buxom, lightning-quick waitress who’d come over from Russia, settled in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, and worked the past twenty years at his deli.

“Anya,” Lenny instructed. “Set up a table. In the back. For three…no, four. I want enough space so I can pull up a chair and join them.”

“Okay, okay.” Anya held up the tray she was carrying, which was filled to the brim with ready-to-be-served platters. “Right after I deliver these.” She headed over to table three, distributed the entire order, then sashayed off to do her boss’s bidding.

“You’re early,” Lenny informed Monty. “Neither of our boys is here yet.”

“That’s because they’re both old and we’re young. We move faster.”

Lenny threw back his head and laughed. The guy was amazing. Seventy-eight years old and still going strong. Quick as a whip, steady-handed, and seemingly tireless, Lenny still ran his deli almost full-time. His wife, Rhoda, kept the books, paid the staff, and made the coffee, the matzo-ball soup, and the chopped liver from scratch every day. The two of them had opened the deli over forty-five years ago, and taken the place from a small-time sandwich shop to a New York landmark. Some of that success was due to the food, some to the personable warmth of the owners, and some to the political fame of their congressional son.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The space and the clientele might have grown along with the profits, but Lenny Shore hadn’t changed a bit. Quite simply, he loved what he did. He liked his customers and they liked him.

“How’s Sally?” Lenny walked over to Monty, wiping his hands on his apron before reaching out to shake Monty’s hand.

“Great—but jealous. I told her where I was eating. She said not to come home without a pastrami sandwich and a pound of Rhoda’s chopped liver.”

“I’ll give you two pounds. Save some for when the kids come over. Let’s sit down. Tell me about the family.” He led Monty to the rear of the restaurant, which was slightly quieter than the rest of the place. “I already
know how Lane is. Busy. Half the countries he’s been to, I’ve never even heard of. But he’s doing well, and he’s happy. So that’s all that matters. Tell me about those beautiful daughters of yours.”

“Grown up.” Monty scowled. “Time passes too damned fast. Merry’s a senior at SUNY Albany already. She’s graduating this spring, and going on to get her master’s in education.”

“A teacher like her mom.”

“Yeah, she’s a lot like Sally—softhearted and superattuned to kids. And she’s got a law school boyfriend, but let’s not go there.” Monty grunted. “As for Devon, her veterinary clinic is thriving. It’s been written up in more publications than I can name. Oh, and she and Blake just bought a big house in Armonk. They’re hoping to become homebodies, and actually see each other once in a while. He spends too many hours running Pierson & Company. They need some downtime.”

“A house?” That perked Lenny up. “With lots of bedrooms? Sounds to me like that town house of theirs is getting too small. And you know what
that
means. Any day now they’ll be calling you and Sally up with the happy news that—”

“Not yet.” Monty cut him off with a grin. “At least not right away. But it wouldn’t surprise me if they decided to make me a grandpa in a few years.”

“That would be wonderful! Especially since, given Lane’s lifestyle and the number of women he’s dated, I wouldn’t hold my breath in the hopes that he’ll do you that honor first.”

“Believe me, I’m not.”

“There’s nothing like grandchildren. They fill your life with joy.” A pained look crossed Lenny’s face. “My poor Morgan. It makes my insides twist when I think of what she’s going through. I know she’s not mine by blood. But I love her the same way I do Jill.”

“I know you do.” Monty blew out a breath. “This whole screwup sucks.”

“You’re helping Arthur, though, right? He said you’re launching a whole new investigation.”

“That’s a little overstated. Morgan hired me, Arthur’s throwing his support behind me, and yeah, I’m reinvestigating the Winters’ double ho
micide. But I’m a PI now, not a cop. So I’m not launching anything—at least nothing official.”

“I know you, Monty. If you’re in it, you’re on top of it. So what did you find out?”

“Bits and pieces.” Monty had intended to wait until Arthur arrived before addressing the issue that had been bugging him all weekend. But given Lenny’s interest, he decided the hell with it. “Listen, Lenny. I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“What do you know about George Hayek?”

Lenny’s gray brows arched. “George? Wow, talk about a blast from the past. He worked as my delivery boy when he was a kid, right after he and his mother fled from Lebanon and came to the U.S. It must have been thirty-eight, maybe thirty-nine years ago, a handful of years after we opened. Why?”

“Because I was sifting through some paperwork and I found his arrest record,” Monty answered evasively. “He listed you and your deli in the phone-call section of his booking sheet. It was the only name he specified.”

“That’s not a surprise. His mother didn’t speak English. And he had nowhere else to turn.” Lenny’s forehead creased as he thought back all those years. “George was basically a good kid. But his father was killed in Lebanon, and he came over here a pretty angry teenager. He had no role model, so, yeah, he became a little wild. He acted out, fell into a rowdy crowd. They boosted a car, and he got caught. It was stupid, and he knew it. He needed a break, someone to give him a little support. So I filled that role. I showed up on his behalf, and I posted his bail. Why? How did George or his arrest record come up in your investigation?”

“It didn’t. Not directly. I had the Central Clerk’s Office in Manhattan dig up some old case files for me—all the ones Jack Winter successfully prosecuted during the last year of his life. One of those cases involved a guy named Carl Angelo, a big-time drug and weapons dealer. Jack Winter got him convicted a few months before the murders. Angelo had a long list of scumbags on his payroll. A couple of those scumbags used to run in the
same crowd as George Hayek. Like you said, they were a pretty sketchy bunch.”

“That was when they were teenagers. Who knows what they grew up to be? They could be murderers. They could be priests.” Lenny turned his palms up in an it’s-anybody’s-guess gesture. “As for George, he didn’t deal in drugs or guns. He stole a car. And that was twenty years before that Angelo guy was arrested.”

“True.” Monty nodded. “Are you and Hayek still in touch?”

“Nah.” Lenny shook his head. “The deli was just a starting point for George. Once he got enough cash under his belt, he left. Wanted to start his own business, help some of his family back home. And he wasn’t exactly the letter-writing type. The last I heard, he’d moved out to L.A., then to somewhere in Florida. I don’t know where he settled.”

“But he left here on good terms.”

“Hell, yeah. Like I said, George was a good kid. Worked for me for almost a year, and never stole a nickel.”

“He put in a lot of overtime?”

“More than a lot. He busted his ass to support his mother.”

“So he spent long hours at the deli. Did he know Arthur?”

“Did who know Arthur?” Congressman Shore strode over, hanging his overcoat on the hook beside the table.

“Monty’s asking about George Hayek. I think he’s worried that George had some kind of grudge against us.”

“Why?” Arthur looked startled.

“Why was I asking about him, or why was I worried that he might have a grudge against you?”

“Both.” Still visibly perplexed, Arthur pulled back a chair and sat down. “George Hayek—I haven’t heard his name in years.”

“I’ll fill you in.” Monty repeated the story.

“I see.” Arthur frowned. “Do you have any evidence that George was on Angelo’s payroll?”

“Nope. It was a long shot,” Monty replied. “But I had to run down the lead. I’m running down
every
lead. And when I saw Lenny’s name on Hayek’s booking sheet, I saw a potential motive.”

“What motive?” Lenny demanded. “I’m still not following.”

“I am.” Arthur pursed his lips, nodding as he contemplated Monty’s reasoning. “You’re asking about George and me because you’re wondering if we got along. We did. Not that we saw much of each other. I was away at college and he was here, working for my father. But I saw him whenever I came home for vacations. I even went with him and my father to the movies a few times.” Arthur gave Lenny’s shoulder a squeeze. “Dad had a soft spot for George, given how much he’d lost. He figured we could include him in some of our father-son time. George appreciated it. He wasn’t much of a talker. But it was obvious how much he respected us. Especially Dad. He never forgot the breaks my father gave him. George’s loyalty ran deep.”

“Well, that shoots that theory to hell.” Monty sat back in his seat.

“You figured that if George had it in for me, even after twenty years, he’d go after my closest friend?”

“It’s not a new motive. Hatred. Vengeance. It’s been used before. You were a state assemblyman, an influential man who was on the political fast track. Plus, it didn’t have to be you he was after.
If
he’d stayed in New York, kept hanging out with that gang of his, and ended up running guns for Angelo, you might not even have factored into the equation. Angelo was convicted. It was only a matter of time before his flunkies went down, too. One of them might have decided to take care of Jack before Jack could take care of him.”

Again, Arthur nodded. “Good point. Sobering, too. Even though George didn’t fall into that category, there must have been dozens of criminals who did.”

“Yeah, very few of whom were investigated last time. Schiller’s confession took care of that.”

“Hi, all. Sorry I’m late.” Lane wound his way over to the table, putting down his camera bag and eyeing the clock on the wall. “Actually, I’m not late. I’m two minutes early. What time did this meeting get started?”

“It didn’t,” Lenny assured him. “How could it? There’s no food on the table. I’ll fix that.” He stood up, pointing at each of them in turn. “Lane—pastrami, lean, potato knish, and coleslaw. Monty—brisket-and-corned-beef combo and a bowl of matzo-ball soup. Arthur—a hot open turkey platter, a bowl of sour pickles, and a piece of your mother’s noodle pudding, if you know what’s good for you.”

His son grinned. “I’m not dumb. I’ll eat every bite, then call her later and tell her how good it was.”

“Smart boy.” Lenny patted him on the back. “I’ll take care of the order myself. You boys talk.” His gaze settled on Monty. “Thank you for helping Morgan. She’s been through hell and back.”

“I remember.” Monty gave a terse nod. “Don’t worry. I’ll chase down every lead till I find the right one.”

“I know you will.” Lenny turned toward the kitchen, his customarily upbeat mood restored. “And I’ll make sure Sally’s order is ready when you go. Rhoda’s chopped liver beats a dozen roses any day.”

“No argument.” Monty watched Lenny cut through the crowd and disappear through the swinging door. “He’s something else.”

“He sure is,” Lane agreed. “He’s got more energy than I do, his memory’s better than mine, and he’s always chipper and happy. I don’t envy you, Congressman. He’s a tough act to follow.”

“You’re right. And, please, call me Arthur. I already feel older than my father, and you call him by his first name.”

“Good point.” Lane chuckled. “Fine—Arthur.” He sent a sideways look at Monty, then glanced quizzically at Arthur. “I’m not sure how you want to handle this meeting. My role here is a little nebulous, at least as I see it. My editor explained that having Monty and I meet with you together will optimize your time efficiency. That’s fine. But you’re going to have to define my limitations.”

Lane summarized the specifics, counting off on his fingers. “Tell me when we’re on the record and when we’re off; when I’m taking the lead in this interview and when I’m taking a backseat; and when you want me to make myself scarce so the two of you can talk privately. Officially, I’m here to take whatever photos and corresponding text you want readers to see regarding the homicide investigations. At the same time I want to give maximum exposure to your proposed legislation. I already have photos of you with your family. I’ll want some of you among your constituents. The order and the structure of how things get done is up to you. I’m at your disposal.”

Arthur steepled his fingers in front of him, tapping them together as he spoke. “Let’s start by cutting through the BS. You and I are flying out to
Colorado tomorrow, and driving up to the Poconos a couple of days later. We’ll be together for the better part of a week while you chronicle our adventures for
Time
. There’ll be plenty of time to talk. Believe me, I’ll chew your ear off about my bill. In between trips, we’ll find more than enough photo ops. But today’s meeting is about who really killed Jack and Lara. I know your involvement in this investigation is more in-depth than the photo essay you’re doing for
Time
. So tell me, where do things stand with the crime-scene photos?”