Dark Room (33 page)

As he stared at the menu, Monty contemplated this unexpected twist. The Walther PPK had never made sense before. Suddenly it did. And if Lane was right—the scales against Arthur were about to be tipped even more.

M
organ’s face was sheet white when she hurried up the steps to Lane’s brownstone.

Having been pacing around waiting for her, Lane opened the door before she reached it. He waved to O’Hara that all was well as he let Morgan in, shutting the door behind her.

She blew by him, shock and indignation vibrating through her, then came to a halt in the living room, her back to him.

“Morgan?” Lane went over, gripped her shoulders, and turned her around to face him.

Her pained gaze searched his face. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That Karly was Janice. That Arthur was her lover. That Jonah is their child.”

Lane did a double take. “Jonah is Arthur’s son?”

“Yes.” Some of the tension abated. “You really didn’t know?”

“Not a clue.” Lane’s mind was racing. “But now I understand why
Monty was so guarded on the phone. He must know. And he wanted me to hear it from you.”

“Oh, he knows.” Morgan told Lane about the meeting Monty had orchestrated at his office. “According to Arthur, Karly hired your father to make sure he fulfilled an obligation he would have fulfilled anyway if he’d known Jonah was his son.”

“Sounds touching.”

“Right.” Morgan’s fists clenched at her sides. “Do you know how much self-control it took for me to sit there and listen to Arthur paint himself as the victim in all this? Remember, I read my mother’s journal entries. I know what really happened between him and Janice—
Karly
. I know how old she was, how much she wanted her child
and
its father, and how devastated she was when the man she loved blackmailed her into getting an abortion and getting out of town. The whole thing makes me sick.”

Lane guided Morgan over to the sofa and gently pushed her into a sitting position. Then he poured a glass of wine and brought it over.

“Here. This’ll help.” He put the goblet in her hand. “What can I do?”

Morgan tipped back her head, looked up at him. “You’re doing it.” Tears glistened on her lashes. “I watched Elyse crumple before my eyes. It was heartbreaking. But you know what? I think she knew about Karly—just like she knew—knows—about all his women. She barely flinched during that part of his grand confession. It was only when he announced he had a son, and that Jonah was that son, that she fell apart.”

“What about Jill?” Lane asked. “How did she handle it?”

“Jill’s amazing. She sat very quietly while her father talked. She was fighting back tears. But her only concerns were Elyse and Jonah. Do you know she actually interrupted the discussion to call the hospital and see how Jonah was doing? It’s like she already feels a bond and a responsibility to him. Clearly, she doesn’t take after her father.” Morgan’s tone was laced with bitterness, and she paused, making a concerted effort to let it go. “Anyway, I believe she’ll be relieved when the truth leaks out. Then she can really reach out, get to know her half brother. That’s just Jill. She’s got the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. And right now, it’s breaking for her mother.”

“I can understand that.”

“Me, too.” Shakily, Morgan raised her glass to her lips. “Thanks for the wine,” she murmured, taking a sip. “God knows, I need it.”

“You’ve had a rough couple of hours.” Lane lowered himself to the sofa cushion beside her. Wrapping an arm around her, he tugged her head to his shoulder, threading gentle fingers through her hair.

“Rough is putting it mildly,” she murmured. “I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. And the night’s still young. I have a call in to Karly, asking her to get back to me as soon as she’s up to it. And Jill’s on standby, ready to let me know the results of the cross-matching the instant they have them.”

“I checked in with the hospital about five minutes before you arrived,” Lane reported. “Jonah’s holding his own. He’s not great, but he’s not worse, either.”

“Well, steps have been taken to remedy that. Arthur’s blood sample is on its way. We should know soon.” Morgan set down her glass of wine and kicked off her boots, curling up with her cheek pressed against Lane’s sweater. “I feel like I’m on a roller-coaster ride that’s never going to end. It’s one steep drop after another.”

“It only seems that way because the ride’s still going. But it’ll stop. You’ll get off. And the world will right itself again.”

“Maybe eventually. But not yet.” Morgan twisted around, looked Lane straight in the eye. “Truth time. You’re privy to almost everything Monty knows. I need answers. Are there any more red flags that might tie Arthur to my parents’ murders?”

This was the moment Lane had been dreading. He’d known it was coming. And he hated what his answers would do to her. But he wouldn’t lie. She’d been lied to enough already.

“Yes,” he responded. “There are. Too many to suit me. Right now, I’ve got some specifics Monty doesn’t, and I suspect the same is true in reverse. He’s coming over here later, and we’ll pool our information. But even without combining two sets of facts, there’s just too much smoke for me not to believe there’s fire.”

Morgan’s jaw set as she visibly steeled herself. “Tell me everything.”

“The night your parents were killed, Arthur was gone from the Kellermans’ party for a while,” Lane relayed quietly. “The woman he told Monty he was with has been dead for seven years, so she can’t corroborate his story. And to make matters worse, the hours he gave us for his vanishing act don’t coincide with what I’m seeing in the enhanced photos.”

“Which is?”

Lane explained about the reflection of the grandfather clock and the discrepancy it presented.

“So if you’re right, Arthur has no alibi for the time of the murders.”

“That’s the gist of it.”

Morgan swallowed hard. “What else?”

Here, Lane had to tread carefully, because of the restricted nature of his projects and his sources. “Over the years, I’ve had occasion to take on covert photographic assignments. I made a strategic phone call tonight to one of the clients affiliated with those assignments, and I got some off-the-record answers.”

“Off-the-record?” Her brows arched. “What does that mean?”

“It means I have faith in my sources.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. What answers did your sources give you?”

“That Arthur pulled the strings when it came to orchestrating the B and E at your brownstone and the hurling of that brick at Monty’s car. He called in a few favors from someone who could arrange both—and the hit-and-run, which my guess was really a swerve-and-miss that went bad.”

“He was trying to scare me enough to call off the investigation.”

“Exactly.”

“He’s always encouraging me to back off. Of course he claims it’s because he’s worried about my state of mind. But if you’re right, it’s
his
ass he’s worried about.” Morgan raked a hand through her hair. “Let’s cut the semantics. You don’t think Arthur was peripherally connected with the murders. You think he was an active participant.”

“What I think is that there’s one more piece of information you should have. Thirty years ago, one of Lenny’s employees gave him a gun to keep at the deli for protection. It was a Walther PPK.”

Morgan paled. “That’s the kind of gun that killed my parents.”

“Yeah.”

“God.” Morgan pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “This just keeps getting worse.”

“The problem is, it’s all circumstantial.” Lane paused. “We still need a concrete motive. There are pieces missing. The question is, how many of those pieces can Monty supply, and how many did he learn, in confidence, from Barbara?”

Before Morgan could reply, her cell phone rang.

She grabbed it. “Hello?”

“Morgan? It’s Karly.” Her voice sounded faraway, and there was a hum of human voices, interspersed with louder intercom pages in the background. “I’m at the hospital. The cross-match is done; Jonah and his father’s blood are perfectly compatible. Jonah will be getting a transfusion within the hour.” She sounded weak with gratitude and relief, and Morgan wasn’t far behind.

“Thank goodness,” she breathed. “Is he okay?”

“He will be now.” Karly hesitated. “I got your message. I didn’t want you to think I was blowing you off. But the Vaughns have arranged for me to meet Jonah after the transfusion. And I just couldn’t pass up—”

“Of course not. You need to be there. I understand.” Morgan leaned forward. “Karly, we can talk later. For now, just tell me this. Did my mother know…everything?”

“Everything and everyone who was involved,” Karly confirmed. “I had no idea of that myself until today. She knew. Your father knew. What they did about it—that I don’t know. Talk to Detective Montgomery. Tell him he has my permission to share whatever he needs to with you. Hopefully, that’ll be enough to get you your answers. Then, after Jonah’s blood count is up, and he and I have had a chance to visit, I’ll sit down with you and fill in all the details. Maybe by sharing my experiences with Lara, I can bring you a little peace, maybe even a little joy.” A pause. “Your mother was a wonderful person. You should be very proud.”

“I am. Thank you, Karly. And have a wonderful first talk with your son.”

Morgan punched off the call and turned to Lane. “That’s one step
closer to a motive. My mother knew the identity of the man Karly was involved with.” A weighty sigh. “The good news is, Jonah’s getting his transfusion. Arthur’s blood matched his. Hopefully, that’s a first big step toward complete recovery. Karly also said we should ask your father whatever we want answers to. Which means Monty met with her at some point, and she filled in some blanks. So maybe we can put our heads together.”

Breaking off, Morgan gave a dazed shake of her head. “I still can’t believe what I’m saying. The idea of Arthur killing my parents…I’m torn between denial and shock. Stuck somewhere in numb.”

“Let’s assemble all the evidence. That’ll make it easier for you to work through your feelings. And you won’t have to do it alone,” Lane assured her.

A nod. “That reminds me, when is Monty coming?”

“In a little while. He’s talking to Lenny about the gun. Plus, I asked him to stay away for a while. You and I need a chance to talk—alone.”

Morgan didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “You’re right. We do.”

“I’m not just referring to the case.”

“I know.” She forced a smile, striving for some levity. “Maybe I should give you a Winshore client profile to fill out. We can find out if we’re compatible.”

“I don’t need to compare profiles for that.”

“That’s the problem. You probably don’t—not for the kind of relationship you’re used to—”

“What makes you so sure that’s the same kind of relationship I want now?”

“I’m not sure of anything—except that it takes a lot more than passion and some inexplicable pull, however powerful, to build something solid and real.”

“I agree.”

Morgan gave a hard swallow. “It’s been less than two weeks.”

“Some things happen fast. And hard. That doesn’t make them any less real. Not even your boutique social agency can account for human emotion.”

“You’re not making this easy.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“Lane…” Morgan struggled to address the very tangible, very real obstacles in their path. “There’s so much I don’t know about you.”

“Fair enough. My favorite color used to be blue. Now it’s green. I’ve never seen anything as amazing as the color of your eyes. My favorite food is a fat, juicy burger, medium rare—which I think you guessed. My favorite city is New York; I appreciate it more every time I’m away. My favorite holiday is Christmas—I get to hang out with my family, and my brother-in-law’s horse farm is a sprawling piece of heaven. My sisters are my soft spot; I’d kill for them. My favorite—”

“Stop.” Morgan interrupted him quietly. “Those aren’t the things I was talking about. I meant
you
—the total human being beneath the sexy exterior.”

“Sexy’s good.” He gave her a crooked grin, but the look in his eyes was serious. “You have questions? Ask.”

“Ask. Where do I begin? With your independence, your craving for excitement and adventure, your wanderlust?”

“Those are personality traits, not secrets.”

“Personality traits that affect your outlook on life, and the way you live it.”

“You’re right. But there are many different outlets for excitement and adventure.”

“What about independence and wanderlust?”

“Those thrive when there are reasons to leave. They fade when there are reasons to stay.”

Morgan was fighting to see this through, not to cave before she did. “Fine. Let’s get back to those different outlets for excitement and adventure. Bad enough you jump out of planes, relish doing photo essays that put you in warring countries or at the heart of natural disasters, and that you probably plan on climbing Mount Everest at warp speed to earn you a place in
The Guinness Book of Records
. I haven’t forgotten what you said earlier. Top secret clients, strategic phone calls, photo assignments that you’re clearly not at liberty to discuss. Who else do you work for besides
Time
? The FBI? CIA? Homeland Security?”

Lane was silent for a moment.

“My God, you
do
work for them.” Morgan stared.

“Did,”
Lane corrected. “It was starting to lose its appeal long before you came into my life. All of it—the vagabond existence, the twenty-four/seven fieldwork, and yeah, the realization that life is short and that I’m not going to be here forever. As for the nature of the assignments, suffice it to say they’re classified. That’s the best answer I can provide. And
not
because I’m hiding anything from you. But because, like you, I respect my clients’ confidentiality.”

“Wow.” Morgan exhaled sharply. “I keep discovering new facets to the life of daredevil Lane Montgomery. Is there any risk you
haven’t
taken?”

“Actually—yes. A biggie.” He leaned forward, framed her face between his palms. “I haven’t admitted I’m in love with you. Well, I am. Head over heels, this-only-happens-in-the-movies, what-the-hell-am-I-doing in love. And given the inquisition you’re subjecting me to, your own emotional baggage, and my total lack of experience with what I’m feeling, I’m floundering. Also, given how badly I want this, I’m terrified. Is that vulnerable enough for you?”