Dark Room (35 page)

“He likes Jonah—his photographic instincts, his drive, his energy. Between you and me, he thinks he’s going to be a world-class photographer.” Monty glanced at Morgan, who was definitely pale and on edge. “Hey,” he said, calling for her attention. “I’m supposed to find out if any of the guys have hit on you. I have orders from Lane to shoot first and ask questions later.”

Morgan’s lips quirked. “You always know how to make me smile.”

“I wasn’t kidding. Lane’s become very possessive these days.” Without changing expressions or altering his demeanor, Monty asked, “Where’s Arthur? Has he spotted me yet?”

“He and Elyse are diagonally to your right and halfway across the room,” Morgan supplied, all humor having vanished. “And I don’t think so. There’s a small cluster of guests blocking his view.”

“How many guests?”

Morgan counted. “Five.”

“Can you go over there and join them, shift the group over a little so he’ll have an unimpeded view?”

“I can try.”

“Good. Do it.” Monty’s gaze shifted back to Karly. “Do you have a clear view of him?”

“Yes,” she supplied, after a quick check.

“Don’t look directly at him. Just keep him in your peripheral vision. Keep making idle chatter until Morgan’s done her job. Once Arthur sees us, glance around, like you want to talk to me in private. Then pull me aside—but not out of his line of sight. Act like you have something vital to discuss, like we’re having a heated conversation. It shouldn’t take long—maybe five or ten minutes. Take your cues from me. Once our conversation’s over, go mingle. Enjoy yourself, but keep up a certain level of tension, in case any of the Shores are watching you. Remember, they all know who
you are now, and the part you played in Arthur’s life. The rest is up to me. Any questions?”

“I don’t think so.” Karly drew a slow, calming breath. “I’m good to go.”

“Morgan?” Monty arched a quizzical brow. “Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Her pallor had intensified, and there was a pained moment-of-truth awareness in her wide green eyes. It wasn’t hard to figure out she was holding on by a thread—and that at any moment that thread could unravel.

Monty frowned. “We can do this without you.”

“No.” She gave a hard shake of her head, visualizing her mother and father, and finding the necessary strength to secure the justice they deserved and, by doing so, the closure she needed. “I’m on my way.”

LANE PRESSED ON
while waiting for the callback from his hematologist friend.

Four of the bloodstains on the concrete floor were wetter than the others, all in proximity of Jack Winter’s body. Interestingly, there was also one other bloodstain, with the same glistening consistency, on Jack’s face.

Lane zoomed in. The cement chips and stones had done a number on Jack’s face, as had the fight that preceded it. The cuts and gouges were on the right side of his face, which suggested that was where he’d landed when he hit the floor. The contusion from the gun was on the left side of his head.

The odd part was that there was a wet blood splotch on the left side of his face, directly below the cheekbone. So he must have gotten that during the fight. But why would that have dried more slowly than the gashes sustained afterward, during the point of impact with the floor? If the perp had knocked him down, then grabbed for the gun, he wouldn’t have waited to slug Jack again. He’d simply have shot him before he could regain his strength and strike back. The execution-style position confirmed that.

So why the differing blood consistency?

Lane zoomed in closer, focusing on that spot on Jack’s left cheek. In addition to the odd splotch, there were several bruises in the area, plus a
rivulet of dried blood from his nose—all signs of a fistfight. When Lane applied his PhotoFlair filter, several blood splatters and a previously unnoticed mark came to the forefront. The mark itself wasn’t jagged. Actually, it looked etched—two straight, distinct perpendicular lines—a longer vertical line and a short horizontal line at the base that jutted left. Lane found himself wondering what could have caused that particular shape—a knife? A razor blade? It had to be something specific.

His gaze returned to the shiny splotches of blood, which were just below the gash. Something was odd. Upon point-blank inspection, Lane could see that it was, in fact, a series of four small splotches, all in a row, forming a distinct pattern despite their random appearance. Four irregularly shaped ovals, roughly one inch apart.

Fingerprints.

No. Knuckle prints.

M
onty stopped the server who was passing by, and helped himself to two baby lamb chops with mint jelly to go along with the three mini-quiches and four more pigs in a blanket he already had on his plate. He was just being practical. The food was great, he was starved, and he needed his energy for the tête-à-tête he was about to have.

Plus, he was having too much fun watching Arthur Shore squirm to rush things.

Ever since the congressman had seen Karly pretending to spill her guts to Monty—her body taut with anxiety, Monty’s features focused and grim as he fired terse, intentionally drowned-out questions at her—he’d been in freak-out mode. He obviously knew some damning information had been exchanged. Monty had made sure to drive home the fact that Arthur was the subject of that damning information by instructing Karly to edge a few quick, furtive glances in his direction while she spoke.

Now it was a waiting game, one Monty was taking full advantage of.
The longer he waited, the testier Arthur was getting. And it was a lot more fun being the hawk than the prey.

In the end, it was Monty’s eye contact with Morgan that made him act. She was standing off by herself, looking on the verge of collapse, and pretending to be overseeing the servers.

Monty strolled over, leaned past her to set down his empty plate, and muttered, “It’s time. I’ll use one of the yoga rooms in back, so it stays private. You hang tough. Lane should be here any minute.”

“I’ll try.” Her hands were trembling, and she kept glancing over at Jill. “In some ways, this is even a bigger nightmare than the original one. A faceless killer is easier to live with than a man you thought of as a second father. As for Jill—I don’t know how she’s going to get through this. Elyse, either. I realize she’s been covering up for him, but infidelity’s one thing. Murder is another. I’m sure she’s in denial. I pity her. And Jill…” Morgan’s voice trailed off.

“They’re not alone,” Monty replied flatly. “You were. They have each other and you. You had no one. They’re adults. You were a child. What you lived through was hell. Death is permanent. Prison’s not.”

“You’re right. It isn’t.” Morgan reached over for two icy bottles of water. She handed one to Monty, and uncapped one for herself. “Thanks for the verbal slap in the face. Good luck.”

LANE WAS STARING
at the blood splotches on his monitor when the phone rang.

The caller ID said
private
. Lane grabbed it on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Lane? It’s Stu McGregor.” In the background were the distinct medical center sounds and intercom pages of a hospital. “My service said you needed some urgent information.”

“Stu, thanks for getting back to me so fast. I’m fighting the clock on a criminal investigation, and I’m stumped on a blood issue. It truly is time critical, or I wouldn’t be jumping on you like this.”

A chuckle. “I should have known you’d be up to your ass in intrigue. Okay, tell me what you’ve got.”

As thoroughly and comprehensively as he could, Lane explained what
he was seeing in the photos on his monitor. “What it doesn’t explain—at least not to me—is the glossy consistency of the blood. It dried under the same set of environmental circumstances. So what could cause some blood to dry more slowly?”

A pensive silence. “Okay, this is just speculation on my part, since I obviously have no firsthand knowledge of either person involved or his medical history. But what if you’re looking at bloodstains from two different sources—the victim and the killer? Following that logic, I’d say one of them is on some kind of anticoagulant. Those are taken under certain medical conditions in order to reduce the risk of blood clotting.”

“So they thin the blood, like aspirin does.”

“Differently. Aspirin thins the blood and keeps it flowing properly through the arteries. Warfarin, the anticoagulant I was referring to, reduces clotting in lower-pressure areas, like the legs, where the blood is stagnant. I don’t think aspirin alone would explain the liquidlike appearance you’re talking about. For that kind of sticky consistency to be present, I’d suspect the patient was on warfarin. That’s prescribed when a patient has either an artificial heart valve, deep vein thrombosis, atrial fibrillation, or in some cases after heart attacks or strokes—”

“Wait,” Lane interrupted. Everything inside him ran cold as Stu’s words struck home.

I’ve got this thing with my heart
. Lenny’s words, spoken in Jonah’s hospital room.
Atrial fibrillation
—
a big name for a not-so-big problem. I’m on medicine…it thins my blood, keeps it from coagulating
.

“Did you say atrial fibrillation?” Lane asked.

“Yes. In layman’s terms, that’s an irregular heartbeat. In chronic cases, the blood doesn’t flow quickly enough from the heart, making it more likely that clots will form. If that happens, and a clot is pumped from the atria to other parts of the body—kidneys, intestines—major problems can occur. And in the worst-case scenario, if the clot is pumped to an artery leading to the brain, it can cause a stroke.”

“And you said the drug prescribed is warfarin?” That didn’t ring a bell. It wasn’t the name Lenny had used. And before he jumped to an unthinkable conclusion, he had to be sure. “Is that the only anticoagulant of its type on the market? Or is it known by any other name?”

“The most common brand name is Coumadin.”

Coumadin. That was the drug Lenny had mentioned.

Lane was beginning to feel sicker by the minute. “How long has Coumadin been on the market?”

“Let’s see—President Eisenhower was given Coumadin after his heart attack in 1956. It’s been prescribed on a regular basis ever since. Does that answer your question?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Is Coumadin prescribed long-term? Could it be taken, say, for seventeen years?”

“Sometimes for life. One important caveat—patients taking Coumadin
must
get their blood levels checked, at least monthly. The therapeutic window—the difference between the dose necessary to adequately slow the anticoagulant process and the dose that would cause spontaneous bleeding—is very narrow. So the dose must be carefully monitored and adjusted.”

That triggered another memory. Lenny. At the deli last week. Nicking himself while slicing a sour pickle and bleeding way too much for a simple cut. And Arthur, nudging him to have his blood tested, explaining to Lane and Monty that his father was on blood-thinning medication and was supposed to get his levels checked every month, doctor’s orders.

Shit.

“Lane?” Stu prompted. “Are you still there?”

“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
.”