Dark Room (4 page)

He leaned back, shut his eyes. He loved his work. But this part of it was starting to get to him. The life of a paparazzo had been exciting as hell at twenty. At thirty-three, covert photo ops that felt all too similar to his tabloid days in strategy and execution—despite the fact that they were CIA-sanctioned, being done for an entirely different, noble cause—were getting old. The crazy schedule, the requisite secrecy, and the subsequent isolation—all of that was eroding the thrills and excitement and replacing them with a new kind of restlessness.

Life on the edge was great. But a little more normalcy would be a welcome relief.

His cell phone rang just as the overhead voice announced that his flight was starting to board—
finally
, after an hour plus of delays.

He stood up, slung his camera bag over his shoulder, and dug his cell out of the pocket of his leather bomber jacket. He was already walking toward the boarding line as he glanced at the caller ID.

It was Hank Reynolds, the editor he worked with at
Time
.

He punched on the phone. “Hey, Hank.”

“Hey. Where are you?”

“About to hop on a plane at Heathrow.”

“Heading away or home?”

“Home. And not a minute too soon. The flight’s already been pushed back twice. I’ve worked twenty hours a day for the past week and a half. I’m wiped. I plan on sleeping the entire way to Kennedy. I’ll wake up just long enough to get through customs, get home, and get from my bath to my bed.”

Hank chuckled. “Understood. Tell you what. Give me a call tomorrow. I’ve got an assignment for you.”

Lane groaned. “Where and when?”

“Next week. That gives you plenty of time to rest up. And it’s right here on your home turf—New York. No travel. No time change. No long days without food or sleep.”

And no dicey undercover work,
Lane added silently.
Just a nice, normal photojournalist assignment
. “You sold me. What’s the subject?”

“Congressman Arthur Shore. You’ve worked with him before, right?”

“Yup. During his last reelection campaign, I did a photo essay on him and his hobbies—rock climbing and bungee jumping—for
Sports Illustrated
. What’s he up to that would interest
Time
?”

“Obviously, you haven’t had a chance to pick up a newspaper this week. Shore’s fighting to push through some pretty cutting-edge legislation. He’s also still living the daredevil life of Indiana Jones. Skydiving and zooming down the Rockies’ most treacherous ski slopes are his newest things.” A pause. “Plus there’s another high-profile aspect of his personal life that just exploded onto the scene. I’ll get into details tomorrow. The bottom line is, I want a comprehensive photo essay on the personal, professional, and recreational risk-taking, boundary-pushing daredevil congressman. You’re the perfect guy to give it to me.”

“Yeah, okay. Count me in.” Lane was only half absorbing Hank’s words. “I’ve gotta sign off now. The plane’s boarding and I’m really out of it.”

“You sound it. Go home and get some sleep. The last thing you want is to burn out.”

“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”

D
inner at the Shores’ Upper East Side apartment was Chinese. It was quick, it was easy, and it caused no interruption to the heavy discussion taking place in the living room.

Seated on the sofa, Morgan filled Arthur in on the day’s events. He grew more furious by the minute, pacing around the room, brows drawn together as he processed the information. Nothing unusual there. Arthur never sat still. And when he had a problem to mull over, he paced. Jill never left her post by the floor-to-ceiling windows—where she’d been scowling at the cluster of reporters still camped outside the building, hoping for a personal reaction from the congressman.

When the food arrived, she and her father joined her mother in the kitchen. Elyse had already set the table and made a pot of green tea, although she had one ear cocked toward the living room, listening to what was going on. She wanted to gauge her husband’s reaction, see how much he could do to bring closure to this nightmare, keep it from wreaking havoc on their lives again.

No one felt like eating. Still, for the sake of sustenance and a shred of normalcy they sat around the kitchen table, going through the motions. Conversation ceased, the only sounds in the room those of rustling cardboard and clinking silverware as portions were doled out. The silence continued as they picked at their food, sipped at their tea.

“I still don’t believe a screwup like this went through the whole criminal justice system unnoticed,” Arthur muttered at last, pushing back his chair and giving up on his meal. He rose, a tall, handsome, charismatic man who exuded energy and passion in everything he did. “Such gross incompetence is inexcusable.”

Elyse pursed her lips, glancing over at Morgan to see how she was holding up. Her own food remained largely untouched—and not, in this case, because of her preoccupation with healthy eating and staying young and fit. After seventeen years as Morgan’s surrogate mother, she knew how much Lara and Jack’s homicides had cost their daughter. She had genuine doubts over whether Morgan could hold up under the strain of reliving that entire chapter of her life. “It’s appalling,” she agreed. “We’ve got to resolve it as soon as possible.”

“That’s easier said than done.” Jill’s forehead creased. “A wrongful conviction that’s almost twenty years old? Unraveling it to get at the truth will be a bear.”

“It’ll be done,” Arthur pronounced. “That’s a given, not an if. But that doesn’t change the fact that the whole situation’s indefensible. Not only because it’s Jack and Lara we’re talking about. Or even because Jack was such a high-profile A.D.A.” A muscle worked in Arthur’s jaw. “I was kept up-to-the-minute during those homicide investigations. I knew every move the cops made, every avenue they were pursuing.”

“I remember,” Elyse murmured. “You checked in with Detective Montgomery every day by phone. And you met with him once a week at your dad’s deli to go over the status of the investigations.”

“Yes, well, those conversations are what’s bugging me now. Detective Montgomery was never a hundred percent on board with the idea that Schiller was guilty. He kept saying it felt wrong, that there were inconsistencies nagging at him. Then Schiller confessed. That nipped Montgom
ery’s theories in the bud. The investigation was wrapped up. Schiller was tried and convicted. Case closed.”

“That’s the way the system works, Dad,” Jill reminded him.

“But it’s not the way
I
work. I shouldn’t have been so damned accepting. I should have made them review every piece of evidence even after the confession.”

“Arthur, don’t do this,” Morgan interrupted, speaking up for the first time since the meal had started. “Detective Montgomery ran through this same thought process in my office today. You’re both blaming yourselves, and that’s absurd. You pushed as hard as you could. A killer confessed. There was no reason to doubt that confession. End of story.”

Arthur shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and regarded Morgan with a brooding expression. “You said you hired Montgomery. That was a shrewd move. As a PI, he’ll take more risks than he could have as a cop. I’ll get in touch with him first thing in the morning, offer him whatever resources he needs. As for this Charlie Denton, I’ll place a few calls and make sure the decks are cleared for him to get whatever he can on the cases Jack was handling.”

“Thank you,” Morgan said gratefully.

The taut lines on Arthur’s face eased. “I don’t want thanks. I want
you
to do something for
me
. Ease off. You look like you’re about to collapse. I’m home now. Leave this in my hands and in the hands of professionals like Montgomery. You made great strides. You started the ball rolling. Now take a step back. You’re having a hard enough time coping with the anniversary of your parents’ deaths. Don’t ask more of yourself than you can handle.”

“I told her the exact same thing,” Jill chimed in. “Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

Morgan forced a strained smile. “I listen to all of you. I realize you’re worried about me. I’ll try to gain some perspective on this, and pay attention to my own limitations. But tonight’s not the night to do that. In fact, tonight’s not the night to do much of anything. I’m beyond wiped out. All I wanted was to fill you in ASAP. Now that I have, I really need to head home and get some sleep.” She rose, weaving a little as she did.

“My driver’s parked around back,” Arthur informed her. “He’ll take you home.”

“That’s not necessary. I can walk.”

“Right, and faint in the street. Forget it. You’ll take the car. Besides, it’ll help you dodge the press.” He glanced at Jill. “You, too. You’d never be able to walk by them without spouting your opinion on invasion of privacy.”

Jill’s nose wrinkled. “You know me well.”

“We know you
both
well,” Elyse amended. “We know your weak spots and we know when you’ve maxed out.” She hugged each of them in turn. “Now go home. Get some sleep.”

“You don’t have to twist my arm,” Morgan assured her. She sent Arthur a questioning look. “Can we talk tomorrow, after you’ve made those calls? Do you have time?”

“I’ll make time.”

“What about your meetings?” It was no secret that Arthur was swamped.

“It’s all under control,” he replied. “I’ll have plenty of time to reach out to everyone I need to. Remember, Congress is in recess until after the holidays, so nothing’s getting done in Washington. Which leaves me free to stay in New York and concentrate on my home base. I’ve got a dozen or so irons in the fire. In terms of national publicity, I’ve agreed to do a story for
Time
. ‘The Daredevil Congressman,’ I think they’re calling it. That’s a great angle. So stop worrying.”

He studied Morgan’s pale face, the dazed look in her eyes, and a flash of fierce determination crossed his face. “None of this means a damn. Your situation takes precedence over everything. I’ll make those calls first thing in the morning. After that, I’ll head over to Winshore. You can make me a cup of espresso with that fancy machine of yours.”

This time Morgan’s smile came naturally. “You’ve got a deal.” She felt like the weight of the world had been partially lifted off her shoulders. “Thank you, Arthur. This means the world to me.” She turned to Elyse. “Will you forgive our running out and leaving you two with the cleanup?”

“What cleanup?” Elyse waved away her concern. “Stacking plates in the dishwasher and putting cartons of uneaten food in the fridge? That should take all of ten minutes.” From the corner of her eye, she spotted her
husband whipping out his cell phone, turning away to check his messages. A wistful expression crossed her face. “I think I’ll turn in early, as well. We all need to recharge. Any way you look at it, the road ahead’s going to be rocky.”

IT WAS
2
A.M.
and Monty still hadn’t slept.

He rolled onto his back, giving up the fight and reconciling himself to a sleepless night. He glanced over at Sally, feeling a surge of peace and contentment at the sight of her lying beside him. They’d been remarried for six months now, and he still felt like the luckiest man alive. After three decades in law enforcement, he’d seen more tragedy and ugliness than he let himself dwell on—certainly more than enough to know that Sally encompassed everything that was good and beautiful. And this time around he had the maturity and wisdom to hang on to that.

Sally’s deep, even breathing told him she was sound asleep. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he slid out of bed, yanked on a pair of sweats, and headed down to the kitchen. As always, during his restless nights, he followed the same counterproductive but enjoyable routine—counterproductive because every aspect of it was guaranteed to prolong his insomnia. He brewed a pot of strong, black coffee, found a relatively fresh donut—which he microwaved for precisely nine seconds—and plopped down at the table to snack and think.

Tonight’s thoughts were all about the resurrection of the Winter homicide cases.

Gabelli was a good guy. During the quieter part of his workday, he’d managed to make a copy of the entire original file—from interviews to written reports to crime-scene photos. After that, he’d packed it up and left the precinct for the night, making a quick detour to Little Neck. According to the voice mail he’d left Monty, he’d slid the file under Monty’s office door, so it would be the first thing he tripped over when he walked in tomorrow morning.

Monty couldn’t wait to get his hands on that file. Not that he needed it to remember the crime-scene details; those were forever etched in his mind. But he did need it to review and reevaluate each investigative step
they’d taken, this time with a fresh eye and the more sophisticated forensic tools at their disposal.

Checking for a DNA match would be easy—provided the perp was already in the system. But if he wasn’t, if the murders had been, as Monty suspected, personal and committed by someone without a record, there’d be zip to go on.

The crime-scene photos were another matter. True, they’d been taken in the late eighties. But their quality had been pretty decent, and the area and angles they’d covered had been comprehensive. Which was a good start. Because, as luck would have it, Monty knew the best damned image-enhancement and photo-retouching expert in the business. A pro whose skill at interpreting photos had earned him respect within the law enforcement community and beyond.

Monty took another belt of coffee. It was the middle of the night. If he remembered his dates right, his poor son had just gotten home from Europe a few hours ago. He was probably sprawled in his bed, dead to the world.

Okay, Monty would give in to his paternal instincts—for one night.

But tomorrow Lane was getting a phone call.

MORGAN JERKED AWAKE,
plagued by that gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach–the feeling that something was wrong, but not quite grasping what it was.

Abruptly, she remembered, and everything inside her went cold.

She sat up in bed, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them. Arthur would set things in motion. And Detective Montgomery would be on this case like a bloodhound. Still, it wasn’t enough. It was
her
parents who’d been shot to death, and she couldn’t take a passive role in figuring out who’d really pulled the trigger.

There had to be something more she could do.

She scrambled out of bed, went back to the spare bedroom, where she’d left her parents’ memorabilia. Maybe there was something here that could help her. The problem was, all the photos were personal, as were the mementos. And the newly discovered journals were her mother’s. They dealt with plans to aid abused women, to offer them counseling and medical care.
That had been Lara’s passion—and why Morgan had initiated the pro bono branch of Winshore. If she could help women who’d survived abusive relationships find healthy ones, she’d be contributing to her mother’s dream.

As for her father’s things, there were no notes, no old date books, nothing personal other than the framed photo of her and her mother, and the handsome pen set he’d kept on his desk.

However, along with the stack of photos her mother had collected were newspaper clippings, tributes to major cases that Jack Winter had prosecuted and won.

Carefully, Morgan laid out the articles. She’d been reading through every one word for word. The names and convictions didn’t ring any bells. Then again, she’d been a child when they occurred. The fact was, any of those criminals could have had outside contacts or angry family members who’d “take care of” an A.D.A.

Bottom line—any of these articles could contain
the
kernel of a motive, one she didn’t have the knowledge or expertise to spot.

Damn. Morgan sat back on her heels, swamped by a sense of frustration. She was grasping at straws. But at least she was grasping. No matter how worried about her Arthur and Elyse were, how insistent they were that she stay out of the line of fire, she couldn’t. She had to take an active role in this investigation.

Her posture rigid with purpose, she refolded the articles and slid them into an envelope. She’d give them to Detective Montgomery. Maybe the names would mean something to him. If not, maybe they’d ring a bell with Charlie Denton, or with another attorney who’d been with the Manhattan D.A. at the time.

It was a potential avenue.

One she had to take.