by Andrea Kane
THE FOUR-AND-A-HALF-HOUR flight from Teterboro to Telluride was uneventful.
Arthur worked nonstop, alternately reviewing paperwork and calling influential people to garner support for his legislation. Once or twice, he got up to stretch his legs, to swallow a glass of springwater, and to check in with the pilot.
Lane slept for the first couple of hours, having stayed up all night working for Monty. He woke up in time for a fabulous brunch of fresh-squeezed orange juice, warm croissants, and a sautéed crabmeat, grilled asparagus, and provolone omelet. After that, he unpacked his Canon EOS 5D, peered out the window of the Gulf Stream V jet, and took several awesome shots. He also took a few shots of Arthur, forehead creased in concentration, talking intently on the phone, then leaning back in the plush leather seat to review his notes.
There was a lot to be said for traveling with the rich and powerful.
Instead of being shuffled around like pieces of cargo, Lane and Jonah had been escorted by limo to Teterboro airport. They’d swung by the Marriott Glenpointe to pick up the congressman, since he’d attended a dinner there and spent the night. Minutes later, they arrived at Teterboro.
The private jet had been waiting on standby. No arriving hours early. No pain-in-the-ass baggage checking. No enduring long lines at check-in and then security. No being squashed in a narrow seat between a screaming infant and an offensive-smelling passenger who removed his shoes five minutes into the flight. No endless delays and running for connecting flights to reach an area of Colorado as remote as the San Juan Mountains.
Yup, Lane could definitely get used to this.
Glancing across the aisle at Jonah, he had to grin. The kid had been awestruck during the entire limo ride. His jaw had dropped when they boarded the private jet provided by one of Daniel Kellerman’s business associates. And it had remained that way as he marveled at the lush interior, smooth ride, high speed, and sumptuous brunch that accompanied their flight.
Right now, he was glued to the window, staring out at the view.
And what a view it was.
Catching his first glimpse of the peaks below, Lane could see why people referred to this as God’s country. The San Juans were breathtaking, a cluster of white peaks piercing a bluebird sky.
“Wow,” Jonah breathed, grabbing his camera. “Talk about awesome.”
“No argument,” Lane murmured. “It doesn’t get any closer to heaven than this.”
Nature at its most miraculous unfurled before them. She’d worked in their favor, since autumn in Colorado had been particularly snowy, leaving the alpine zones awash in powder. That had prompted consideration of an early season opening. Congressman Shore’s influence and the fact that his adventures were being featured in Time magazine clinched it. The heli-skiing company caved easily, and agreed to open even earlier than contemplated. Hell, they couldn’t buy that kind of publicity for any amount of money.
“Are we heli-skiing today?” Jonah asked.
“We?” Lane arched a brow.
A sheepish grin. “I heard my mother’s end of your conversation today. I know she told you what a good skier I am, how many years I’ve been at it. I started with my youth group when I was eight. I’ve been skiing the black diamond trails since I was twelve.”
“Quit while you’re ahead.” Lane cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I got the whole rundown from your mom. And since you were eavesdropping, I’m sure you know I agreed to let you take part in the heli-skiing. As long as you listen to our guide and don’t try anything dumb.”
“I will. And I won’t.” Jonah’s whole face lit up. “Think of the cool shots I can get when I’m up close, cutting through that heavy powder, zooming down the mountain with you and the congressman.”
Arthur had just finished up a phone call and caught the tail end of the conversation. “Sounds like he’s got the bug, Lane.” He chuckled. “Another powder hound in the making.” He turned to Jonah. “I don’t blame you. When I was seventeen, you couldn’t have dragged me away from an adventure like this.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jonah looked from one of them to the other. “Do we go right away?”
“Nope.” Arthur shook his head. “There’s not enough daylight left. Safety and the heli-skiing company say we wait till morning. Don’t look so crestfallen,” he added, seeing Jonah’s expression. “We’ve got something cool on tap for today, too. The company’s giving us an aerial tour of the mountains we’ll be skiing tomorrow. That means a helicopter ride and a preview of what’s to come.”
“And lots of photo ops,” Jonah added, his upbeat mood restored. He peered out the window, his forehead crinkled as he intently scrutinized his field of view. “Time is going to be blown away by what we give them.”
SEVENTEEN
Morgan was a nervous wreck when she showed up on Monty’s doorstep at two-thirty.
She’d spent the morning trying to prepare herself for what lay ahead. She’d gone through the motions of her day, called the hospital to check on Rachel’s condition—which, thankfully, was improved—and forced down a sandwich in the office kitchen with Jill and Beth.
The fact that Monty hadn’t called meant no new information had surfaced, which put extra pressure on the session they were about to have. More and more she was starting to believe that she and her memories were going to be central to solving her parents’ murders.
Monty gave her an encouraging look when he opened the door. Morgan didn’t delude herself into thinking it signified anything but emotional support. She gave him her coat, straightened her shoulders, and marched into his office like a prisoner facing a firing squad.
“Hey, relax. We’ll get through this.” Monty shoved a mug into her hands. “Here’s something to help. My famous hot chocolate. Whipped cream and all. I perfected the formula when my kids were young. And trust me. You don’t want my coffee. Sally says it tastes like driveway sealer. Besides, you’re wired enough. This’ll soothe you. Guaranteed.”
“Thank you—Monty.” This time the name came easier. “Not just for the hot chocolate, but for trying to calm me down. Although I admit that chocolate’s my weakness; it’s the ultimate comfort food.” Morgan took a sip, then gave him a thumbs-up. “Yum. Definitely worthy of its reputation.”
“Told you.” He gestured toward his well-worn office sofa. “Have a seat.”
Nodding, Morgan crossed over and sank down on the tweed cushion. “I take it nothing turned up this morning.”
“Actually, yeah, something did.” Monty dropped into the easy chair across from her, the files they were about to peruse spread out on the rectangular table between them. “But not what you were expecting.”
The mug paused halfway to Morgan’s lips. “What then?” Her eyes widened as she listened to the details Elyse had filled Monty in on. “I had no idea about any of this.”
“No one did. Apparently, Elyse kept it to herself.”
“Poor thing. She’s the ultimate nurturer; always trying to protect her family. But now that she knows that the hang-ups and the harassment were part of a bigger agenda, she must be thrown.”
“She seemed pretty shaken, yeah.”
A hard swallow. “And that agenda is me. Charlie was right. Everything, right down to Rachel’s accident, were warning messages for me.”
“Let’s talk about Rachel,” Monty suggested, propping his elbow on the chair arm. “Tell me what you can about her background, her interests, even her taste in men. Then do the same with Karly Fontaine.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to figure out if they were randomly selected from the people you know, or if one or both of them was specifically targeted.”
“I see where you’re going with this. But it’s a sticky question. My client interviews are confidential.”
“Yeah, and your parents’ killer is out there.” Monty wasn’t mincing words. And he wasn’t letting Morgan’s ethics get in his way. “Look, I’m not asking because I want to pry into these women’s love lives. I
need this information before interviewing them. Just give me some basic facts.”
“Fine. They’re both attractive. Rachel’s on the petite side, dark-haired, and in her midtwenties. She’s probably the youngest management consultant in her firm. That’s because she’s superintelligent and aggressive. She prefers older men. Young ones can’t deal with her strength or success. The older ones who measure up to her are usually married. My job’s to find one who isn’t. Karly’s tall and willowy, thirty-four, with red-gold hair. She started her career in L.A. as a model—magazine and runway. She’s now the managing director of the New York branch of the Lairman Modeling Agency.”
“Okay.” Monty was writing. “And I take it both women are looking for long-term relationships?”
“Not just long-term. They want men with substance and character, a variety of interests, and a high level of ambition. That’s why I arranged dates for each of them with Charlie Denton. There were strong correlations in their profiles. Plus, my instincts told me the fits were good.”
“Does Elyse know either Rachel or Karly?”
The question caught Morgan by surprise. “I don’t think so. Why? Is that important?”
“Only if it takes us in the right direction. I’m trying to see if there’s an overlap between Elyse’s clientele and yours.”
“Absolutely. She’s given us great word of mouth, which is invaluable in both our businesses. As for Winshore, referrals are the mainstay of our business. We have several hundred clients at this point. Frankly, I’d need some time to recall who referred each of them.” Morgan’s smile was rueful. “Half the time, Jill and I don’t even meet each other’s clients for months. Once a rapport is established with a new client, whoever that client’s initial contact was tries to build a level of trust. It helps not to shove an entire staff in their face. Besides, most—though not all—client meetings take place outside the office—in restaurants, hotel lounges, even a client’s office, if they live and work in the suburbs. We try to make it as convenient as possible.”
“Interesting.” Monty was still scribbling. “Are you okay with my chatting with Rachel and Karly?”
“I have no problem with it. I can’t speak for Rachel’s doctor; you’ll have to check with him. I’ll give you his contact information, and Karly’s cell number.”
“Good.” He set down his notebook. “How’s your hot chocolate?”
“Gone.” Morgan placed her empty cup neatly on a coaster. “Now let’s get to the main purpose of our meeting while I’m still clinging to my bravado.” She shifted to the edge of the sofa cushion, her back ramrod straight, and pointed at the photograph envelope on the table. “Are those the original or the enhanced shots?”
“The originals. Lane’s still working on the enhancements. He was at it till dawn.”
“And now he’s heli-skiing?”
A corner of Monty’s mouth lifted. “He’s used to a no-sleep, high-performance lifestyle. He’s had to be, in his line of work. But don’t worry. Not only is he resilient, he’s adaptable. He probably slept on the plane.” Monty reached for the envelope of photos, all humor vanishing. “I’m going to lay these out in a specific order. It’s not to protect you; it’s to get maximum recall out of you.”
“I understand.” A weighted pause. “I’m ready.”
Monty studied her for another brief moment. Then he took out the photos and laid two before her. They were glaringly devoid of human beings. “Do you remember the room itself?”
“Yes.” The familiar tightness gripped her chest, but she tamped down on it, pushing past the panic that started to coil inside her. “The basement where it happened. I was upstairs, putting glitter on some holiday decorations. We were waiting for the food to be delivered. My parents went down to get the paper goods. The guests were scheduled to arrive soon.” She could see it as clearly as if it were happening again, right in front of her. “My mother had put music on; ‘A Holly, Jolly Christmas.’ That was why I didn’t hear any of the sounds…the gunshots…”
“Right. What made you go downstairs?”
“They were gone so long. I got scared. And, for what it’s worth, I never saw the room from either of these angles you’re showing me. I walked down these stairs.” She indicated the far left corner of the photos. “And when I got to the bottom, all I saw were their bodies. I couldn’t look away. So why don’t you show me those photos. They’re more apt to jog any memories I might have repressed.”
“I plan to.” Monty pulled out a few more shots and glanced at them. Morgan could tell by his expression that this was it.
He placed the photos on the table in front of her. “These were taken from the foot of the stairs. It’s the angle you walked in on.” His tone was steady, but his gaze was fixed on Morgan.
Her parents’ bodies. Bleeding. Lifeless.
For a long moment she stared, unable to look away. She was dragged back into the living nightmare, not in the surreal way she’d expected, but in a palpable way. She was there again, standing at the foot of the steps, staring at the unthinkable, gripped by terror and denial. Basement sounds—a clanging pipe, a hissing boiler—drowned out her first cry. And the smell—that awful stench of blood and body waste—it made her gag. She kept gagging as she ran over to them. She tripped a couple of times, once on a bucket, once on a wooden board.
She reached her mother first. She was crumpled in a heap on her side, her white dress soaked with blood, pieces of her insides not where they should be. Her arms were spread out, her face turned away, her eyes open but unseeing.
Morgan called out to her, over and over. Mommy, Mommy…But there was no response. She was afraid to touch her, afraid she’d make it worse. And there was so much blood. A pool of it around her, growing, spreading. Morgan couldn’t fix it. Only one person could.
Daddy. She crawled over to her father. He was lying flat, prone, facedown. His hair was matted with blood, which was still oozing out from two holes in back of his head. His body looked okay, so she shook him. But he felt weird, stiff, and he didn’t move or wake up.
Somehow she knew he wouldn’t.
She crept away, cutting her knees on broken chips of cement, then scrambling to her feet, bumping into an overturned chair, skidding on a stone and nearly landing in a pool of blood. And there were splatters everywhere…and her mother’s purse, contents dumped on the floor, her compact red and sticky…
She started screaming then, screaming their names, screaming for help.
The rest was a blur.
“Morgan.” She was back in Monty’s office, and he was wrapping a fleece blanket around her. He looked worried, as if he wanted to comfort her and didn’t know how. “Are you okay?”
Her face was wet. She tasted the tears, but she didn’t remember starting to cry. And she was trembling, violently. The fleece felt warm, soft, and secure as it absorbed her inner chill.
“Morgan?”
She gave a shaky nod. “I’m fine. I just…I knew it would hit me hard. I expected it. God knows, I’ve relived it a thousand times. But this was different. Staring at those photos—it was like being transported back to the scene, like it was happening right now. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall apart.”
His jaw tightened. “You didn’t fall apart. You revisited hell. Do you want to stop?”
“No.” Her tone was adamant. “We’ve come this far. Let’s keep going.”
“Okay.” Monty sucked in a breath. “While it’s fresh in your mind, describe to me exactly what you just relived.”
Insides clenched, she did.
“You said that when you first crossed the room, you tripped over a bucket and then a wooden board.”
“Yes. I assume the bucket and the chair were overturned during the fight between my father and the killer, and the wooden board was the two-by-four my mother swung at the killer to try to save my father.”
“That’s my assumption, too. Do you remember if any of the objects you struck—the bucket, the chair, or the two-by-four
—moved when you tripped on them?”
She considered that. “I don’t think so. They were pretty solid. I remember feeling the sting in my leg and my foot when I collided with them. I was a slight, skinny kid. If anything, those objects moved me, not the other way around.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was an unsteady whisper. “That smell I’m remembering. It was death, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Monty pulled out a few more photos, handing them to Morgan. “You said you walked around your parents’ bodies when you tried to wake them. See if anything in these triggers a memory.” He kept talking, focusing her and bolstering her at the same time. “I know the pools of blood look big, and they must have seemed even bigger to you at the time. But they’re only about two feet in diameter. As for the blood splatter you described, it was used to determine the distance of the shootings. The shots were fired at close range. Death came quickly.”
“And without much pain—that’s what you’re telling me.”
“Exactly.”
“My father was killed execution style, at point-blank range. My mother was shot from what—several feet away?”
“At most. The object you skidded on was a shell casing. We recovered all three of them.”
“Two for my father, one for my mother. I remember the two holes in back of his head.” Morgan swallowed hard. “What about the weapon?”
“It was a Walther PPK. Never found.”
“Another dead end. And obviously, there were no fingerprints at the crime scene.”
“Just your parents’. Primarily your mother’s, on the two-by-four.”
“What about DNA?” Morgan asked, unable to tear her gaze off the photos. “My mother’s purse was rifled. My father fought with the killer, so he had to have prints on his clothes.”