by Andrea Kane
“Sorry. Yes, I’m here. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, and for being so precise with your answers.”
“They clearly weren’t the answers you wanted.”
“No. But they had to be gotten. I appreciate it, Stu. Oh, and happy holidays.”
Lane hung up and just sat there, still struggling to process the implications of what he’d just learned.
The wet blood on the floor. The shiny bloodstained knuckle prints on Jack’s face. Both Lenny’s.
Lenny. Warmhearted, jovial Lenny. The guy who welcomed everyone into his deli. The guy who’d do anything for anyone.
The guy who’d do even more than that to protect his son.
Shoving back the chair, Lane rose. He had to get over to Elyse’s gym, to be there when Monty was putting the screws into Arthur. Because there were pieces of this puzzle that only he could supply.
He was about to flip off his monitor, when the zoomed photo of Jack’s cheek caught his eye, the vertical and horizontal lines, so exactingly perpendicular, etched into Jack’s skin like the mark of Zorro.
And suddenly it made sense. It was a mark, however unintentional, just like Zorro’s. An initial. In reverse form, because it had been carved into Jack’s face by a punch. But when viewed as a mirror image—it was the letter L.
THE YOGA ROOM was dark, removed from the main section of the gym. Which made it perfect for what Monty had in mind.
He led Arthur Shore down the hall, opening the door and assessing the congressman’s demeanor as he blew by Monty and into the room. Stance rigid, anger emanating from every pore, Arthur was the essence of a man about to be wrongfully accused.
He stopped in the center of the room, waiting as Monty flipped on the lights. With the room illuminated, Monty could see that Arthur’s eyes were ablaze, his body language confrontational. But beneath that great show of bravado, Monty could sense the fear, the worry. Congressman Shore was sweating it—and nobody deserved it more.
With visible irritation, Arthur glanced around. The yoga room was furnished with nothing but a mauve rug, soothing landscape paintings, lavender candles, and a dozen purple yoga mats.
“Grab a Lifecycle,” Monty urged, shutting the door behind them and pointing to one of the bikes that had been lined up against the wall in here to clear the gym for the party. “From what I hear, the seats are pretty comfortable.”
“I’ll stand.” Arthur folded his arms across his chest. “Fine. Once again, you’ve dragged me off for some clandestine talk. What’s this one about—Jonah?”
“Nope.” Monty remained standing as well, although he perched his bottle of water on a Lifecycle seat and leaned his elbows on the handlebars. “This one makes your statutory rape seem minor in comparison. That’s why I picked this room, stark though it is, to talk. I wanted maximum privacy—not out of respect for you, but out of respect for your family.”
“Ah. Another ugly insinuation session.”
“No insinuations. Truths. Facts about the Winter double homicide. But you already knew that. It’s the reason you excused yourself and came with me. It’s also why you’re scared shitless. Well, you should be. I’d bet my entire pension on it. In fact, I’d donate it to your next campaign. And since there’s a snowball’s chance in hell I’d do that, you should realize how sure I am that I’m right.”
Monty’s jaw tightened, and he leaned forward, his hands gripping the Lifecycle. “While you’ve been sending me on wild-goose chases, I’ve been accumulating facts. For example, your ongoing friendship with George Hayek. You really had the poor guy going; he believed the crap you gave him about scaring Morgan off for her own good. You even threatened to use your influence in high places to alter his government status, just to ensure his cooperation. You got it, too. Maybe a little bit too much. You didn’t plan on Rachel Ogden being hit by that van, did you? In fact, you didn’t plan on Rachel Ogden at all. You wanted to scare Morgan. When that didn’t do the trick, you had Hayek send some punk over to trash the brownstone and leave that frightening display on Morgan’s bed. Incidentally, smart move getting both girls out of the house that night. Ordering me to put extra security on them, then having them stay at your place while the dirty deed was done. Nice plan. The final touch was good, too. Having Hayek send a few thugs to smash my windshield and run me off the Taconic. It didn’t faze me—other than the damage they did to my car—but it did upset Morgan.”
A red flush was creeping up Arthur’s neck. “You’re crazy.” He groped inside his jacket pocket, reaching for his cell phone. “I’m calling my lawyer.”
“Don’t waste your time.” Monty waved away the idea. “Wait until it matters. This isn’t an official interrogation. I’m a PI now, remember? Not a cop. Miranda rights don’t mean squat to me. This is personal. When I turn that evidence over to the D.A.—the one who’s itching to convict Jack Winter’s real killer—then call your lawyer. You’ll need him.”
Arthur’s hand slid back to his side. “What evidence?”
“Ah, I’ve captured your interest. Let’s see. How about a grandfather clock that contradicts the time you said you were missing from the Kellerman party by an hour and a half? How about the fact that you were actually MIA during the precise time Jack and Lara Winter were being killed? Oh, and by the way, you know that alibi you gave me? You should have been a little more thorough in your research. Nice job finding someone who fit the profile of an Arthur’s Angel and who’s now conveniently dead. Unfortunately, you didn’t dig deep enough. Margo Adderly had a family. I located her sister. She’s lived in Manhattan for twenty-five years. Every Christmas Eve, she and Margo got together at her place, including the Christmas Eve in question. So Margo might be dead, but her sister just shot your alibi to hell.”
A muscle was pulsing at Arthur’s temple.
“No response?” Monty inquired. “That’s okay, I’ve got enough to say for both of us.”
He paused to take a quick swig of water. “Let’s get back to George Hayek. Fascinating that years ago he gave your dad a Walther PPK—one that was cooperative enough to vanish sometime after the murders. Fair warning, by the way. Lenny was a wreck when I questioned him. I have no doubt he’ll crack on the stand and blurt out whatever he knows. I’ll have to remember to stress that to the D.A. As for Elyse—too bad she can’t be called to testify against her husband. She’d crack, too. You know, the whole BS story about telephone hang-ups, being followed, seeing that van? She’d throw herself in front of a speeding train for you. That’s why she accepted the whole Carol Fenton fiasco, right up through the pregnancy. Of course, like you, she didn’t know about Jonah. She thought Carol had the abortion. She also didn’t expect you to kill to protect your secret.”
Exhaling sharply, Monty gave a sympathetic shake of his head. “That must have been the toughest part for her to live with. Her best friend from college. Murdered by you. Talk about guilt. I can’t imagine the demons your wife’s had to fight all these years. Tell me, did raising Lara and Jack’s daughter help? Did it make you feel like you were off the hook just a little?”
“Shut up,” Arthur snapped. “Elyse and I love Morgan. We raised her as our own.”
“I rest my case.”
“You don’t have a case.” Arthur’s eyes were blazing. “You have a pile of circumstantial crap. Who I wasn’t with, where I wasn’t, doesn’t matter. You need to prove where I was.”
“I can do that, too.” Monty jerked his thumb toward the gym. “What would you say if I told you I just found out that one of the guests Lara invited to that fateful Christmas party showed up early? What if I said that when she arrived, that guest heard Lara and Jack arguing downstairs with a man whose voice she recognized intimately—yours?”
Beads of perspiration were beginning to dot Arthur’s forehead. “You’re lying. If that were the case, she’d have come forward sooner.”
“If she’d known what had happened, she would have. But she didn’t. She was sequestered away, having her baby, then hopping on
a plane and getting the hell out of New York, cutting all ties with her old life—on your orders. She’s been in L.A. all this time, with no idea the Winters had been murdered and there was a killer at large. She was transferred back here several months ago. And she first heard about the murders and the wrongful conviction when the news broke. She read that Lara had a daughter named Morgan, put two and two together, and after the hit-and-run, came to me with what she knew. That gives us motive, means, and opportunity.” Monty’s lips thinned into a cold, grim line. “Game, set, match.”
LANE BURST INTO the gym, not even bothering to remove his coat, just blowing by the attendant and into the room. He and Morgan spotted each other simultaneously, and he covered the distance between them in long strides, gripping her shoulders tightly.
“Where are Monty and Arthur?”
“In the yoga room.” She pointed, her eyes wide and questioning. “Having it out. They’ve been in there for almost half an hour.”
Scrutinizing the room, Lane found the man he was looking for.
“Morgan, I want you to think,” he said. “Who provided the food for your mother’s Christmas party at the shelter that night?”
“I don’t have to think. Lenny did. Or at least he would have if—” Her breath caught as Lane grabbed her hand, pulled her through the room. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”
“You’ll see.” He stopped in front of Lenny and Rhoda, who were chuckling with a couple of guests. “Lenny, can I see you for a minute? It’s important.”
Lenny’s brows rose in surprise. “Of course.” A hint of apprehension. “It isn’t…Nothing happened to…”
“Jonah’s fine,” Lane answered quietly. “Almost ready to go home. Now, please, come with me.” He glanced at Rhoda and the others, forcing a natural and apologetic smile. “Excuse us. I have to borrow Lenny for a few minutes.”
“Take him,” Rhoda said with an affectionate grin. “It’ll give me a chance to talk for a while.”
Lane clapped a hand on Lenny’s shoulder, guided him toward the yoga room, his other hand still tightly clasping Morgan’s.
“What’s this about?” Lenny looked totally confused, and a little wary. “Where are we going?”
“To join Monty and Arthur. They’re talking.”
They reached the door. Lane twisted the knob and pushed the door open. Both Arthur and Monty whipped around to stare at them.
Lane prodded Lenny in. After that, he paused in the doorway for a heartbeat of a second, turning his back to the room and speaking softly to Morgan. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You have no idea how sorry.”
Before she could reply, he led her inside and shut the door with a firm click.
“Lane,” Monty began. “We’re right in the middle of—”
“I know what you’re in the middle of. I’m just here for the ending.” He glared at Arthur, stared him down. “Let me guess. You denied everything. Even in light of all the evidence Monty presented.”
“You’re damned right I denied it,” Arthur responded, pain and anger flashing across his face as he saw Morgan. “You brought Morgan here? You filled her head with this garbage? How could you subject her to—”
“Cut the crap, Arthur,” Lane interrupted. “You’re in way too deep to play the loving surrogate father. So, for my own edification—and Morgan’s—were the murders planned? Or did they just happen? Were you an accomplice? Or just the cleanup committee? Which one of you brought the gun—you or your father?”
Arthur’s mouth opened, then snapped shut.
“His father?” Morgan asked weakly.
Lane glared at Arthur with utter disgust. “Does it give you some sick sense of power to know your father is so blind to who you really are that he’d kill to protect you? That two amazing human beings were murdered because you knocked up an underage teenager and wouldn’t face the consequences? That Lenny refused to let you face the consequences or even to listen to Lara and Jack?”
Everyone was staring at this point, even Monty.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Lenny made a tortured sound deep in his throat. “Lane, please. Don’t do this. Not in front of Morgan. I can’t bear for her to hear it. She was a child…a little girl…”
“Dad, be quiet,” Arthur commanded. “They’ve got nothing. They’re fishing.”
“I wish I was.” Lane fought the urge to punch Arthur’s lights out. “I have proof, Arthur. Physical evidence.” He pulled out the prints, one by one, then knelt down and slapped them onto the yoga mats. “The imprint of Lenny’s gold initial ring on Jack Winter’s face. His blood on the floor from the fistfight, and his bloody knuckle prints on Jack’s face. See the wet, sticky consistency? That’s because Lenny’s blood is slow to coagulate because of the Coumadin he takes for his atrial fibrillation. Today’s DNA testing is balls-on accurate. It’ll prove the blood is Lenny’s. Then there’s this clean, round space where an empty bucket of Spackle was removed—right here.” Lane pointed. “That’s where Arthur threw his bloody shirt after he mopped up Lenny’s face and hands, wiped his prints off everything, and made it look like the Winters had been killed during a random burglary.”
Lane heard Morgan’s gasp, felt her violent trembling as she hovered beside him. But he couldn’t quit, not yet. Not until he had both confessions he’d come for.
He shot a quick look at Monty. “Another bit of evidence for you. I gave Anya a call on my way over here. Like us, she knows how conscientious Lenny is. His deli’s always open, even on Christmas day. Well, she distinctly remembers just two days he called in sick during her entire twenty years at the deli. Guess when those days were? Christmas day and the day after, 1989. She remembers because it was right after his son’s friends were killed. But he didn’t look good when he came back—his face had cuts and bruises on it. He said he fell. I say he was beaten up in a fight with Jack Winter, who was defending his wife’s life and his own.”
By this time Lenny was openly weeping, his hands covering his face as if he couldn’t bear the shame or the sorrow. “It shouldn’t…I never meant…”
“Dad!” Arthur barked out again.
Lane turned back to Arthur, shook his head in utter disbelief. “You don’t even feel remorse, do you? You certainly didn’t then. You just plucked the valuables off Jack and Lara’s bodies, chucked the Walther PPK in the Fountain Avenue dump, and went back to a goddamned Christmas party being held in your honor. Like nothing ever happened. You didn’t miss a beat.”
“He did,” Lenny chimed in, defending his son to the last. “You should have seen him when it happened. The whole time he cleaned up, tried to cover for me, he cried like a baby. Then, when the cops were called, he was the first one at the scene. Dear God, Lane, neither of us knew Morgan was upstairs. We never imagined she’d be the one who’d find them. And when we realized she had, when Arthur saw what it had done to her, it tore his insides out. Mine, too. From that moment on, she became a Shore. She still is. In our hearts, she’s Arthur’s daughter and my granddaughter. We swore nothing would ever hurt her again. And we kept our promise. All these years, we’ve tried to make up for what happened—even though we knew nothing really could. But Elyse is a wonderful mother. And Jill is a sister in all ways but blood. We all cared for her, sheltered her, loved her, and—”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” The words exploded from Morgan’s mouth, from her heart and her soul, as she stared at this man—these two men—she didn’t know and couldn’t stomach.
“Morgan…” Lenny reached out to her. “Please try to—”
“No.” She jerked away as if he were a loathsome monster. “No more excuses.” Her voice sounded rough, unsteady, nothing like her own. “No more words of affection. No more pleas. No more remorse. The truth. Lenny, how much of this was you? How much was Arthur? Who’s lied to me more? Dammit, I want the truth. Tell me what happened that night. You owe me that much.”
“Morgan.” This time it was Lane who interceded, taking her cold hands betwee
n his. “Are you sure you want to—”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Let her be, Lane,” Monty said. “She needs closure.”
Lane nodded, but didn’t release her hands, determined to show her she wasn’t alone.
“I’m calling our lawyer,” Arthur announced, whipping out his cell.
“Call whoever you want,” Lenny replied bleakly. “I’m telling Morgan what she wants to know. It’s over, Arthur. And you know what? I’m glad. I can’t take it anymore—not even for you.”
Ignoring his son’s protests, he turned to Morgan, making no further move to touch her. “I never planned to hurt them. I went to deliver the food. The gun was just for protection. It was Christmas Eve, it was nighttime, and it was a lousy section of Brooklyn. I went in through the basement door. Arthur and your parents were down there, arguing. Your mother was accusing Arthur of being a coward and of cheating on Elyse with a teenage girl. She told him she’d seen him with her own two eyes, and that she couldn’t stay silent, knowing everything she knew. Arthur told her to butt out, to stop trying to heal the world, and to keep her mouth shut or he’d sue her for slander.”
Remembering, Lenny gave a hard shudder. “That set your father off like a firecracker. He called Arthur a sick bastard and a rapist, and said he’d make sure he was prosecuted and put away for statutory rape. He said that when he was through, Arthur’s marriage would be destroyed, and his career would be over.”
Lenny wiped a palm across his face. “I couldn’t believe he was saying those things—not about my boy. I couldn’t keep quiet. I yelled at him to shut up, to leave my son and his family alone. Arthur denied everything—again and again—but they wouldn’t believe him. Lara kept calling him a liar and a cheat, and Jack kept threatening him with criminal prosecution.
“Then, out of nowhere, Jack announced that they were changing their wills so Arthur could never raise Morgan. He said their feelings for Elyse no longer outweighed the fact that Arthur was barely one step better than a pedophile. Arthur went crazy. He started throwing things, swearing he was innocent, that they were just out to ruin him. That tore out my heart. I didn’t know what to do. So I pulled out the gun and started waving it around. I’m not sure what I hoped to accomplish—maybe to scare Jack enough to take back his lies and his plans to ruin Arthur. Lara must have thought I meant to use the pistol, because the next thing I knew, she was swinging a two-by-four at me. I never meant to shoot her. I’m not even sure if I fired the damned thing or if it just went off—I didn’t even know how to use it. But what difference does any of that make? One minute Lara was swinging the board at me, the next, she was lying on the floor…and there was blood everywhere…”