Dark Room (31 page)

Monty leaned forward. “I want you to think carefully before you answer this next question. Did you ever, in any of your conversations with Lara, mention the fact that the man you were involved with was Arthur Shore? Ever say anything that could make her suspect it was him—like the fact that your lover was an assemblyman, or that he had a wife named Elyse—anything?”

“I don’t have to think. The answer is no.”

“You’re
that
sure?”

“Definitely.” Karly reacted to Monty’s dubious tone with an explanation. “I know exactly where you’re going with this, Detective. I’ve gone there myself a hundred times this past week, racked my brain over and over since you and I talked. I’m fully aware that if Lara had realized Arthur was the man who impregnated and dumped me, she’d either have confronted him or gone straight to his wife. Now I know that not only was his wife her best friend, but the Shores were obviously Morgan’s appointed guardians. Lara would never have been able to stay silent, even if it meant breaking my confidence. Nor would I have blamed her. She had a child to protect. But it doesn’t matter. Because I never said a word. Arthur was a public figure. I was way too afraid to ever let his name or any reference to him slip out.”

“That’s a moot point. Lara knew.” For the first time, Barbara interrupted. Her voice was rough with emotion, and when Monty turned toward her, he saw that she looked positively ill. “She never had to wrestle with whether or not to break your confidence. She was aware of the man’s identity from the beginning.”

“She told you that?” Monty demanded.

“Not his name, but that she knew him—yes.” A hard swallow. “It all makes horrifying sense now.”

“Go on,” Monty urged.

“Lara burst in here one day the summer before she died, more upset than I’d ever seen her. She said she’d walked in on something she wished she’d never seen. Evidently, she’d dropped by the office of a man she’d known for years, and found him having sex with a girl she was fairly sure was underage. Neither of them had spotted her, and she’d ducked out before they did. She didn’t know what to do. She did tell me the man was married, and that announcing what she’d seen would destroy his family, especially if it turned out that the affair was statutory rape. And then there was the girl he was involved with. Did she know he had a family? Did she know she was being used? And was she old enough, mature enough, to make those calls?”

Barbara paused to compose herself. “Lara couldn’t let this one go. She followed the girl from this man’s office to a coffee shop. She struck up a conversation, and found out all the sordid details Karly just filled in for us.”

“You’re saying our meeting wasn’t an accident?” Karly asked.

“Far from it. Lara wanted to hear your take on the relationship. And when she got it, she was livid—not with you, with
him
. I tried to get her to open up to me, but she said the only person who could help her with this dilemma was Jack. So she went home and discussed it with him. The next thing I knew, she brought you here for counseling. When I managed to pull her aside, talk to her alone, I asked her what Jack had advised. She said they’d been arguing over what the right course of action was. But they agreed on one thing—that they couldn’t turn their backs on the situation—for a whole host of reasons. Now I understand what those reasons were.”

“Oh God,” Karly breathed. “If Lara decided to go to Arthur…If he knew…”

“Then we have a possible motive,” Monty finished.

“What about an alibi?” Barbara questioned. “Do we know where the congressman was the night Lara and Jack were killed?”

“Yes and no. We have some inconsistencies. We’re working on clearing them up. But we have to approach this with a level head and with all the
facts in our possession. Remember, we’re talking about murder here. Not sex with a minor or harassment, no matter how menacing the threats. Would Arthur kill two people to protect his secret? Especially when one of those people was his wife’s best friend, and when killing them would mean orphaning their ten-year-old little girl?” Monty’s lips set in a grim line. “Right now, there’s only one person who can answer that.”

“Oh, please, no—not yet.” Karly leaned forward, grabbed his arm. “If you go to Arthur with this story, you’ll have to tell him where you got it.”

“I’m sure Detective Montgomery will make sure you’re protected,” Barbara soothed.

“I don’t give a damn about me. Not right now. Right now, all I care about is convincing Arthur to go through the cross-match process. I need to know if his blood is compatible with my son’s. I need Detective Montgomery’s help twisting his arm. As it is, Arthur is going to be livid that I went ahead with the pregnancy, and that I’m now asking for his help. If he’s blindsided with our suspicions first, I can kiss any cooperation from him good-bye.”

“I agree,” Monty surprised her by saying. “Your son’s health comes first. Besides, I’m not ready to confront Arthur with any accusations—not without concrete proof. So let’s hit him with the news that he’s a father, and save anything related to the homicides for later.” Monty turned to Karly. “You’re going to have to face him. You know that.”

A tight nod. “I know.”

“The good news is, you don’t have to do it alone. I’ll be there. In fact, I’ll be there first. You’ll make an entrance. Nothing beats the element of surprise. Give me a few hours to set things in motion. Then we’ll spring this on him.” A quick glance from one woman to the other. “I can’t stress enough that not a word we’ve discussed leaves this room. Understood?”

“Absolutely,” Barbara agreed at once.

“I certainly won’t be blabbing,” Karly assured him. “But do you really think we can persuade Arthur to get his ass over to the hospital and give blood?”

Normally, Monty would have explained that there were all different methods of persuasion. But in this case, it wasn’t necessary.

“Karly, when you spoke to your son’s adoptive parents, did they give
you their names?”

“Nina and Ed Vaughn—why?”

“Because I know your son. His name’s Jonah. He’s a great kid. The more ironic part is that Arthur knows him, too. And he likes him.”

“Are you serious?” Karly gasped.

“Serious as a heart attack.”

“How? Through whom? Since when?”

“That’s a long, complicated story. I’ll get into it later, when I see you—which I will.” A smug spark lit Monty’s eyes. “Give me those few hours to organize things. Then head over to my office, say around five o’clock. The address is on my card. Not only are we going to spring this on Arthur Shore tonight, but we’re going to get exactly what we want from him.”

M
onty’s adrenaline was pumping when he arrived at Lane’s.

Morgan answered the door when he knocked. She waited for him to identify himself, then double-checked that fact by peeking through the peephole, just to be on the safe side. Clearly convinced, she unlocked and opened the door.

“Nice precautions,” Monty praised, striding in and shrugging out of his parka. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.” Morgan eyed him speculatively and frowned. It was the first time she’d seen Monty since his run-in with the falling brick. “Lane said you were fine. But some of those facial cuts look pretty deep. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just pissed. And even more determined to nail our perp’s ass to the wall.” He tossed his jacket on a chair.

“You’re certainly fired up,” Morgan observed. “Did Barbara provide any answers?”

“It was a very productive meeting.” He paused, studied her expression, then frowned. “You look lousy. Did something happen?”

“Jonah’s latest CBC wasn’t great, which means he’s losing blood. His vitals are holding, so there’s no immediate rush for surgery, but the doctors want to do a transfusion, see how it goes. Unfortunately, the only compatible donor is Lenny, and he’s not their prime choice. He’s got a heart condition and he’s on a blood-thinning drug.”

“So
Lenny
has the same blood type as Jonah. Interesting. Well, I might have an alternative. We’ll know tonight. Keep your fingers crossed.”

“What’s going on?” Lane stepped out of the photo lab.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Morgan’s been rummaging through her parents’ memorabilia,” Lane replied. “She just found the negatives from the photos taken at the Kellermans’ party. Fortunately, Elyse left them in the packet of photos she had developed after the initial trauma of the murders was over. In the meantime, I’ve been enhancing more of the crime-scene shots. I did find one interesting thing. There’s a round circular spot on the floor where something was definitely removed. It’s about a foot in diameter and it’s near the door. Probably a Spackle container or trash receptacle of some kind. The basement’s a pit—filthy, dusty, loaded with stones and debris. Yet that one space is clean as a whistle.”

“Someone got rid of the container at the murder scene.” Monty was already heading in the direction of the lab. “Yeah,” he confirmed, having bent over to study that section of the enhanced photo. “The killer must have tossed something in there that would have given him away, so he got rid of the whole thing.”

“Monty,” Morgan interrupted, hovering in the doorway. “You never answered my question. What did Barbara tell you?”

Monty cleared his throat. “For now, all I can tell you is that I know who sent you that Tyvek. It wasn’t BS; it was meant to protect you—a way to reciprocate the kindness your mother showed her.”

Frustration flashed across Morgan’s face. “Monty, I’m your client. I’m the one you’re supposed to be open with.”

“I’m being as open as I can, under the circumstances. This situation is complicated. Once again, I’m going to have to ask you to trust me.”

Clearly, she was fighting back tears. “Give me something. Anything.”

A long pause. “Remember what you told me about your mother’s final journal entries? The ones she made during the last few months of her life?”

“Of course.”

“Go read them again.”

Morgan waved her arm in a helpless gesture. “I don’t have to. I remember every word. They pertained to only two women she was fighting to help—Olivia and Janice.”

“Right. One had a happier ending than the other. If I recall, the latter one consumed all your mother’s time, and journal entries, at the end.”

“Janice,” Morgan said.

One dark brow rose pointedly.

“Janice—J.” Morgan got his message, and her eyes widened. “You’re saying the woman who sent me that package is the one whose stepfather raped her? The one who got involved with some older guy and wound up pregnant and abandoned?”

“No.
You’re
saying it.”

“And you talked to Barbara about her.” Morgan raked a hand through her hair. “Barbara knows her real name. She told me she keeps that on file with the client’s original registration form. Knowing you, you found a way to get that name. Dammit, Monty, I need to know who she is. I need to find her, to talk to her. She was the last person my mother mentioned in her journal. Which means she was one of the last people to speak with her before she died. And she must have had a reason for warning me—”

“I already spoke with her,” Monty interrupted. “I know her reasons. They’re being addressed. Hang tough, Morgan. I know how hard this is for you. But it’s going to pay off. Just bear with me. I have to follow through on a lead. I’m doing that tonight. If everything goes as planned, I think I can convince her to talk to you. Right now, she’s afraid. If we push too hard, we’ll lose her. Leave this in my hands.”

Morgan lowered her gaze, seeking control. Then she nodded. “Okay.”
Her lashes lifted. “Just tell me one thing. Did you find out anything more on Arthur? All Lane would tell me is that your meeting was civil. That’s reassuring, but not informative. I need to know if Arthur was involved in any way—directly or indirectly—with why my parents were killed.”

“I can’t answer that.”

A glimmer of stark fury glinted in her eyes, which faded into a bleak, hollow emptiness. “You just did.” She turned around and walked out of the photo lab.

The instant she was out of earshot, Monty seized Lane’s arm. “You’ve got to get some evidence off those negatives. Both sets—the crime scene and the Kellerman party. Also, find out where George Hayek was during the hours the Winters were killed. I don’t give a damn how you do it. Tell your CIA pals that your father—the ball-breaking, pain-in-the-ass ex-Brooklyn-detective-turned-PI—digs in like a leech when someone gets in the way of his murder investigations. Tell them I’m not going away. I get it that they need to maintain the world’s balance of power. Well, I just need to catch one killer. If Hayek knows something, or did something, I want it. And I’ll find a way to get it. I can do that quietly and with their cooperation, or I can do it noisily on my own.”

Lane’s jaw tightened. “You’re going balls-out. That means you’ve got something.”

“No question. Now I need proof to back it up. So go back to the crime-scene photos. Think through the mind of Arthur Shore or George Hayek. Look for something that would tie one of them to the scene. It’s got to be there. As for the party, look for something that narrows down the time frame on Arthur’s disappearing act. Oh, and Lane.” He met his son’s gaze. “This case is about to come to a head, and then play out hard and fast. It’s going to be tough on Morgan. She’ll need you.”

Not a heartbeat of hesitation. “She’ll have me.”

IT WAS
5
P.M.

Arthur’s limo pulled up in front of Monty’s office. The limo driver started to get out, but Arthur wasn’t waiting for assistance. He threw open the door, left the vehicle, and went striding up the steps to the front door.

Monty let him in, gesturing for him to have a seat in the office’s sitting area.

“Drink?” Monty inquired, having just opened a bottle of beer for himself.

“No. Answers.” Clearly, Arthur was pissed. He perched at the edge of the settee, not even removing his overcoat. “I’m sick of your yanking my chain, Montgomery. First, yesterday’s inquisition. Now today’s cryptic summons. You said there was a break in the case. Let’s hear it. My family’s waiting for me.”

Standing behind the club chair, Monty took a healthy swallow of beer, then propped his elbows on the chair’s headrest, intentionally remaining on his feet. “I realize it’s Sunday. If this weren’t important, I wouldn’t have asked you to drive to Queens. As for the inconvenience, I felt we should have this talk in private. That way, you can decide how you want to break the news to your wife and daughter.”

That elicited an instant flash of concern in Arthur’s eyes. “Is Morgan all right?”

Pensively, Monty assessed Arthur’s reaction. “You really care about her, don’t you?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I care about her; she’s like a daughter to me.”

“I believe you.” Monty found the entire situation fascinating. Regardless of the cause—be it guilt or bona fide affection—Arthur’s paternal instincts toward Morgan were real. “She’s fine,” Monty assured him. “She’s with Lane.”

Some of the tension eased from Arthur’s body. “They’ve become very close these last few weeks. I’m glad. Lane’s a good guy.”

“I think so.” A pause. “Actually, to say Morgan’s fine is an oversimplification.
Physically,
she’s fine. Emotionally? Psychologically? She’s hanging on by a thread.”

“That’s been my concern from the start. It’s why I didn’t want her plunging headfirst into this.” Arthur frowned, looking a little less irked at having been sent for. “I apologize for jumping on you. Whatever you found out is obviously serious. It’s best that I deal with it first. Does it involve that grotesque break-in at Morgan and Jill’s place?”

“Huh?” Monty’s brows drew together. “Oh, when I said there was a break in the case, you thought I was referring to the Winters’ case. Sorry. We got our signals crossed. But now that you brought it up, I did trace Margo Adderly. Unfortunately, the poor woman died seven years ago. Cancer. So I won’t be able to get her side of the story you told me.”

As Monty spoke, Arthur’s expression went from puzzled to annoyed to angry. “What kind of game are you playing?”

“No game. A break in the case, as I said. Just a different case. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“No, I don’t want a drink.” Arthur made a move to rise. “I’m leaving.”

“You might want to hold off a minute.” Monty angled his head toward the back room, which he used for storage. “Karly, come on in,” he called. “We’re ready for you.”

Shoulders squared, head held high, Karly marched into the sitting room. She looked as she had when Monty first met her—put together, impeccably groomed, designer slacks and sweater—a class act.

Clearly, Arthur didn’t recognize her. “Karly,” he repeated, rising on instinct. “As in Karly Fontaine—the woman who reported the hit-and-run?”

“One and the same,” Monty supplied.

“Then this
does
concern Morgan.” Arthur stuck out his hand. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh, you’ve met.” Monty looked amused as Karly eyed Arthur’s hand as if it were a dead mouse, making no move to clasp it. “Although her hair was darker and longer then, and she couldn’t afford an outfit like the one she’s wearing now. So I’ll refresh your memory. This is Carol Fenton. The woman you impregnated, paid off, and booted out seventeen years ago. Ring a bell?”

Arthur was working like a demon to retain his poker face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. What you don’t know is that Carol—Karly—opted to have the baby rather than the abortion. She had your son, put him up for adoption, and had no idea who he’d become or where he was—until now. And, before you ask, this isn’t an extortion attempt. Karly doesn’t want a dime. Quite frankly, she never wanted to see you again, even after her
career brought her back to New York. But circumstances have changed all that.”

“What circumstances?” Arthur managed, his jaw working a mile a minute.

“Remember Jonah Vaughn—you know, the great kid who’s Lane’s assistant and who you taught how to heli-ski the other day?”

“Of course—so?”

“I’m sure Lenny told you that Jonah’s in the hospital with internal bleeding and a lacerated spleen. He’s also got a rare blood type, one that’s hard to find a compatible match for.”

“Yes, he told me. I wish Jonah the best. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, wouldn’t you know it? It turns out Jonah is your natural son. Small world, huh? Problem is, Karly’s blood is A positive—and not a match with Jonah’s AB negative. So that leaves you.”

“I…” Arthur’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “I won’t be blackmailed into any admissions, much less—”

“This isn’t blackmail. It’s a negotiation. Here are your options, as I see them. One: You can get tested anonymously. We’ll arrange for a technician to come to your home, your office, wherever you want, and draw your blood. Hopefully, you’ll be AB negative and the cross-matching will say it’s a go. Jonah needs an immediate transfusion. His blood count’s low. If you’re compatible, you’ll provide that transfusion, or as many transfusions as are necessary to help your son. In return, Karly will sign a confidentiality agreement, promising to keep your identity a secret.”

Monty paused to take a quick swallow of beer. “Option two,” he continued. “You can refuse, risk Jonah’s life, and Karly will release the entire story to the press. She’ll begin with your sexual involvement with a minor—which was statutory rape, by the way—and conclude with the fact that you’re now willing to let your own son die. As an aside, statutory rape, given that Karly was sixteen and you were way older than twenty-one, is rape in the third degree, which is a class E felony. It would have been punishable by three or four years in prison, except that it has a five-year statute of limitations. That having been said, you might escape criminal prosecution, but I doubt Congress would want a statutory rapist around.
You’d be forced to step down, your family would suffer pain and humiliation…I don’t know, Congressman. Option one sounds pretty good to me. Of course, the choice is yours.”

“Who else knows about this?”

“Just us and Karly’s counselor, who’s bound by client privilege. Karly didn’t involve a lawyer yet; she’s willing to let yours draw up the necessary papers.”

Arthur gave a humorless laugh. “Very gracious. Unfortunately, all this is going to leak out anyway. Some smart-ass reporter will lie, steal, or claw his way into the hospital database, get what he needs, pay off the right people until he gets all the essential pieces, and before long this story will be front-page news.”

“You’re probably right.” Monty didn’t insult Arthur by refuting his statement. “But if you offer a blood sample of your own volition, then provide a transfusion if it’s medically possible, the only things that smart-ass reporter can dig up is the fact that years ago you committed an indiscretion, had a child, and made sure he was adopted by a loving family. Karly will back up that claim. So it will seem like you two made that decision together. She’ll also say you had no idea she was underage. That entire backstory will be eclipsed by the fact that you’d be coming forward now to save your child’s life. Hell, you’d come off like a hero.”