Dark Room (16 page)

“Don’t go down this path, Monty. It’s total BS, and a waste of energy. Even if you’d kept digging, you wouldn’t have made any progress. The technology didn’t exist back then to enhance these images. Now it does. The case has been reopened for less than a week, and you’re all over it like white on rice. Stop rethinking the past. You’re fixing it. We’ll finish what you started.”

“Seventeen years too late. After permanent scars have formed.”

A hint of a pause. Then Lane cleared his throat. “Is Morgan okay? What was this minidrama she was referring to?”

“A coincidence and a manipulation.” Monty filled Lane in on the details. “The hit-and-run I can easily get the specs on, and figure out if it really was just a coincidence. As for Charlie Denton, he knows something. Whatever it is, he’s keeping it close to the vest. That bothers me, but not as much as why he’s doing it. Obviously, he’s protecting his job. For that, I don’t blame him. But the rest falls into the gray zone. Is he really in our corner? Is all this secrecy just to minimize the fallout? Or is it a whole lot more personal, and uglier, than that?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he was working in the Manhattan D.A.’s office when the Winters were killed. Does whatever he’s hiding tie directly back to him? Is it his job he’s fighting to save, or his ass?” Abruptly, Monty changed the subject. “Speaking of Morgan’s well-being, I heard you ask her out. So I took the liberty of giving her a few tips about you. Now it’s a level playing field. So I feel better.”

Lane groaned. “What did you tell her?”

“To stay one step ahead of you. To keep the ball in her court. Not to let you get away with anything. The basics.”

“Are you
trying
to sabotage this relationship?”

“Nope. I’m trying to make sure Morgan knows what she’s letting herself in for. Apparently, she does.” A chuckle. “You, on the other hand, are in for a few surprises. Kiss your ego good-bye.”

“Thanks for the tip. But make it the last one. Butt out.”

“Done.” Monty rounded the corner. “I’m almost at your place. Which reminds me, I’m assuming you’re alone.”

“Yeah. Jonah left a while ago. He was pretty upset. Apparently, Elyse
Shore walked into Arthur’s office this afternoon while Jonah was taking shots of the congressman hovering over a young, pretty staff member, and she didn’t react too well. She ripped Jonah a new one. The severity of her reaction kind of surprised me.”

“Why? It can’t be pleasant to watch your husband constantly coming on to other women, most of whom are young enough to be your daughter.”

“Agreed. But Elyse knows who she’s married to. Plus, I’ve met her enough times to get a feel for what she’s like. She’s free-spirited like her daughter. She’s also composed and easygoing. Barking at Jonah seems out of character.”

“What’d he say in response?”

“Nothing. She turned around and walked out. Which is weird, too. He said she looked emotionally beaten up.”

“First hostile, then depleted. Sounds like she needs some Prozac.” As he spoke, a far-fetched idea formed in Monty’s head. “What time did Jonah take those office photos?”

“I don’t know. Three-thirty, four o’clock. Why?”

“Just asking.”

G
etting the police report on the hit-and-run was the easiest part of Monty’s day. By the time Lane and Jonah had joined Arthur Shore on the private jet he’d secured, Monty had assimilated all the facts.

Running down those facts proved very interesting.

It turned out that the white van that struck Rachel Ogden was a delivery vehicle for a florist located near Union Square. The delivery guy had foolishly double-parked it—still running and with the keys in the ignition—long enough to dash into an office building and leave a holiday poinsettia at the front desk. He’d exited two and a half minutes later, to find the van gone.

At the time, the cops had treated it like a straightforward car theft. They’d interviewed a few people who’d been in the area, none of whom had noticed much. They’d all assumed that whoever drove away with the van was the same guy who’d arrived in it—at least until he’d rushed to the curb shouting that his van had been stolen. Two local construction workers had come up with a less-than-exciting description of the thief: he’d been
wearing a hooded parka and army boots, and was slight of build and quick on his feet.

Which, to Monty, meant a punk kid who was either a run-of-the-mill car thief,
or
—if the incident had been related to the Winter cases—a hired hand.

The van itself had provided no answers. It had turned up, dumped and stripped, in a seedy area of the Bronx. The cops had dusted it for prints; no matches turned up.

That left Monty with several paths he could take.

He could interview Karly Fontaine and Rachel Ogden, assuming Rachel’s doctor would let him speak with her. He could lean on his contacts and start the ball rolling on what the real scoop was with Charlie Denton—assuming there was one. Or he could stop by and chat with Elyse Shore, see if his long-shot theory about her odd behavior had any merit.

He planned to do all three. The question was, which first. He had four hours before Morgan showed up at his office. The more information he could give her, the better. Therefore, the best use of his time would be to spend it on areas he could make rapid progress on.

Karly Fontaine and Rachel Ogden could wait. Ditto for Charlie Denton. The women were better deferred until Morgan had provided him with both their full backgrounds and profiles. And digging up dirt on Charlie Denton would require caution and stealth. It would also take a lot more time, and involve peeling back a lot more layers.

But Elyse Shore—now that was intriguing.

Agenda set, he made a few calls to start the ball rolling on Charlie Denton, then headed over to Third Avenue and Elyse Shore’s gym.

The bell over the front door tinkled when Monty stepped inside. Not that anyone heard it. There was too much noise coming from the revving Lifecycles and whirring treadmills, plus the adrenaline-pumping background music thumping out the rapid pace of an aerobic class being held in a glass-enclosed exercise room.

Monty glanced around the place and blinked. He felt like he’d stepped into a resort spa. A cluster of exercise areas—all filled with jumping, spinning, or kickboxing people—filled the back wall. There was a whirlpool center, a yoga room, a complete smoothie bar, and enough heart-rate-in
creasing and weight-lifting equipment to train an Olympic team. The entire gym was accented in white marble and water colors, with seashell white, aerobic-friendly carpet, sand-hued yoga mats, and soothing aqua walls.

The clientele looked like they’d been plucked out of a fashion magazine. The women were slim and toned, the men were muscled with six-pack abs, and the instructors and trainers were walking fitness advertisements.

Monty found himself thinking he was glad he’d kept in shape and that he still ran through his daily exercise regimen. A guy with a gut would probably be shot on sight.

He scanned the room, spotted Elyse Shore standing beside the sweeping curved front desk, chatting with a member. She was wearing black yoga pants and a matching Lycra bodysuit, a damp towel draped around her neck. Clearly, she’d just finished giving a class. Good. Monty’s timing was perfect.

She didn’t notice him right away, which gave him a minute or two to scrutinize her.

Jonah wasn’t wrong. She did look wired. And wrung out, too, lines of sleeplessness etched beneath her skillfully applied makeup. It wasn’t only fatigue. It was something more, even if it was well hidden. Pain. Resignation. If Monty had to guess, he’d say she’d been crying. Her eyes were a little too bright and the area around them was slightly puffy.

She must have sensed his scrutiny, because she turned her head in his direction and blinked in surprise. Instantly, the facade snapped back into place—although she still looked taut and anxious. Excusing herself, she walked over.

Her first question told Monty the cause of her anxiety.

“Detective—why are you here? Is everything all right with Morgan?”

Motherly concern. That was only natural under the circumstances.

Maybe more so, depending on how extreme the circumstances were.

“She’s fine,” he assured her. “I was just hoping to have a quick word with you. Is that possible?”

“Of course.” Elyse didn’t hesitate. She pointed toward the spacious front office—a marble-and-chrome eye-catcher, then headed toward it, gesturing for him to follow. “We can talk in my office.”

Once inside, Elyse shut the door. “Water?” she asked, opening a small fridge and pulling out two bottles.

“That would be great.” Monty took the proffered bottle, twisted off the cap, and took a gulp.

Elyse did the same, then perched at the edge of the desk. “What can I do for you?”

“You can answer a question.” Monty’s stare and delivery were direct. “Since the reopening of the Winter homicides, have you experienced anything out of the ordinary? Letters? Phone calls? Threats to your family?”

All the color drained from Elyse’s face, and Monty had his answer.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I understand you weren’t yourself yesterday afternoon. And the timing of your uncharacteristic behavior coincided with a hit-and-run accident that took place near the St. Regis. I’m sure you heard about it. The thing is, there’s a common denominator between the victim and an eyewitness of that crime: Morgan. So, if something was going on with you at the same time that Rachel Ogden was mowed down—like if you or your family were being threatened—then that ‘accident’ might not have been an accident at all.”

“Oh God.” Elyse sank down behind her desk, gulping some water as if it were a lifeline. “I kept telling myself I was being paranoid, that my nerves were shot. But based on what you’re saying, and what happened yesterday, I’m deluding myself. It’s all been planned and deliberate.”

“What has?”

Elyse ran both hands through her hair, visibly trying to calm down. “I’ve been getting telephone hang-ups. Here. Home. My cell.”

“Give me specifics.” Monty had whipped out a pad and was scribbling down the information. “Is there a pattern to the calls? Does the caller say or do anything before hanging up? Can you tell if it’s a male or a female? What display shows up on your caller ID? Take me through it from beginning to end.”

“It’s a man. The only reason I know that much is that when he calls the gym, he asks whoever answers the phone for me. When I take the call, he hangs up. No words. Just deep, even breathing. He makes sure to do that long enough so I know it’s him; almost like he’s issuing a wordless
threat. As for my cell, he only calls when I’m alone, walking or driving. The same with my home—the calls only come when I’m by myself. It’s like he knows my schedule. Caller ID is useless; it always reads ‘private.’”

“How long has this been going on?”

A heartbeat of a pause. “Since the day after Morgan hired you.”

Monty stopped writing and looked up. “And you’ve said nothing? Not even to your husband?”

“What could I say?” Elyse leaned her head back against the chair cushion. “I couldn’t even be sure it meant something. Arthur’s a congressman. It’s not the first time some weirdo’s harassed him. He’s gotten phone calls, e-mails, you name it. And now, with him sponsoring a major piece of legislation, it could just as easily have been related to that.”

“Except that he’s not the one being harassed. You are.”

“I know.” Elyse pressed her lips together. “But my family’s under so much pressure right now. You know that better than anyone. To announce that I was getting creepy hang-up calls would only make things worse. And without any real proof that the caller was anything but a crank…I thought it was best to keep quiet.”

“Until yesterday. You mentioned something happening then.”

A nod. “I took a walk down Fifth Avenue at lunchtime. I was hoping the cold air and some window-shopping would calm my nerves. From the minute I left the gym, I had the oddest feeling I was being followed. I turned around a half-dozen times, but no one was there. Truthfully, I was beginning to think I was losing it from the stress. I headed back to the gym. As I got there, I felt someone staring at me. The feeling was so strong that I swerved around to scan the area. I saw a man standing diagonally across the street, leaning casually against a van, watching me. When he realized I’d spotted him, he abandoned the whole casual act. He averted his head, fumbled with the car door, then jumped in and drove away.”

“A van?” Monty repeated, his gaze narrowed on Elyse’s face. “What kind of van?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Worn. Nondescript. Like every other van in Manhattan.”

“Was it white?”

“Yes.” An apprehensive look. “Is that important?”

“Could be. The car that ran down Rachel Ogden was a white van. What did the man look like?”

“I couldn’t make out his features. He was wearing a hooded parka and jeans. But he was slight, and not too tall.”

“Do you remember what time this was?”

Elyse thought for a moment. “Around one-fifteen, give or take a few minutes.”

Monty’s mouth thinned into a grim line. “Rachel Ogden’s hit-and-run occurred at one-forty, on the corner of Fifty-third and Madison.”

“It must have been the same car.” Elyse’s voice was practically a whisper. “Which means both incidents were intentional. But what’s the motive?”

“To scare the hell out of you. To get Morgan to back off this case.” Monty swung his pad shut. “The tactics are extreme. Then again, I doubt the guy meant to hurt Rachel Ogden so badly. He was probably hired to knock her off balance, maybe cause some cuts and bruises. Either to Rachel or to Karly Fontaine.”

Elyse turned up her palms, still dazed and confused. “I’m not following. Are you saying Rachel wasn’t the intended victim?”

“I’m saying either one of them would do, if the goal was to give Morgan a warning. Whoever planned this did his homework. He knew both women’s schedules. He must have cross-checked them. It’s not a reach that they’d each routinely cross that intersection—it’s right in the heart of midtown, and so are they. He just found a time interval when the odds were good they’d both be nearing that corner—which maximized the chance that his hired hand would clip one of them. One thing’s for sure. This is more than enough proof in my book to confirm that the Winters’ double homicide was no random robbery gone bad. It was murder, pure and simple. And whoever killed them is still out there, determined not to get caught.”

THE FOUR-AND-A-HALF-HOUR
flight from Teterboro to Telluride was uneventful.

Arthur worked nonstop, alternately reviewing paperwork and calling influential people to garner support for his legislation. Once or twice, he
got up to stretch his legs, to swallow a glass of springwater, and to check in with the pilot.

Lane slept for the first couple of hours, having stayed up all night working for Monty. He woke up in time for a fabulous brunch of fresh-squeezed orange juice, warm croissants, and a sautéed crabmeat, grilled asparagus, and provolone omelet. After that, he unpacked his Canon EOS 5D, peered out the window of the Gulf Stream V jet, and took several awesome shots. He also took a few shots of Arthur, forehead creased in concentration, talking intently on the phone, then leaning back in the plush leather seat to review his notes.

There was a lot to be said for traveling with the rich and powerful.

Instead of being shuffled around like pieces of cargo, Lane and Jonah had been escorted by limo to Teterboro airport. They’d swung by the Marriott Glenpointe to pick up the congressman, since he’d attended a dinner there and spent the night. Minutes later, they arrived at Teterboro.

The private jet had been waiting on standby. No arriving hours early. No pain-in-the-ass baggage checking. No enduring long lines at check-in and then security. No being squashed in a narrow seat between a screaming infant and an offensive-smelling passenger who removed his shoes five minutes into the flight. No endless delays and running for connecting flights to reach an area of Colorado as remote as the San Juan Mountains.

Yup, Lane could definitely get used to this.

Glancing across the aisle at Jonah, he had to grin. The kid had been awestruck during the entire limo ride. His jaw had dropped when they boarded the private jet provided by one of Daniel Kellerman’s business associates. And it had remained that way as he marveled at the lush interior, smooth ride, high speed, and sumptuous brunch that accompanied their flight.

Right now, he was glued to the window, staring out at the view.

And what a view it was.

Catching his first glimpse of the peaks below, Lane could see why people referred to this as God’s country. The San Juans were breathtaking, a cluster of white peaks piercing a bluebird sky.

“Wow,” Jonah breathed, grabbing his camera. “Talk about awesome.”

“No argument,” Lane murmured. “It doesn’t get any closer to heaven than this.”

Nature at its most miraculous unfurled before them. She’d worked in their favor, since autumn in Colorado had been particularly snowy, leaving the alpine zones awash in powder. That had prompted consideration of an early season opening. Congressman Shore’s influence and the fact that his adventures were being featured in
Time
magazine clinched it. The heli-skiing company caved easily, and agreed to open even earlier than contemplated. Hell, they couldn’t buy that kind of publicity for any amount of money.