Dark Room by Andrea Kane
“I’m fine.” Monty frowned. Of his three kids, Lane had been the only one who’d been old enough, mature enough, to sense the parallel between the splintering of their own family and the wiping out of the Winters’. And Monty had sucked at hiding it from him, at protecting him from his father’s inadequacies. Actually, he’d sucked at pretty much everything back then—everything but polishing off a six-pack and being a cop.
“Monty—you still there?”
“I’m here. I’m just confused. I spoke to Shore an hour ago. He didn’t mention anything about your joining us on Monday. Then again, he didn’t have time to. He had to grab a call from the D.A. He fired out the when and where for the meeting, and hung up.”
“The where was my idea. Lenny’s is a good meeting spot—it’s home base for the congressman and good food for us. Why are you ticked off? Is my being there a problem?”
“That depends on why you’re coming. It’s sure as hell not about doing a magazine spread on the screwup surrounding the Winters’ homicides, not when Shore is busting his ass to keep this low profile. So why would he want a photojournalist there?”
“Face time for him and media coverage for his bill. I’m covering the legendary congressman who’s living on the edge again—professionally, stirring up conflict between different special-interest groups over this new legislation he’s proposing; personally, striking out on brand-new thrill-seeking adventures. As for the shocker about the wrongful conviction in the Winters’ homicides—let’s say I’m being given the job of censoring what does and doesn’t leak out about it.”
“Clever thinking on Shore’s part,” Monty muttered. “Getting the best photojournalist in the business, who also just happens to be the son of the PI he hired. He gets skill and discretion all in one package. He also gets you stretched too damned thin for my purposes.”
This time Lane reacted bluntly to his father’s rankled tone. “Okay, Monty, spit it out. What’s bugging you?”
“Time. How long will you be working on this photo essay?”
“A week, maybe ten days.”
“No good. I need you on the crime-scene photos.”
“Fine. You got me. I’ll do whatever you need me to.”
“Yeah, when? While you’re jumping out of planes?”
“No. I don’t do my best work when I’m free-falling.” Lane blew out a breath. “Listen, Monty, give me a little credit. The minute Hank told me there was a glitch in the Winter convictions, and that you were involved in the investigation, I assumed you’d want me for the photo interpretations and image enhancement. My assignment for Time is based in New York. If my out-of-town time amounts to several days, it’ll be a lot. Which means I’ll be home almost every night, right here in my house with my state-of-the-art equipment.”
“Right—your state-of-the-art equipment and your other twenty-five assignments.”
“Not to worry. This one’s top priority. Besides, I’ve got Jonah working for me now, remember? He can handle a lot of the routine work for my nonclassified projects. Which will free me up for the critical ones like yours. So why don’t you swing by my place over the weekend and bring me up to speed. That way I’ll have a better idea what I’m looking for. If there’s anything in those photos that’ll help lead you to the real killer, I’ll find it.”
“Okay.” Monty was somewhat mollified, but still wound up—a state of mind that wasn’t vanishing anytime soon. “What’s your schedule?”
“I’ve got cocktails at the Shores’ tonight. The congressman wants to brief me on next week’s itinerary and adventures. Other than that, I’m flexible. Jet-lagged, but flexible.”
“How was the trip?”
“Successful. Manic. Long.”
Monty didn’t push. He was well aware that some of Lane’s assignments were government-sanctioned and that any discussions about them were off-limits. Still, there was something about Lane’s tone this time that was different. It smacked of weariness, and maybe a hint of something Monty recognized from personal experience—something that had eventually made him walk away.
“You could use some time off,” he remarked casually. “And I don’t mean traveling on some godforsaken assignment, or jumping out of planes for the thrill of the plunge. I mean downtime. Chill-out time. I tell you what—why don’t you spend Christmas up at the farm? Bring whoever you’re dating these days. The whole family will be there—Mom and me, Devon and Blake, Merry…oh, and that law school kid she’s seeing.”
Lane chuckled. “His name’s Keith. And he’s a nice guy. Intelligent, self-assured enough to withstand your interrogations, and crazy about Merry.”
“Too crazy about her. She’s sweet, young, and trusting—way too naive to know what Keith has on his mind. But none of those traits apply to me. I know just what part of his body he’s thinking with.”
“So do I. And I’m no happier about it than you are. But Merry’s not nearly as naive as you think. She’s almost twenty-two. She’s got a definite mind of her own. Besides, she’s graduating from college in May. What are we going to do after that, lock her in her room?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Yeah.” Lane found himself agreeing. “Me, too.”
“In the meantime, what’s-his-name, almost-attorney-at-law, is getting the guest room at the opposite end of the house.”
“I never doubted it.”
“So you’ll come?”
Lane hesitated, but only for an instant. “Sure. Sounds great. A dose of home is just what I need.”
“Think you’ll be bored?” Monty asked drily. “A long weekend at the farm can’t compare to cocktail hour at the Shores’.”
“I’ll manage.”
“By the way, who’s on the guest list tonight?”
“The congressman and his family, I assume.”
“If Morgan Winter shows up, you can tell her you’ll be analyzing the crime-scene photos for me. If not, keep it quiet. I’m not sure who, besides Arthur, she’s sharing the details of this case with. I know she’s close with his wife and daughter, but that doesn’t mean she’s giving them a blow-by-blow. And technically, Morgan is my client, and my work for her is confidential. So use your judgment.”
“I will. As for Congressman Shore, I doubt the news that I’m on board would come as a shock to him. He knows my areas of expertise. And since he wants me at your lunch meeting Monday, he obviously expects me to be in on your discussion. You’ll fill him in on the progress of the investigation, and I’ll provide my analysis of the crime-scene photos firsthand. There’s no conflict of interests, if that’s what you’re worried about. Shore opened this door himself. If anything, my Time assignment is his way of making sure I’m involved.”
“I’m not worried. I’m sure you’re right. Shore might not want this case publicized, but he does want it resolved. If he can maneuver you into taking part in my investigation—either by asking you directly or hoping I do—he’ll be thrilled.”
Still eyeing the photos, Monty brought the conversation to a close. “Anyway, I should call your mother, let her know you’re home in one piece and that you’ll be joining us for Christmas. That’ll make her day. I’ll skip the part about your playing daredevil with Congressman Shore next week—at least for now. She’ll have plenty of time to start worrying about that on Monday.”
“Good idea. Peace of mind is not something I offer Mom too often.”
“That makes two of us. Living a risk-free life is not exactly my strong suit, either.” Monty paused, then gruffly continued. “Listen, Lane, I’m glad you’ll be working with me on this case. I’m getting the right guy this time. I’m not walking away until I do. I don’t expect you to fully understand, but—”
“I do understand,” Lane interrupted in that tone that reminded Monty how wise beyond his years his son was. “And, Monty—I won’t let you down.”
SEVEN
Charlie Denton sat in his cluttered office at the Manhattan D.A.’s, watching the sun disappear behind the New
Congressman Shore hadn’t wasted any time. By 10 a.m., the decks were cleared for Charlie’s in-house investigation. Finding out who’d inherited Jack Winter’s cases and what their status was—now and then. Checking with a handful of long-term employees whom Jack had worked with to see if they remembered anything. Even contacting Jack’s former office staff—lawyers, paralegals, clericals—who’d long since left the D.A.’s office, to see if they recalled anything that might lead to the real killer.
What was that expression? The pigeons had come home to roost.
What had been a ticking bomb seventeen years ago was now a heat-seeking missile aimed at his head.
It wasn’t just Arthur Shore. It was Morgan Winter, too.
Charlie swung his chair around, picked up the envelope Morgan had given him a half hour ago. It was filled with photocopied articles of her father’s court victories. Morgan didn’t recognize any of the felons’ names. Charlie recognized all of them. One in particular made his skin crawl.
He wished he didn’t have dinner plans tonight. But he did—with one of the women on his match list. Karly Something-or-other. The manager of a top New York modeling agency. He was taking her to La Grenouille, because they both loved French food. He was sure she’d be lovely, intelligent, and great company. But his mind would be on his work.
COCKTAIL HOUR AT the Shores’ was more laid-back than Lane had expected.
He was met at the door by Arthur’s petite, gracious wife, Elyse, who greeted Lane warmly. If the rumors were true about Arthur being frequently involved with women younger than his own daughter, it was hard to understand why. Elyse was attractive, vivacious, and as well toned as any twenty-five-year-old. She also had an innate refinement and class that went far deeper than any cosmetic surgery she might have had.
Then again, she came from money. Her father, Daniel Kellerman, was the CEO of Kellerman Development, Inc., a major real estate developer. It was no secret that he’d helped launch Arthur’s political career. He’d made his new son-in-law corporate counsel of Kellerman Development right out of law school—a lucrative and high-visibility job that eased Arthur into the right professional and social circles. Between his own sharp mind and charisma, and his father-in-law’s contacts and financial resources, Arthur had been elected first to the New York City Council, then the New York State Assembly, and finally the U.S. House of Representatives.
Elyse herself was an undeniable asset to her congressman husband, even in a setting as relaxed and homey as the one Lane walked into.
Dressed in an emerald-green velour Lacoste running suit, with her frosted blond hair cut fashionably short and wispy, Elyse invited Lane in, took his coat, and asked what he’d like to drink. Judging from the tomatoey color and consistency of the contents of her highball, Lane assumed her cocktail of choice was a Bloody Mary.
He quickly found out otherwise.
A loud whirring noise had been emanating from the kitchen since he’d arrived. A younger female voice called out, “Second round of tomato-carrot-celery juice, coming up.”
Lane blinked as a pretty strawberry blond in her late twenties with the energy level of Road Runner burst out of the kitchen, carrying a pitcher of her homemade concoction. “Hi.” She didn’t miss a beat when she saw him standing with her mother. “You must be Lane Montgomery. I hope you’re ready for the best combo of beta-carotene and lycopene you’ve ever tasted.” She flourished a glass. “Can I pour you some?”
“Sure.” Lane’s lips twitched. “I’m guessing you’re Jill.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Don’t let my daughter intimidate you.” Congressman Shore strolled into the hallway, wearing a caramel-and-black-print crewneck sweater and black slacks. He stuck out his hand to shake Lane’s. “We actually have normal drinks here, too—everything from a full liquor cabinet to beer to Diet Coke. So don’t panic if you’re not a health freak. Just speak up.”
“Actually the juice sounds good,” Lane replied, setting down his camera bag and taking the glass with a nod of thanks. “I’m always up for trying something new.”
Arthur led Lane into the living room. The L-shaped sectional and matching armchair were sand-colored brushed twill with thick down cushions and sage-green throw pillows. The entire room had a cool, natural feel to it—Elyse’s touch, Lane suspected.
“Have a seat,” Arthur invited, gesturing toward the sofa.
Lane complied, taking a sample taste of his vegetable juice. “This is excellent,” he called out to Jill, holding up his glass. It was, too. Refreshing, with a kick.
“Good—a man of taste.” She gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “I’ll make more when Morgan gets here.” With that, she glanced at her watch. “Where is she, anyway?”
“She called,” Elyse supplied. “She said she had an errand to run and she’d be a few minutes late. She should be here anytime now.” A flicker of concern crossed her face. “I hope she ate lunch. She hasn’t had a decent meal in two days.”
“This morning I coaxed half a muffin down her throat,” Jill murmured.
“And I coaxed down the other half when I dropped by the office,” Arthur added. “But you’re right. She’s not eating.”
“Or sleeping,” Jill added.
“I’ll get the fruit-and-cheese platter.” With a burst of nervous energy, Elyse headed to the kitchen. “We can start nibbling while we wait for Morgan.” She returned a moment later, placing the platter on the coffee table and giving Lane a rueful, self-conscious look. “Forgive us for the familial worry. This is a difficult time.”
“No apology necessary.” Lane weighed his words carefully. “I can’t begin to imagine how hard this must be. I’m sorry this whole painful chapter in your lives has to be dredged up again.”
“So are we.” Arthur spoke frankly, not mincing any words. “This news was a shock to us all. But the one hit hardest was Morgan. My goal is to protect her as much as possible—starting with our topics of conversation. Tonight, let’s discuss lighter topics, like next week’s itinerary. There’ll be a time and place for getting into the nitty-gritty of the investigation.”
“Understood.” Lane nodded, hearing the message loud and clear. He had to respect the congressman’s show of paternal protectiveness. “Speaking of next week’s itinerary, I can’t wait to hear what you have on tap for us.”
Arthur relaxed, and a flicker of amusement lit his eyes. “You won’t be disappointed. As I recall, you were no slouch when we did that Sports Illustrated spread. You were quite the rock climber and bungee jumper. Are you still in top shape?”
“Better than that.” A corner of Lane’s mouth lifted. “I’ve been doing double duty at the gym so I can keep up with you.”
“You can try.” A broad grin. “How good are you on skis?”
“I took my first lesson when I was six. I’ve tackled pretty much every expert slope in the U.S., plus a handful in the French, Swiss, and Austrian Alps. This year, I was thinking of hitting the Canadian Rockies, going straight to British Columbia and taking on Whistler/Blackcomb’s legendary vertical drop.”
“Excellent. After next week, you’ll have a new experience to add to that impressive list.”
“Hank mentioned heli-skiing.” Lane leaned forward eagerly. “I’ve always wanted to try it. Fill me in.”
Before Arthur could respond, there was the sound of a key turning in the lock, and the apartment door swung open.
“Hi, it’s me.” A woman’s voice, one that presumably belonged to Morgan Winter, drifted in from the hall, followed by the muffled sounds of her shrugging off her coat and hanging it up. “I hope I didn’t hold things up.”
“Nope,” Jill called back. “I just made more juice, and Mom put out the food. We’re about to hear what wild adventures Dad has planned for next week. So come on in and join us.”
“Coming.” The click-click of heels on the tile fl
Lane wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t the fine-boned brunette who walked in. Shoulder-length hair. Pale green eyes. Fine features and delicate build that conveyed fragility. But with a take-charge self-assurance that completely contradicted the vulnerable image. No, actually it enhanced it. Sensitivity and strength, composure and fire, with a depth and expressiveness in her eyes that spoke of compassion and pain.
“Hauntingly beautiful” was the term that sprang to mind.
Rising to his feet, Lane watched her approach him.
“Hi. Morgan Winter,” she introduced herself. She extended her hand, shook his in a firm, businesslike handshake.
“Nice to meet you,” he replied. “Lane Montgomery.”
“I see the resemblance to your father.”
“Really?” One brow rose. “Tall, dark, and handsome, or scary, overbearing, and fashion-impaired?”
“Hmm.” Morgan’s lips twitched. “Tough choice. How about tall, dark, and dynamic?”
“Safe. Where do the other adjectives factor in?”
Her gaze skimmed over him, taking in his dark blue sweater and khaki slacks. “Scary—no. Overbearing—possibly. Handsome—in the eyes of the beholder. Fashion-impaired? Definitely not.” She raised her chin, met his gaze. “How was that?”
“Honest. Straightforward but tactful.” He glanced from her to Jill and back. “Two beautiful, intelligent women—one, charming and intuitive, the other vivacious and enthusiastic. It’s a pretty unbeatable combination. I can see why clients flock to your agency.”
“Maybe you should be one of them,” Jill suggested. “You’re single. Unless you already have a significant other, why don’t you make an appointment and find out just how good Winshore is?”