Dark Room (23 page)

She could say no, get out while she still had a fighting chance.

Problem was, she didn’t want to.

CONFIDENT THAT THE
street was deserted, the intruder stepped outside the brownstone, the necessary implements clutched in his gloved hands.

Things had gone like clockwork. He’d followed orders, and even added a few touches of his own. The fact that the place had no burglar-alarm system had afforded him the time and the freedom to do that. No sirens, silent or otherwise, to alert the cops. No motion detectors to pick him off.

He inserted his wrench in the lock and twisted clockwise. Then he manipulated the pick until all the pins were in place, and with a twist of his wrist, the bolt reengaged into the jamb.

Job done. Everything was as it had been when he arrived.

Or so it seemed from the outside.

AN ICY DAWN
was about to make its presence known when Morgan fished out her keys and scurried up to her front door.

“Hurry,” Lane urged, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her down-clad waist. “It’s freezing out here. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees since last night.”

“You don’t fool me,” Morgan retorted, sliding the key into the top lock. “You just want a cup of latte from my Impressa. Well, forget it. That baby’s for clients only.”

Lane chuckled, nuzzling her hair as she moved on to the bottom lock. “I’m an espresso man myself. And you’re damned right. In fact, if you refuse, I’ll be forced to tell Congressman Shore where you spent the night.”

Morgan tossed a grin over her shoulder. “I have a feeling he knows.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Besides, if I wanted to keep Arthur in the dark about my sex life, I’d have cut the night short by an hour, and asked you to take me over to his and Elyse’s place. Everyone would have been asleep. I could have slipped into the guest room unnoticed.”

“True. But think what you’d have missed out on—what we’d
both
have missed out on.” Lane’s voice was husky, his lips warm against her ear. “Remember what we were doing an hour ago? Would respectability really have been worth sacrificing that?”

“No.” Morgan swallowed, her memories of what Lane was referring to vividly alive.
Too
alive.

She was about to respond with some lighthearted quip, when a gust of wind kicked up, swirling fine particles of snow around them and sending a torn sheet of paper tucked beneath the corner of her doormat flying directly at her.

Instinctively, Morgan’s hand came up, her gloved fingers closing around the tattered page. She pulled it away and glanced down at it, her brows knitting as she saw what it was. “Where did this come from?”

“What is it?” Lane peered over her shoulder.

“A photo of Arthur and Elyse. An old one. Elyse hasn’t worn her hair like that in years.” She pointed. “See? It’s dated November tenth, 1998.”

“Yeah, but it was printed yesterday. The date’s down here.” Lane indicated the lower-right-hand corner, which had survived the diagonal tear that had eliminated half the page. “Who printed this and why is it on your doorstep?”

“I have no idea.” Morgan turned the knob and pushed open the door, flipping on the light so Lane could see his way in. “Maybe Jill’s compiling a scrapbook of Arthur’s postelection…” Her words died in her throat as she gazed around. “What the…?” Her eyes widened with shock. “Oh my God.”

T
he office was trashed.

Papers were strewn everywhere. File cabinets were overturned, the folders in them dumped with their documents tossed around helter-skelter. Morgan’s desk was a disaster area, drawers pulled out and turned upside down, everything that had been in them scattered on the carpet. Ditto for the desktop, which had been swept clean.

Newspapers and magazines were tossed randomly about, pages ripped out, some shredded, some just strewn around the ground floor like confetti.

“Shit.” Lane got a glimpse of the damage. He grabbed Morgan’s arm, stopping her from continuing into the building. “Don’t.”

“What?” She looked and sounded as dazed as she felt.

“Don’t go in there.”

“Why? Do you think someone’s still inside?”

“I doubt it. But you’re not going to be the one to find out. Plus, it’s a crime scene. You don’t want to contaminate it. Come on.” He pulled her outside.

Morgan’s teeth started chattering, whether from the cold or shock, she wasn’t sure. “Who would…? How could this…?”

Lane had already whipped out his cell and was punching in a number on speed dial. He plunged in without preliminaries. “Monty, someone broke into Morgan’s place and wrecked it. The ground floor, at the very least. No, I don’t know about the rest of the place. I didn’t let Morgan get that far. No, she wasn’t inside. She was with me. Yeah, all night. We arrived together, just now. Uh-uh, no one was home. Jill was at her parents’. She still is.” A pause. “Not yet. I called you first. Yeah, okay.”

He punched the off button on the phone. “As usual, one of my father’s gut feelings paid off. He spent the night in his office. So he’s in Queens, not upstate. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Let’s give him a ten-minute head start. Then we’ll call the cops.”

Morgan’s brain was starting to function again. “He wants to be here when they go inside to check things out.”

“Right.” Lane frowned at the hollow look in Morgan’s eyes, the fierce chattering of her teeth. “Come here.” He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her face against him and rubbing his gloved hands up and down her back, in a gesture meant to comfort as much as to warm.

“I guess down jackets aren’t what they used to be,” she mumbled into his coat, a feeble attempt at humor.

“They’re meant to withstand cold, not the trauma of seeing your home violated.”

“My home.” Morgan tilted back her head, gazed up at Lane. “God knows what they did to it. All we’ve seen so far is part of the office.” Her jaw set. “I can’t just stand here doing nothing. Not even for ten minutes.”

Lane studied her determined expression. She wasn’t budging in her resolve. Then again, neither was he. “You’re not going in there. So if you want to do something productive, start putting together a mental list of your valuables. Jewelry. Antiques. Electronic equipment. That way, the cops can get a quick handle on what’s missing.”

“You’re placating me,” Morgan countered. “Don’t. We both know this wasn’t a robbery. Winshore is doing well, but Jill and I are pouring all our profits back into the business. The Impressa is the most expensive purchase we’ve got in the place, other than our computers and our server. As for
personal property, I collect self-help books and Jill collects yoga CDs. There’s not much resale value in those. No. This break-in is tied to the murder investigations. That’s why that photo was shoved under my doormat. Whoever did this must have planted it there.”

“Okay, fine, I agree.” Lane’s restless gaze swept the brownstone, and Morgan realized he was as impatient for answers as she was. “So let’s move on to the next question. Was this just another scare tactic? Or was the intruder actually after something? If so, what? And did he get it?”

At Lane’s final question, Morgan’s hand instinctively went to her tote bag. “Probably not. Not unless I have something of my parents that I’m not thinking of. Because the most obvious tie to them would be these.” She pulled out a packet of snapshots and newspaper clippings. “These and all the other personal items—journals, mementos—that I’ve spent every night poring over these past few months.”

Lane’s brows rose. “You packed everything for one night?”

A nod. “I know it sounds strange. But as I was walking out of my bedroom last night, I got this weird feeling about leaving it behind. So, at the last minute, I crammed everything into my tote bag.”

“Good impulse.”

“Maybe.” Morgan blew out her breath in a frosty puff. “
If
any of this is what they were after. Assuming they were after anything at all.” An edgy pause. “Or any
one
at all.”

Lane glanced at his watch. “Let’s stop speculating. Time to call the cops.”

TWO PATROL CARS
from the Nineteenth Precinct pulled up to Morgan’s brownstone about three minutes before Monty’s Corolla roared up to join them. He hopped out of his car, nodding at Al O’Hara—the PI he’d hired to be Morgan’s bodyguard—who was dashing over at the first sign of police activity.

“Chill, O’Hara,” Monty advised, gesturing for him to wait a discreet distance from the building. “Ms. Winter is fine. No one was hurt, or home. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Okay.” The PI posted himself near the curb, lighting up a cigarette.

Monty strode up the stairs to where Morgan and Lane were starting to brief the cops. There were four in all, two darting into the brownstone, hands on weapons, the other two interviewing Morgan.

“Impressive,” Monty noted as he reached them. “Four officers for a simple B and E. Must be your congressional connections, Morgan.” He winked at her.

She managed a thin smile in return, realizing that despite his casual air and wry humor, Monty was scrutinizing her, trying to assess her state of mind.

“You okay?” he asked bluntly.

“More or less.”

“Hey, Montgomery.” One of the cops—a middle-aged guy with a balding head and a solid build—greeted him, his tone and demeanor a tad aloof. “I’m not surprised to see you. I heard you were hired to work this case. But you sure got here fast.”

“
Help
work this case,” Monty corrected him. “As in: assist, facilitate, do what I can. Don’t worry, Stockton. I have no intention of stepping on your toes. We want the same thing.”

Stockton’s thick salt-and-pepper brows rose. “Yeah, you gave me that same BS the last time we worked a case together. It was a bit of a stretch.”

“That was different. I was a cop back then. I had the same pressure on me you did. Both our precincts wanted to take credit for the arrest of that three-borough rapist. This time, you can take full credit. All I want is for the perp to be caught.”

“And you want in when we search this place.”

“Damned straight. And now, when you talk to my client. It’ll save her the trouble of repeating herself.”

“Fine.” Stockton gave the okay nod to his partner, then turned back to Morgan. “You said that you and your boyfriend here—” A quizzical look at Lane as he scribbled down notes. “What’s your name?”

“Lane Montgomery.”

Stockton’s pen paused, and his head came up. “I don’t suppose you’re any relation to Monty here.”

“He’s my father.”

A grimace. “Of course he is. That explains his quick arrival.” Stockton waved away Lane’s forthcoming explanation. “Forget it. Let’s keep going.” He angled his head back toward Morgan, his pen poised to resume writing. “You said the front door was double-locked when you got here.”

“Yes.” Morgan was shivering again. “I used both my keys to open it.”

Stockton glanced around the outside of the building. “You have a door around back?”

“Leading to the terrace, yes. But it’s dead-bolted from the inside. That’s the only way it’s accessible, not from the street.”

“So it’s doubtful the perp got in that way. Same with these lower-level windows. They’re all barred. Which suggests he broke in either through an upstairs window, or through the front door by picking the locks. Do you have a security system?”

Morgan shook her head. “It was on our when-we-have-money list. But, frankly, this neighborhood is very safe, so we didn’t have a sense of urgency. Plus, Jill and I were trying to hold off for a while, not incur any more huge expenses.”

“By Jill—you mean, Jill Shore?”

“Yes.”

“The front door locks were picked,” Monty announced. He’d squatted down and was examining the keyhole area. “There are scratch marks here—” He pointed. “And here. Whoever did this is a pro. A confident SOB, too. He took the time to reengage the bolts into the jambs before he took off. You’d think he’d run like hell the minute he finished robbing the place. He didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Stockton agreed. “You’d think. So maybe that torn page wasn’t planted. Maybe he dropped it.”

“What torn page?” Monty demanded.

Wordlessly, Morgan produced the ripped page containing a laser-printed photo of Elyse and Arthur.

“It flew out from underneath Morgan’s doormat,” Lane explained.

At that moment, the other two cops emerged. “All clear,” one pronounced. “Wrecked and with a pretty pointed message left behind, but the perp’s gone.”

Morgan made a raw sound.

“In that case, would it be possible for us to continue this inside…” Lane shot a quick glance at Stockton’s badge to ascertain his rank. “…Sergeant Stockton? It’s freezing out here, and Ms. Winter looks like she’s about to collapse.”

“Of course.” A brusque nod. “Just don’t touch anything.”

“I know the drill.” Lane wrapped an arm around Morgan’s shoulders and escorted her inside, closely followed by Monty and the four officers.

“I’ve got to call Jill.” Morgan halted in her tracks as the realization struck. “She’s at her parents’ apartment. She needs to know about this.”

Stockton’s green-around-the-gills coloring was a vivid indication that he recognized the ramifications of that statement. Congressman Shore was about to become involved, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

“Go ahead and call,” he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “We’ll start a thorough search of the place.” He cleared his throat. “Tell Ms. Shore that we’ll wait till she gets here to examine her room.”

“Thank you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.” Morgan made the phone call, bile in her throat.

Elyse answered, a gasp of shock escaping her when she heard what had happened. Three times, she asked Morgan if she was okay. When she was convinced of that, and of the fact that Lane, Monty, and four policemen were all with her, she regained control and announced that she, Arthur, and Jill would be right over.

Morgan could hear Arthur and Jill firing questions in the background as she ended the call.

IF TELLING THE
Shores was bad, viewing the apartment was worse.

The damage could be fixed. It required only the investment of time and hard work. The cost would be negligible since, as Morgan suspected, nothing had been stolen.

But the anguish, the sense of violation, that was something else.

The invasion of her personal space—her night table and dresser draw
ers having been rifled through, her intimate apparel having been touched by a stranger, an intruder—that alone made her skin crawl.

It didn’t come close to the wrenching of her insides when she saw the chilling message the police officer had referred to. It was more graphic and more devastating than Morgan had ever imagined.

A series of visual horrors had been carefully arranged on Morgan’s bed.

There were newspaper photos of Arthur and Elyse, some from clippings, others pulled off the Internet and printed. Most of the photos included Jill, some included her. All of them were slashed multiple times, red paint dribbled on their faces and bodies. To add to the gruesome effect, there were holes punched in the center of their foreheads—clearly simulating bullet holes.

The macabre centerpiece to this display was a sheet of paper stuck to her pillow with a chef ’s knife taken from Morgan and Jill’s kitchen. The knife had been plunged through the pillow and buried deeply in the mattress below. The laser-printed note, set in a large font and boldface type, read:
Stop digging into the past or this will be the future. One family down. One to go
.

Morgan stared at the words, her hands flying to her face, a strangled cry lodging in her throat.

“That explains the carefully dissected newspapers all over the place,” Monty muttered. “And the torn Internet photo shoved under the doormat. The bastard took the time to construct a collage.”

“With his own personal touches,” Stockton agreed.

“Talk about being prepared, our perp was a regular Boy Scout.” Monty’s forehead creased as he scrutinized the scene. “He came equipped with everything, right down to his own arts-and-crafts supplies.” A quick glance at Stockton. “Humor me and let me know if something turns up when you dust for prints. I’m sure van Gogh wore gloves—but you never know. Maybe he took them off for the finer strokes.”

“What happened? What have you found?” Arthur shoved his way past his wife and daughter and into the room. Behind him, Jill hovered in the doorway, her face sheet white as she peered into the room. She looked lost and in shock. So did Elyse, who gave her daughter’s shoulders a protective squeeze before going straight to Morgan.

“Morgan?” Elyse gripped her hands. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

A mechanical nod. “I wasn’t here when it happened. I only got home a little while ago.”

“And walked in on this.” Elyse sounded ill, her gaze growing more and more grim as it swept the room.

“I asked what you found,” Arthur repeated, his hard stare flickering over Stockton and coming to rest on Monty.

It was clear which one of them he was addressing.

Stockton didn’t look offended. He looked relieved to be off the hook.

“What we found is pretty much what you’re looking at.” Monty took the congressman’s authoritative air right in stride. “The front door locks were picked. The whole place was rifled. But the heavy-duty ransacking was done to Morgan’s things—her desk, her files, and obviously her bedroom.” A quick glance at Jill. “Your room’s not bad. Messy, but not too wrecked. Once the cops are finished doing their thing, it should take no time to straighten up.”