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“Go read them again.”
Morgan waved her arm in a helpless gesture. “I don’t have to. I remember every word. They pertained to only two women she was fighting to help—Olivia and Janice.”
“Right. One had a happier ending than the other. If I recall, the latter one consumed all your mother’s time, and journal entries, at the end.”
“Janice,” Morgan said.
One dark brow rose pointedly.
“Janice—J.” Morgan got his message, and her eyes widened. “You’re saying the woman who sent me that package is the one whose stepfather raped her? The one who got involved with some older guy and wound up pregnant and abandoned?”
“No. You’re saying it.”
“And you talked to Barbara about her.” Morgan raked a hand through her hair. “Barbara knows her real name. She told me she keeps that on file with the client’s original registration form. Knowing you, you found a way to get that name. Dammit, Monty, I need to know who she is. I need to find her, to talk to her. She was the last person my mother mentioned in her journal. Which means she was one of the last people to speak with her before she died. And she must have had a reason for warning me—”
“I already spoke with her,” Monty interrupted. “I know her reasons. They’re being addressed. Hang tough, Morgan. I know how hard this is for you. But it’s going to pay off. Just bear with me. I have to follow through on a lead. I’m doing that tonight. If everything goes as planned, I think I can convince her to talk to you. Right now, she’s afraid. If we push too hard, we’ll lose her. Leave this in my hands.”
Morgan lowered her gaze, seeking control. Then she nodded. “Okay.” Her lashes lifted. “Just tell me one thing. Did you find out anything more on Arthur? All Lane would tell me is that your meeting was civil. That’s reassuring, but not informative. I need to know if Arthur was involved in any way—directly or indirectly—with why my parents were killed.”
“I can’t answer that.”
A glimmer of stark fury glinted in her eyes, which faded into a bleak, hollow emptiness. “You just did.” She turned around and walked out of the photo lab.
The instant she was out of earshot, Monty seized Lane’s arm. “You’ve got to get some evidence off those negatives. Both sets—the crime scene and the Kellerman party. Also, find out where George Hayek was during the hours the Winters were killed. I don’t give a damn how you do it. Tell your CIA pals that your father—the ball-breaking, pain-in-the-ass ex-Brooklyn-detective-turned-PI—digs in like a leech when someone gets in the way of his murder investigations. Tell them I’m not going away. I get it that they need to maintain the world’s balance of power. Well, I just need to catch one killer. If Hayek knows something, or did something, I want it. And I’ll find a way to get it. I can do that quietly and with their cooperation, or I can do it noisily on my own.”
Lane’s jaw tightened. “You’re going balls-out. That means you’ve got something.”
“No question. Now I need proof to back it up. So go back to the crime-scene photos. Think through the mind of Arthur Shore or George Hayek. Look for something that would tie one of them to the scene. It’s got to be there. As for the party, look for something that narrows down the time frame on Arthur’s disappearing act. Oh, and Lane.” He met his son’s gaze. “This case is about to come to a head, and then play out hard and fast. It’s going to be tough on Morgan. She’ll need you.”
Not a heartbeat of hesitation. “She’ll have me.”
IT WAS 5 P.M.
Arthur’s limo pulled up in front of Monty’s office. The limo driver started to get out, but Arthur wasn’t waiting for assistance. He threw open the door, left the vehicle, and went striding up the steps to the front door.
Monty let him in, gesturing for him to have a seat in the office’s sitting area.
“Drink?” Monty inquired, having just opened a bottle of beer for himself.
“No. Answers.” Clearly, Arthur was pissed. He perched at the edge of the settee, not even removing his overcoat. “I’m sick of your yanking my chain, Montgomery. First, yesterday’s inquisition. Now today’s cryptic summons. You said there was a break in the case. Let’s hear it. My family’s waiting for me.”
Standing behind the club chair, Monty took a healthy swallow of beer, then propped his elbows on the chair’s headrest, intentionally remaining on his feet. “I realize it’s Sunday. If this weren’t important, I wouldn’t have asked you to drive to Queens. As for the inconvenience, I felt we should have this talk in private. That way, you can decide how you want to break the news to your wife and daughter.”
That elicited an instant flash of concern in Arthur’s eyes. “Is Morgan all right?”
Pensively, Monty assessed Arthur’s reaction. “You really care about her, don’t you?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I care about her; she’s like a daughter to me.”
“I believe you.” Monty found the entire situation fascinating. Regardless of the cause—be it g
uilt or bona fide affection—Arthur’s paternal instincts toward Morgan were real. “She’s fine,” Monty assured him. “She’s with Lane.”
Some of the tension eased from Arthur’s body. “They’ve become very close these last few weeks. I’m glad. Lane’s a good guy.”
“I think so.” A pause. “Actually, to say Morgan’s fine is an oversimplification. Physically, she’s fine. Emotionally? Psychologically? She’s hanging on by a thread.”
“That’s been my concern from the start. It’s why I didn’t want her plunging headfirst into this.” Arthur frowned, looking a little less irked at having been sent for. “I apologize for jumping on you. Whatever you found out is obviously serious. It’s best that I deal with it first. Does it involve that grotesque break-in at Morgan and Jill’s place?”
