Dark Room

by Andrea Kane

  “Why?” Arthur looked startled.

  “Why was I asking about him, or why was I worried that he might have a grudge against you?”

  “Both.” Still visibly perplexed, Arthur pulled back a chair and sat down. “George Hayek—I haven’t heard his name in years.”

  “I’ll fill you in.” Monty repeated the story.

  “I see.” Arthur frowned. “Do you have any evidence that George was on Angelo’s payroll?”

  “Nope. It was a long shot,” Monty replied. “But I had to run down the lead. I’m running down every lead. And when I saw Lenny’s name on Hayek’s booking sheet, I saw a potential motive.”

  “What motive?” Lenny demanded. “I’m still not following.”

  “I am.” Arthur pursed his lips, nodding as he contemplated Monty’s reasoning. “You’re asking about George and me because you’re wondering if we got along. We did. Not that we saw much of each other. I was away at college and he was here, working for my father. But I saw him whenever I came home for vacations. I even went with him and my father to the movies a few times.” Arthur gave Lenny’s shoulder a squeeze. “Dad had a soft spot for George, given how much he’d lost. He figured we could include him in some of our father-son time. George appreciated it. He wasn’t much of a talker. But it was obvious how much he respected us. Especially Dad. He never forgot the breaks my father gave him. George’s loyalty ran deep.”

  “Well, that shoots that theory to hell.” Monty sat back in his seat.

  “You figured that if George had it in for me, even after twenty years, he’d go after my closest friend?”

  “It’s not a new motive. Hatred. Vengeance. It’s been used before. You were a state assemblyman, an influential man who was on the political fast track. Plus, it didn’t have to be you he was after. If he’d stayed in New York, kept hanging out with that gang of his, and ended up running guns for Angelo, you might not even have factored into the equation. Angelo was convicted. It was only a matter of time before his flunkies went down, too. One of them might have decided to take care of Jack before Jack could take care of him.”

  Again, Arthur nodded. “Good point. Sobering, too. Even though George didn’t fall into that category, there must have been dozens of criminals who did.”

  “Yeah, very few of whom were investigated last time. Schiller’s confession took care of that.”

  “Hi, all. Sorry I’m late.” Lane wound his way over to the table, putting down his camera bag and eyeing the clock on the wall. “Actually, I’m not late. I’m two minutes early. What time did this meeting get started?”

  “It didn’t,” Lenny assured him. “How could it? There’s no food on the table. I’ll fix that.” He stood up, pointing at each of them in turn. “Lane—pastrami, lean, potato knish, and coleslaw. Monty—brisket-and-corned-beef combo and a bowl of matzo-ball soup. Arthur—a hot open turkey platter, a bowl of sour pickles, and a piece of your mother’s noodle pudding, if you know what’s good for you.”

  His son grinned. “I’m not dumb. I’ll eat every bite, then call her later and tell her how good it was.”

  “Smart boy.” Lenny patted him on the back. “I’ll take care of the order myself. You boys talk.” His gaze settled on Monty. “Thank you for helping Morgan. She’s been through hell and back.”

  “I remember.” Monty gave a terse nod. “Don’t worry. I’ll chase down every lead till I find the right one.”

  “I know you will.” Lenny turned toward the kitchen, his customarily upbeat mood restored. “And I’ll make sure Sally’s order is ready when you go. Rhoda’s chopped liver beats a dozen roses any day.”

  “No argument.” Monty watched Lenny cut through the crowd and disappear through the swinging door. “He’s something else.”

  “He sure is,” Lane agreed. “He’s got more energy than I do, his memory’s better than mine, and he’s always chipper and happy. I don’t envy you, Congressman. He’s a tough act to follow.”

  “You’re right. And, please, call me Arthur. I already feel older than my father, and you call him by his first name.”

  “Good point.” Lane chuckled. “Fine—Arthur.” He sent a sideways look at Monty, then glanced quizzically at Arthur. “I’m not sure how you want to handle this meeting. My role here is a little nebulous, at least as I see it. My editor explained that having Monty and I meet with you together will optimize your time efficiency. That’s fine. But you’re going to have to define my limitations.”

  Lane summarized the specifics, counting off on his fingers. “Tell me when we’re on the record and when we’re off; when I’m taking the lead in this interview and when I’m taking a backseat; and when you want me to make myself scarce so the two of you can talk privately. Officially, I’m here to take whatever photos and corresponding text you want readers to see regarding the homicide investigations. At the same time I want to give maximum exposure to your proposed legislation. I already have photos of you with your family. I’ll want some of you among your constituents. The order and the structure of how things get done is up to you. I’m at your disposal.”

  Arthur steepled his fingers in front of him, tapping them together as he spoke. “Let’s start by cutting through the BS. You and I are flying out to Colorado tomorrow, and driving up to the Poconos a couple of days later. We’ll be together for the better part of a week while you chronicle our adventures for Time. There’ll be plenty of time to talk. Believe me, I’ll chew your ear off about my bill. In between trips, we’ll find more than enough photo ops. But today’s meeting is about who really killed Jack and Lara. I know your involvement in this investigation is more in-depth than the photo essay you’re doing for Time. So tell me, where do things stand with the crime-scene photos?”

  Lane was ready for the question. It confirmed what he’d already suspected—that this was the real reason Arthur had wanted this collaborative meeting. He was aware of Lane’s expertise, realized Monty had tapped into that expertise, and wanted to amass the information cumulatively.

  “Everything I’ve done is preliminary,” Lane informed him. “I expect that to change in about two hours. That’s when the negatives are being delivered to my town house. Once I scan those negatives into my computer, I’ll be able to enhance every detail. If there’s something there, I’ll find it.”

  Arthur turned to Monty. “Is there any correlation between what you’ve asked Lane to focus on, and the path you were pursuing with my father and me a few minutes ago? Is Lane searching for something visual that would connect the Winters’ murders to one of the criminals Jack put away right before he died?”

  “No,” Monty stated flatly. “It would be stupid to narrow our scope. Not without a shred of proof. Lane’s got an expert eye. The best thing he can do is view those photos without any preconceived ideas; only facts. That way he won’t overlook anything. In the meantime, I’ll keep pounding away at my investigation. Anything I uncover that impacts his analysis, he’ll hear about ASAP. We want to keep this as open-minded an investigation as possible, until we’re damned sure we’re heading in the right direction. No more screwups. Not this time.”

  “Amen,” Arthur muttered. “I still can’t believe no one saw through Schiller’s bogus confession.”

  “If by ‘no one’ you mean you, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Monty replied. “Schiller’s a thief and a murderer. It wasn’t a reach to think the Winters were two more names on his victims list.”

  “Right.” Arthur’s tone was rife with self-censure. It was evident he still hadn’t forgiven himself. “Anyway, what else have you got?”

  “I’ve got the rest of Jack Winter’s caseload to go through. I’ve got leads on everyone from perps he prosecuted, were convicted, and who were either released or paroled right before he was killed, to relatives, friends, or associates of perps still serving time, to none of the above.”

  “What’s none of the above?”

  “You name it. Unrelated perps with histories of breaking and entering or theft w
ho were in Brooklyn in December 1989. Also, guys with police records and histories of violence whose wives frequented Lara Winter’s shelter. It’s possible that one of those husbands flipped out that night and came to the shelter to teach his wife a lesson. Lara and Jack could have been casualties of that visit. And that’s just the tip of the ‘none of the above’ iceberg.”

  “God, there’s so much ground to cover.” Arthur rubbed his forehead in a weary, frustrated gesture.

  “Yup. The good news is, I work fast.” A pensive look crossed Monty’s face. “How’s Morgan? Is she holding up okay?”

  Arthur’s shrug was ambivalent. “She spent most of the weekend alone. Jill tried to coax her out, but no luck. This investigation is eating away at her. So ‘okay’ is a relative term. Elyse and I are really worried.”

  “She’s hanging in there,” Lane supplied quietly. “It’s not easy, but she’s a strong woman.”

  Both men looked at Lane in surprise.

  “You spoke to her?” Arthur asked.

  “Actually, I ran into her. Saturday night. We both wandered into the Carlyle for a drink. We ended up having dinner together. She was definitely more relaxed when I walked her home.”

  “Good.” Arthur sighed with relief. “I’m glad she got out. And that she had a little fun. Thank you, Lane.”

  “No thanks necessary. I had a great time. Truthfully, I was wound pretty tight myself. So the evening did as much for me as it did for Morgan.”

  Monty opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the arrival of their lunch.

  “Here you go.” Anya whisked over and began unloading plates of food onto the table. “I’ll be right back with your drinks. Lenny’s on his way out; he’s putting together Jonah’s next big delivery order.”

  “Thanks, Anya.” Arthur gave her a broad smile. “This looks great.”

  “Save the compliments for your mother,” she advised him with wry humor. “Eat all that noodle pudding.” She pointed at the side plate, which could barely hold the enormous square of steaming noodle pudding that was hanging over the edges.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Arthur snapped off a mock salute.

  Anya had just left, when Jonah shuffled over to the table, looking awkward and uncomfortable. “Hey, Lane? Sorry to bother you, but you said to let you know when that package from the Central Clerk’s Office was delivered. It showed up at your place just as I was leaving.”

  Lane exchanged a surprised glance with Monty.

  “Earlier than expected,” Monty murmured. “That’s a first.”

  “Yeah.” Lane turned back to his assistant. “Thanks, Jonah.”

  “No problem.” The lanky teenager was visibly relieved that his good news had been well enough received to eclipse the inconvenience of his intrusion. Hoping he was on a roll, he angled his head in Lane’s direction. “Is it okay if I put in a few extra hours later today? I could use the cash. Or do you need the lab to yourself now that that package arrived?”

  “Unfortunately, I need the whole lab. I’ll be spread out all over the place.” Lane paused as a spur-of-the-moment idea struck him. “But I might have a way for you to put in those extra hours and earn that cash.” A questioning glance at Arthur. “I assume you have afternoon meetings?”

  “I do,” Arthur confirmed.

  “In Manhattan?”

  A nod.

  “Why don’t you pick a time and place that works. Jonah can be there and take some preliminary shots of you among your constituents. I want to get him involved in this photo-essay project of ours, anyway. He has the skill. We need the help. And there’s no time like the present.”

  Arthur got the message. Lane was taking care of the vital, confidential aspect of things, and Jonah could handle the more mundane.

  “Sounds good. How about outside my office around three o’clock?” Arthur suggested to Jonah. “I’ll be checking in with my staff around then anyway. And it’ll give you more than enough time to do your lunch runs for my father, and pick up whatever camera equipment you need from Lane’s lab.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Jonah’s eyes were huge, like he’d been handed a grand prize. “Your office is over on Lex. I’ll be there at three sharp.”

  “Fine.”

  “Jonah, there you are.” Lenny bustled out, two large insulated Styrofoam boxes clutched in his arms. “Here’s the first part of the order. It’s for Monty’s old haunt—East New York. And there’s more.” He winced a little as he shifted the heavy boxes from his grasp to Jonah’s. “I’ve got another two of these being packed. So stick those in the truck, then come back in and wait.”

  He watched Jonah head off, then glanced down at his right hand and scowled. “Damn,” he muttered. He reached over to an adjacent table, whipped out two napkins, and wiped off the gold initial ring Rhoda had bought him for their twenty-fifth anniversary. Then he grabbed a few more napkins and wrapped them around his bleeding forefinger.

  “What happened?” Arthur asked.

  “Nothing. I’m just a klutz. I was slicing some sour pickles, and I cut myself.”

  “Go tape it up,” Monty advised him as a little blood soaked through. “It looks like you did quite a number on it.”

  “Nah, I was just doing too many things at once. I’ll slap on a Band-Aid after the lunch crowd slows down.”

  “Did you have your blood tested this month?” Arthur demanded, frowning as his father grabbed another napkin, wrapped it around the others.

  Lenny shot him a look. “No, and don’t start. I’ll go next week. It’s been too hectic here for me to break away.”

  “Not that hectic. Forget next week. Go tomorrow, or I’ll tell Mom.”

  A grimace. “You would. Fine, I’ll go tomorrow. Now let me get the rest of Jonah’s order.”

  Arthur rolled his eyes as Lenny hurried back to the kitchen to get the rest of Jonah’s delivery order. “Stubborn as an ox. He’s on blood-thinning medication. He’s supposed to get his levels checked every month. It’s just routine, but it’s doctor’s orders. Try telling that to him. He thinks he’s immortal.”

  “He is,” Lane replied.

  “He’s also territorial about the deli,” Monty added. “It’s his life’s work. He doesn’t trust anyone else to run it.” A pause. “I can relate.”

  “Yes,” Arthur agreed, nodding as Monty’s analogy sank in. “I’m sure you can. You two are a lot alike. Neither of you believes anyone can do your job as well as you. The irony of it is, you’re right. No one can.”

  “Which is why I’m going to be the one to solve this case.” Monty’s jaw set. Abandoning conversation, he grabbed his soup spoon, downed a healthy portion of matzo-ball soup, then dove into his combo sandwich, chewing it with gusto. “Enough chitchat. Let’s eat. I’ve got an investigation to get back to.”

  THIRTEEN

  The agency was hopping. Phones were ringing off the hook, clients were setting up appointments, and referrals were pouring in by the droves.

  Never had Morgan been more grateful to be busy.

  She’d dashed down to the office early for a new-client consult. Then came two existing-client follow-up meetings. After a quick microwaved cup of soup, she’d taken off for three back-to-back outside appointments.

  The first of those appointments was with Charlie Denton, a fact that pleased her on several levels. Professionally, she wanted to expand Charlie’s chances of finding the right mate. She wanted to hear everything about his weekend—he’d taken out both Karly Fontaine and Rachel Ogden. Both women would be strong complements to Charlie, each in different ways.

  And, yes, she had a personal motive in wanting to see him, too. She was anxious to know if Charlie had had any success in prying information out of anyone in the Manhattan D.A.’s office.

  They met at a Cosi in midtown, halfway between the agency’s Upper East Side location and the D.A.’s downtown office. Over a light lunch and a cup of coffee, they talked.

  “You look tired,” Charlie began, studying Morgan’s
face.

  “I guess I am. Life is hectic on all fronts, and I’m not sleeping well.” She pulled out the file she’d brought with Charlie’s name printed on it, ready to jot down notes. “I’m dying to hear about your dates with Rachel and Karly.” A weighty pause. “But first, I have to ask, has anyone in the D.A.’s office come through for you? Did you learn anything new?”

  Charlie lowered his gaze, concentrating on stirring his coffee. “Nothing I can discuss.”

  Morgan went very still. “What does that mean?”

  He sighed. “Look, Morgan, I’m pushing as hard as I can. But this is a delicate situation. It requires a fair amount of diplomacy—and I don’t mean because I’m covering my own butt. Like it or not, my sources have to feel certain that I’ll keep whatever I’m told in confidence.”

  “In other words, they’re protecting their butts.”

  “In some cases, yes. In some cases, they’re not working with facts, only supposition and hearsay. And in some cases, I’m easing my way through a chain of command in order to find the right person to supply my answers—if those answers exist.”

  “Does that mean you don’t know anything yet, or you know something but aren’t authorized to share it with me?”

  “It means you have to give me a little time. I’m operating on instinct and bread crumbs of information I’m picking up along the way. When I have something concrete under my belt, I’ll speed-dial your number. I promise.”

  Reluctantly, Morgan accepted his explanation and his assurance. “I appreciate that. I realize you’re putting yourself through this primarily because of the pressure Arthur is exerting.”

  “You’re wrong,” he interrupted. “My office’s motive is one thing. Mine’s another.” He leaned forward, staring at her intently. “It’s true that Congressman Shore has a lot of influence. And, yes, the D.A. is eager to offer his cooperation. But I’m not doing this for the congressman. I’m doing it for your father—and for you.”

  Morgan’s cup paused halfway to her lips. There was an intensity about Charlie’s tone, and his words, that caught her off guard. She’d known he admired her father, maybe even hero-worshipped him a little. But what he’d just said sounded like more than that. It sounded personal.