Dark Room (10 page)

“Cardathons.” Barbara began to laugh. “I’d almost forgotten. No, no joke. One of Lara’s pet programs. She was a crackerjack cardplayer. When it came to gin rummy, almost no one could beat her. She taught the women in the shelter how to play. Two Saturday nights a month, she held all-night marathons, which she playfully called cardathons. She gave out prizes—a spa day at Elizabeth Arden, a shopping spree at Bloomingdale’s, a complete makeover with a professional hairstylist and makeup artist—things the women at the shelter never imagined in their wildest dreams. It did wonders. In some cases, jobs and career paths materialized. Most of all, it generated hours of fun, friendship, and laughter.”

At that moment, the intercom on Barbara’s desk buzzed. “Yes, Jeanine?” She glanced at her watch. “Goodness, I had no idea it was three o’clock already. Please tell her I’ll be with her in a minute.” She hung up. “Morgan, forgive me, but I have a counseling appointment.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry.” Morgan was already on her feet. “I came to chat for a few minutes. Instead, I’ve taken up an hour and a half of your time. I really apologize.”

“Don’t. I’ve loved every minute of this. Meeting you after all these years. I was hoping you would seek me out when you were ready to learn about your mother.” She squeezed Morgan’s hand. “Stay strong, just like your
mother. The police will find your parents’ killer. And if I think of anything that could help, I’ll call you. I promise. In return, if you need to talk, don’t hesitate to pick up the phone. I mean it.”

“I know you do.” Impulsively, Morgan leaned forward and hugged the older woman. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

L
ane was unusually restless.

He’d spent hours scrutinizing the photos Monty had given him, until there was nothing more he could do without the negatives. He then began prepping for next week’s assignment with Congressman Shore.

By eight o’clock, he was stiff, cranky, and getting cabin fever.

He changed into a black cable-knit sweater and khakis, grabbed his shearling-lined leather jacket, and left his brownstone a little after eight, with no particular destination in mind. He headed over to Central Park, then down Fifth Avenue, where the Christmas decorations had a magical quality. Somewhere between his place and the park, it started to flurry. It got colder, too, although not unpleasantly so. It felt good, invigorating, another testimonial to the upcoming holidays. The sidewalks were packed with shoppers, the streets were jammed with taxis, and Lane just drank it all in, shoving his hands in his pockets and watching his breath emerge in frosty puffs.

For some unknown reason, he cut over to Madison Avenue and found
himself standing in front of the Carlyle Hotel. Bemelmans Bar was just inside. He hadn’t been there in ages. It wasn’t his usual haunt—too old-money-ish. But the decor, with that black granite bar and amazing mural, was striking, the piano bar was a real draw, and the Black Angus burger was ground to order and delicious. In fact, the more he thought about it, an Angus burger, a spectacular cocktail or two followed by a cognac, and an hour of good music sounded damned good, especially since he hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast. So he found himself walking in.

He was just settling himself at a table not far from the piano, which was temporarily deserted, when he spotted a familiar face seated at a table down the way. She was sitting alone, either for the moment or for the evening, staring intently into her glass and twirling the swizzle stick around in her drink.

He gestured for the waiter to hold off taking his order, then walked over to her table. “Morgan?”

Her head came up, and those extraordinary eyes widened in surprise. She was wearing a lime-green cashmere sweater, her dark hair loose, tumbling around her shoulders. She looked fantastic. She also looked solemn, preoccupied, and very worn out. “Lane. Hi. What brings you here?”

“Actually, my feet.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “I needed air. I took a walk. Next thing I knew I was outside the Carlyle. It’s been a while, but the thought of a good drink and some mellow piano jazz hit the spot. So here I am.”

“Funny. Sounds identical to my story.”

“So maybe it wasn’t just my feet. Maybe it was fate.” Lane glanced around politely. “Are you alone?”

“Very.”

Her pointed tone hit its mark. “Meaning you’d prefer to keep it that way?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, giving a long-drawn-out sigh. “The truth? No. I’d rather have company. Would you like to join me?” Her sense of humor intervened, and her eyes twinkled. “Unless you have one of your numerous no-strings-attached dates waiting for you.”

“Nope. I’m all by my lonesome. And I’d love to join you.” He was already signaling to the waiter, alerting him to his plans. “Have you eaten?”

Morgan’s forehead creased in thought. “Now that you mention it, not since breakfast.”

“Good. Me, either. And I hate eating alone. The Angus burgers are great. So are the marinated lamb chops. We’ll order both.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“What are you drinking?”

“A Dreamy Dorini Smoking Martini.” Morgan’s lips twitched as she spoke. “It’s vodka and some kind of smoky single-malt scotch. It’s actually pretty fantastic. You’re adventurous. Try one.”

“Done. And I’ll get you another.” Lane gave their order to the waiter, then turned back to Morgan. “This could just end up being the highlight of my day.”

Her brows arched slightly. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment. You sound like you’ve had a pretty tedious day.”

“Not tedious. Intense. I was working. But running into you would be a pleasure no matter what.”

“Very smooth.” Morgan took a sip of her drink. “You’re quite the charmer. No wonder your batting average is so high.”

Laughter rumbled in Lane’s chest. “My batting average? You either have a very high or a very low opinion of me.”

“Just an accurate one. No judgment intended.”

“Okay then, as long as we’re being honest, I don’t keep score. As for what I said about running into you being a pleasure, I meant it.” He paused, eyeing her speculatively. “Although you look like you’ve had a pretty rough day yourself.”

“I have.”

“Work?”

“Trying to figure out who killed my parents.”

Lane lowered his gaze, contemplating the obvious segue he’d just been offered. She’d been blunt. Time for him to be the same.

“Morgan, with regard to the murder investigation—the other night I didn’t get the chance to tell you something. There wasn’t an opportunity and Congressman Shore asked me to avoid upsetting you by bringing up the subject.”

“Tell me what?”

“You asked me if my father had mentioned you’d hired him.”

“And you said he had.”

“Right. What I
didn’t
say is that he didn’t just mention it in passing. He called me specifically to discuss it, and to arrange a meeting. We had that meeting today. In fact, we spent a good couple of hours together, reviewing the crime-scene photos. There’s nothing yet, but I’ll have the negatives on Monday. Hopefully, they’ll yield more clues.”

Morgan blinked. “I don’t understand. You’re a photojournalist. Why would you get involved in a criminal investigation?”

“Because I’m also a specialist in photo image enhancement.” Seeing the noncomprehension on her face, he explained. “I find visual clues using sophisticated digital technology. The field was relatively obscure seventeen years ago, mostly the domain of the military, NASA, and a few academics. All that’s changed now.”

“I see.” Morgan fiddled with her napkin. “So you’ve got experience and equipment that could help spot evidence that was originally missed.”

“Exactly. And Monty wanted me to let you know my role in this case, since you’re his client.” Lane tried to lighten the mood. “So, hey, you hired Monty, but you got two Montgomerys for the price of one.”

“That doesn’t please me,” Morgan returned in a short, clipped tone.

Lane started. He hadn’t expected her resistance. “Why? I’m more than trustworthy and, not to sound immodest, I’m damned good at what I do.”

“I’m sure you are. Neither of those things are the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“I appreciate your time and your skill. But I insist on paying for them. Your father wouldn’t accept a dime. Which means that any compensation you’re getting is coming out of his pocket. So tell me your rates, and I’ll write you a check.”

“Take it easy.” Lane reached over and stopped her as she opened her purse to extract her checkbook. “First of all, I had no idea what your financial arrangement with Monty was. And second, he’s not paying me a dime, either. So we’re even.” He eyed her dubious expression, waiting to continue until after their waiter had placed their drinks on the table.

“I’m not lying,” he leaned forward to assure her. “Monty and I don’t work that way. We don’t bill each other. We just like working together. It’s
our form of recreation. Think of it as a challenging father-son project, you know, like building the tree house we put together when I was twelve.”

“A tree house?” The image caught Morgan off guard, and her tension eased, a smile tugging at her lips. “That’s quite an analogy. Although knowing you and your father, I’m sure building a tree house together was as challenging and competitive as doing detective work together. I can just visualize it: the two of you fighting over who was in charge, who was quicker, who was more thorough, and who produced the best results. All that testosterone in one tree—it boggles the mind. I shudder to think how the poor tree survived.”

By this time Lane was chuckling. “Point well taken. And you’re right; it was a battle of alpha males. But the result was one solid, serious tree house. When Monty and I take on a project together, success is a given.” He raised his voice a bit as the piano player returned, resumed playing some soulful background music. “So have I convinced you what an unbeatable team my father and I are?”

“I never needed convincing.”

“Fine, then have we settled this monetary nonsense? Are you okay with me analyzing the photos?”

“More than okay,” Morgan admitted, lowering her wall of pride. “I’m grateful.”

“Don’t be. Not until I find something. Which I will.”

“You sound just like your father. I hope you’re both as confident as you seem, and not putting on a brave front for me.”

“We don’t do brave fronts. We do solutions.”

“Good.” Her hand slightly unsteady, Morgan raised her glass, took another sip of her drink, then regarded the glass for a long, thoughtful moment. “I guess you’re used to seeing homicide photos. But I’m not. And these particular photos…” She drew a long breath. “I’m just not sure how I’ll react when I see them.”

“Do you have to see them?”

“Yes. Not to challenge myself or to prove a point. But to get at the truth. I can’t leave a single stone unturned. I have to do anything,
everything,
that might lead us to the killer.” She shut her eyes for a second. “That means reliving that night, and all the months that led up to it, trying to see if I have
information locked away in my mind I don’t realize is there or I’m unaware is significant. It means scrutinizing those photos, one by one, focusing on every detail to see if it triggers a memory. I have to. But I’m terrified. Staring at those pictures, when the nightmares are still so horrifyingly vivid—I’m just not sure how I’ll hold it together.” Her lashes lifted and she met Lane’s gaze. “I don’t know how much your father told you. But I’m the one who discovered the bodies.”

“He didn’t have to tell me.” Lane saw no point in being evasive. “I already knew.”

Her brows drew together. “How?”

“Let’s just say that seventeen years ago was a dicey period for my family. The time my sisters and I spent with Monty was broken into chunks. That made it hard for him to draw his usual definitive line between us and his work. Devon and Merry were young—eleven and five. Their focus was on Monty as their dad, not as a homicide detective. But I was sixteen—and on the reckless side. I thought the danger and excitement of my father’s career was cool. I hung around him a lot, even when he didn’t know I was there. I listened to his phone calls, watched him reviewing evidence. This case drove him crazy. He couldn’t let it go. It’s not something I forgot.”

“Neither did he,” Morgan surprised him by saying. “And not just because the end result didn’t sit right with him. It’s because he personalized the investigation. He’d just moved out. I was about the same age as your sister Devon. Losing my parents reminded him how much he missed his kids.”

Lane’s jaw practically dropped. “He
told
you that?”

“Not in so many words. Your father’s not exactly the type to spill his guts.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.”

“What he told me was that no separation could break or weaken the bond between parent and child. He mentioned your names, saying that he wasn’t living in the same house as you anymore, but that he loved you just as much as he had then. He was obviously hurting. The hurt was raw, which meant the separation was new. I was too young to fully understand it. But I understand it now. I’ve had many years to reflect on the things he said to me that night, and to recognize the paternal way he comforted me.
So it doesn’t surprise me that he was preoccupied with the case. He needed to make it right—for many reasons.”

Lane took a hefty swallow of his drink. “You got all that from one conversation?”

“It wasn’t just what he said. It was the pain in his eyes. The way he didn’t push me away when I glued myself to his side. The way he brought me to the precinct. The way he sat with me when I sobbed. The way he found a cot for me to sleep on, and left a light on so I wouldn’t be afraid. The way he ran interference until I was ready to leave and face the other people who loved my parents.” A sad smile touched Morgan’s lips. “Every one of those things is what a father does to protect his child. I know, because I remember my own father.”

With each passing moment, Lane was gaining new insight into why Morgan felt such fierce admiration for and gratitude to Monty. “I didn’t realize Monty had factored so heavily into helping you cope with your loss.”

“He helped me survive that first night. I was in shock. I was also in denial.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “That basement was horrible. It was dark and creepy, and there was a sickening smell in the air—decay and blood and death. My parents didn’t belong down there, lying on that broken filthy floor. I had to get to them. But no one would let me. They kept holding me back. But they couldn’t make me look away. All I could do was stare at their bodies. There was blood everywhere: under my father’s head, in a pool around my mother, in splotches on the floor. I almost stepped in one, I was so frantic to break away and run to my parents’ sides. I kept screaming their names, begging them to wake up—even though I knew that wasn’t going to happen. No one could get through to me, not even the grief counselor. The entire scene was surreal, like disjointed flashes of a nightmare.”

Morgan wet her lips and continued. “Your father stepped in. He didn’t try to make it go away. He knew he couldn’t. He just told me to let the police and the ambulance workers do their jobs. He wrapped a blanket around me and led me away. He was nonjudgmental, kind, and honest. He told me the truth. But he also told me my parents weren’t in pain, and I wasn’t alone. He made me feel safe. And he was real, human. The grief counselor was so professional; it was like relating to a caring textbook. Elyse and Ar
thur were the opposite—way too personally involved. Not that I blamed them. They were my parents’ closest friends. They were emotional basket cases. I needed someone who understood, but didn’t intrude. That was your father. He simply took care of me. You and your sisters are lucky; I’m sure he did—and does—the same for you.”