Dark Room (25 page)

“What am I looking for?” Monty asked.

“The shirt.”

“A white dress shirt—hardly original.”

“Right. They all pretty much look alike. Which is probably why Arthur made the mistake.” Lane pointed at the photo taken earlier in the evening. “Look at the collar. It’s a standard three-point spread.” His finger shifted to the other print. “Now check out the collar here.”

“It’s narrower.” Monty picked up the two prints, scrutinized them closely. “These are two different shirts.”

“Yup. Which means Arthur changed while the party was going on.” Lane’s tone took on a skeptical note. “He could have spilled a drink on himself.”

“Drink, my ass. If that were the case, he would have mentioned it during one of the dozens of conversations we had about the night of the murders. More likely, he slipped out to boff one of his ‘Angels.’” Monty ran a palm over his face. “Another red flag with Arthur Shore’s name on it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I just got a fax from my contact who ran a couple of background checks for me. One was on Charlie Denton. Seems that as a kid in law school, he worked on Congressman Shore’s—then State Assemblyman Shore’s—campaign. Their parting was abrupt and, evidently, not amicable. I’m coming up dry on the specifics. But Denton never mentioned it.”

Monty picked up the fax, skimmed through the pages. “Then there’s the other link to the Shores. George Hayek. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s involved in this. He goes way back with the Shores. If I’m right, he was a CI for Jack Winter. His file is sealed, so I have no idea where things stood between him and Jack, or him and Arthur, when he moved to Belgium. But my sources tell me that he’s been a busy little beaver these days, raking in money from everywhere. Could be legitimate weapons trading. Could be illegal and unsanctioned. Plus, my contact says that Hayek’s got a slew of markers he could call in from ‘associates’ with diplomatic immunity in the U.S.—‘associates’ sophisticated enough to have pulled off the trashing of Morgan’s place. No surprise—a few of those bastards are always hanging around the U.N., their consulate, or running up parking tickets all over the city and never paying.”

Lane didn’t reply.

“Make the phone call and check it out, Lane,” Monty stated flatly, his head coming up so he could meet his son’s gaze. “I know it’s classified. I’m not asking for details. Just find out if Hayek’s status has changed, or if the CIA is pulling his strings in any new and interesting ways.” A hard pause. “If you won’t do it for me, do it for Morgan.”

“I’ve got to run back to the lab for a minute.” Lane’s expression never changed.

“You do that.”

INSIDE THE LAB,
Lane shut the door.

He made the call on his secure line. It was answered on the second ring. He quickly got a vehement denial—along with a not-too-friendly warning to leave this one alone.

Backtracking to the kitchen, he reported tersely, “No status change. It’s a dead end—at least for me.”

“In other words, they’re not telling you squat,” Monty muttered. “Well, like I always say, if you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.”

“Tread carefully, Monty.”

“Don’t worry about me. You just find something in those high-tech scans. Bust your ass. Tomorrow’s a lost day; you have your next boys-with-toys adventure with Arthur. Oh, and stick those color prints you just made in your safe. Now, before Morgan wakes up. There’s no reason for her to see them—yet. I need time to cogitate, to talk to a couple of people, and to make sense out of all these loose ends. When there’s something to say, we’ll tell her.”

“Agreed.” Lane glanced toward the staircase. “But that ‘when’ better be soon.”

Monty’s forehead was creased in thought. “It will be.”

AT CIA HEADQUARTERS
in Virginia, Lane’s operative punched in the number to a secure telephone in Belgium.

A man’s voice answered in French. “
Vas-y
!
Parles
!”

“Hayek?” The response came in clear, irrefutable English. “What the fuck are you doing?”

M
organ had definitely regained her strength, and her resolve, by the time Monty delivered her to the Shores’ apartment.

She grilled him the entire way. First, because she was sure he and Lane had discussed something of importance while she was asleep—something they were keeping her in the dark about. Second, because she was determined to conduct a regular business afternoon, depleted or not. And third, because she wanted to conduct that business at Winshore.

The last argument was the easiest one for Monty to win.

“Your brownstone is a crime scene,” he said, nodding at the Shores’ doorman, who buzzed upstairs to announce their arrival. “It’ll be taped off and off-limits all day so the cops can do their jobs. If you insist on working, it’ll have to be out of the Shores’ apartment. Which shouldn’t be a problem; Jill’s here, too.”

“It’s seeing clients that’ll be the problem,” Morgan explained. “We sometimes meet with them at Winshore, but normally at a mutually convenient location—which won’t be happening, since Arthur will never let Jill and
me out of the apartment today. Not that I blame him; he’s worried about our safety. Plus, there’ll be a media fest waiting to pounce on us.”

“I can’t control the media part, although I did convince Arthur not to give them any added ammunition. We spoke while you were sleeping. He agreed to head up to the Poconos tomorrow as planned. As for his family’s safety, it’ll be taken care of. He was on his way over to the Nineteenth Precinct to fill in whatever information they need to file their report.”

“I’m surprised he left Elyse and Jill alone.”

“He didn’t. Two of my men are with them. After I drop you off, I’ll swing by Arthur’s office. I’m arranging extra security to ease his mind.”

“Great. So it’ll be just Jill, Elyse, and me—and the ‘Secret Service.’ I guess asking clients to drop by here is out.”

“Good. Then maybe you’ll take it easy for a day.”

Morgan slanted him a look. “Would you?”

A chuckle. “You got me there.” Monty pressed the up button on the elevator.

“The truth is, if I don’t keep busy, I’ll lose my mind.”

“Understood. So do business via telephone and e-mail. It’s only for a few days. Your clients will cope just fine. And so will you.”

“Why do I feel placated?” Morgan asked as the elevator doors let them out on the twenty-fifth floor. “If you and Lane saw something, or found out something, I have the right to know.”

“Yeah, you do. But we didn’t. All we did was explore what-ifs. None of them went anywhere—yet. I won’t hide facts from you, Morgan. But I also won’t take you on wild-goose chases. It’s counterproductive and upsetting. You’re just going to have to continue to trust me.”

“I do and I will.”

Monty knew how much this was costing her. He also knew there was just one way to fix it.

The Shores’ apartment was just ahead.

“Before I go meet Arthur, I’d like to talk to Elyse again, review some of the details she gave me the other day. I need her calm and focused. Can you and Jill make yourselves scarce?”

“Of course.” Morgan nodded. “Just please go easy on her. She’s taking this hard.”

“By ‘this,’ do you mean the threat to your family?”

Morgan’s features tightened. “You mean as opposed to the threat to her privacy and her marriage? Yes, that’s what I mean. Believe me, she’s used to the ‘Arthur’s Angels’ stories splashed across the front page of the
Enquirer
. It’s been years. She’s pretty immune.”

“To the stories or the infidelity?”

“The stories. Infidelity’s not something you ever get used to.” Morgan’s brows knit quizzically. “Why this line of questioning? It’s not like you to go for someone’s Achilles’ heel, at least not a personal one.”

“I’ll go for anything that helps find our killer. Otherwise, you’re right; I don’t believe in invasion of privacy and I couldn’t give a damn who sleeps with who. I’m just getting a handle on Elyse’s state of mind. The fact that she’s in bad shape over the threat to her family doesn’t surprise me. She’s obviously the maternal type.”

“Yes. She is.”

They reached the Shores’ apartment and stopped. Monty waited while Morgan fished out her keys.

“It’s me,” she called out as she pushed open the door.

“Hi.” Jill was waiting in the foyer, dressed in comfortable sweats, her hair pulled back in a scrunchie. She looked pale and drawn as she walked over and gave Morgan a hug. “I’m glad you’re home. Did you get some sleep?”

“A little. What about you?”

“Same.” Jill turned to Monty. “Detective, can I get you something?”

“Not a thing,” he assured her. “I’ll be taking off soon.”

“Where’s Elyse?” Morgan asked, scanning the area.

The two security guys nodded at her. They were posted at separate corners of the living room. Between the two of them, they had a full view of the hallway leading from the front door to the rest of the apartment. Comprehensive, but nonintrusive. They were drinking coffee and munching on slices of Jill’s all-natural banana bread.

“Mom’s getting dressed. I got her to take a nap and a shower. She should be out any minute.”

On cue, the master-bedroom door opened and Elyse walked out. Monty couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman; she looked like she had the
weight of the world on her shoulders. Drawn, white-faced, and with a bleak, defeated look in her eyes.

“Hello, Detective,” she greeted him. “Thank you for bringing Morgan here safely.” She went over, gave Morgan a short, hard hug. “I made you some chicken soup. It’s on the stove, whenever you want it. Also, I picked up a bag of Snickers. I thought you deserved a little comfort food.”

Morgan smiled. “Thanks. I might polish off the whole bag this afternoon.”

“Any breakthroughs?” Elyse was looking at Monty again.

“Not yet. But there will be.” Monty glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting your husband in a little while to discuss added security. Before I go, do you have a few minutes? I’d like to review the details of our conversation the other day.”

“I’m not sure what else I can tell you. But if you think it will help, of course we can talk.”

“Use the kitchen,” Morgan inserted quickly, before Jill could offer to stay with Elyse for support. “Jill and I will head off to my old room. I need a shower. And since I’m not crazy about being alone right now, she can hang out in my room and talk to me through the bathroom door.”

“That’s fine.” Elyse nodded, gesturing for Monty to follow her. “Have a seat at the table, Detective. I just made a fresh pot of coffee for our security team. You can warm up with a mug of that, and we can talk.”

“And you’re welcome to my banana bread, too,” Jill added. “I baked three loaves since we got home. Nervous energy.”

“Thanks.” Monty waited until Jill and Morgan had disappeared from view, then he followed Elyse into the kitchen.

Over coffee and banana bread, he calmly reiterated his questions about the crank calls Elyse had received, her feeling of being followed, and the driver of the white van she’d spotted outside the gym.

Her answers were the same. But her nerves had definitely frayed.

“Have you received any calls since Tuesday when we spoke?” he asked.

“No.” Elyse poured herself a cup of coffee, clutching the mug with unsteady hands. “I guess the caller moved on to bigger and better things—running down women and trashing apartments.”

“Speaking of the hit-and-run, I had a chance to interview both Karly Fontaine and Rachel Ogden.”

Elyse definitely tensed. “Did either of them provide information on who was driving the vehicle?”

“Nope. The incident happened too fast. They both offered to help in any way they could. Even Rachel, who’d just come through surgery. She’s one strong young woman. They both are.” Monty’s brows drew together quizzically. “Do you know either of them?”

“No. Why would you ask?”

A shrug. “Morgan mentioned that sometimes you and Winshore refer clients to each other. I thought maybe this was one of those times.”

“It wasn’t.” Elyse took a swallow of coffee.

“In that case, you should meet these two. They’d fit right in with your clientele. Karly’s a former model who’s now an executive in her modeling agency, so I don’t have to tell you the amount of time she spends working out and the kind of physical shape she’s in. And Rachel’s a knockout—a lot younger than Karly, and super-high-powered. She’s some kind of management consultant. It’s hard to believe that someone in her midtwenties could be so accomplished.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Elyse was staring into her mug. “Youth is a big plus in this superficial world of ours.”

Monty broke off a piece of banana bread, watching Elyse as he chewed. “You’re right. This is a youth-oriented society. Especially for women, when it comes to looks. It’s a shame men can’t see past their…well, you get the drift.”

“Yes, I do.” Elyse’s head came up. “What I don’t get is why we’re discussing this. Is there something about this Rachel Ogden I should know?”

“Such as?”

“You tell me. You’re certainly dwelling on her enough.”

Monty pursed his lips, pushing the envelope a tad farther. “Maybe that’s because there’s a possible tie-in here that worries me.”

A flash of emotion—anxiety mixed with hurt and insult—crossed Elyse’s face. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what she assumed the tie-in was.

“If this relates to some gossip about Arthur…”

“Arthur?” Monty’s brows rose. “No. It relates to the fact that, on paper, Rachel’s physical description matches Morgan’s. Add last night’s break-in to the mix, and I’m starting to worry that whoever trashed Morgan and Jill’s house and left that ugly warning on Morgan’s bed is going after her more aggressively than I originally thought.”

“Oh.” Elyse blinked in surprise. She quickly recovered, surprise transforming to fright. “By more aggressively…are you saying you think he means to kill her?”

“If he’s the one who killed her parents, he’s certainly capable of it.”

“Oh God.” Elyse sank down in a chair, her coffee mug striking the table with a thud. “What do we do?”

“For one thing, we don’t tell her. She’s at the breaking point as it is. But the extra security your husband wants employed is a good idea. It’ll be taken care of today.”

“What about dropping the investigation? Wouldn’t that make the most sense?” Elyse blurted out. Seeing the startled disbelief on Monty’s face, she rushed on. “I realize how callous that sounds. Maybe I’m being horribly selfish. But I love my family. I need them safe. I loved Lara and Jack, too; they were my dearest friends. And, yes, it sickens me that their murders have to go unpunished. But they’re dead, Detective. Morgan’s alive. Isn’t it our responsibility to make sure she stays that way? Risking her life won’t bring Jack and Lara back. But it could endanger her—and the rest of us, for that matter.”

“Not nearly as much as leaving whoever murdered Lara and Jack out there, free to kill Morgan or someone else.” Monty shook his head. “No. Dropping this investigation’s not an option. I’m finding this killer.” He eyed Elyse speculatively. “To find him, I need to find his motive. Which means digging around where I’m not wanted.”

Elyse went very still as Monty reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the extra set of color prints Lane had made him.

“Take a look at these. They’re from the party your parents threw for Arthur on Christmas Eve, seventeen years ago.”

She glanced down, first uneasily, then with great puzzlement. “I don’t understand. That’s Arthur, or rather, a portion of Arthur.”

“His neck,” Monty supplied. “So tell me, why did your husband change shirts during the party?”

Elyse’s jaw tightened, but she kept it together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look again. Regular collar. Narrow collar. Same party. Different shirts. Why?”

“I have no idea. Maybe he spilled something on himself.”

“Ah, so he was in the habit of bringing along a spare shirt for just those types of emergencies?”

“No, of course not.” Elyse’s voice had gone up, and her pulse had accelerated. Monty could see it fluttering at her throat.

“In my experience, this is a classic indicator of a man having an affair,” he stated flatly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Silence.

“Let’s try this again. Do you remember your husband leaving the party at some point during the evening? If so, what time and for how long?”

Tears gathered in Elyse’s eyes. “Why are you doing this?” she managed. “Is it giving you some perverse enjoyment, like it does the media?”

“Not in the least. What I’m trying to figure out is why, during the numerous conversations we had after the Winters’ homicides, the congressman never mentioned to me that he left your parents’ party. Why is that?”

“Probably because it had nothing to do with your investigation.”

“Or maybe it slipped his mind. A flash in the pan. Still, I’d appreciate her name. I need to interview every person who interacted—even peripherally—with any of the Winters’ friends, colleagues, or loved ones on the night of the murders.”

“Friends? Loved ones?” Elyse was slowly unraveling. “Shouldn’t you be concentrating on enemies?”

“I’d say a murderer qualifies as an enemy.” A probing, inquisitive look. “Her name—do you recall it?”

Abruptly, Elyse came to her feet. “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer. Now if you’ll excuse me, Detective, I need to make some phone calls. And you need to meet with my husband about hiring additional security. Please show yourself out.”

KARLY FONTAINE GLANCED
at her watch, and grimaced.

Time to call Morgan, to keep her appointment for their follow-up. The problem was, she had no time, no energy, and no ability to pretend the past few days had never happened.

Summoning her inner reserve, she dialed Winshore.

A strange man’s voice answered. “Hello?”

Karly paused. “I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number. I was calling Winshore LLC.”

“You’ve got the right number. Who’s calling?”

The man’s tone was blunt and unnerving. Plus, Karly wasn’t in the habit of giving out her name to strangers. “Who am I speaking with?” she asked.