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THIRTY-TWO
Lane was distinctly uneasy.
An hour ago, Arthur had swung by his brownstone, features drawn and tight, and requested that Morgan come with him to his and Elyse’s apartment for a family discussion. Lane had almost blocked Morgan’s path when she left, but that wasn’t his place, nor did he want to tip Arthur off to just how suspicious of him he was. So he stood aside, watching Morgan ride off in Arthur’s limo, wondering what the hell was going on and when she’d be back.
He tried Monty’s cell phone. Voice mail. That meant he was still following that lead. Damn.
Lane left a terse message, then hung up to wait—again.
He was already itching for his other callback, the one that would come on his secure line. He’d initiated that particular call not only because of Monty’s request, but because he’d spent the day contemplating possibilities.
It was something Lenny had said during his visit with Jonah. Something about Arthur. Innocuous in and of itself. But when combined with the rest of the puzzle, it could be a connecting piece.
“Shaken not stirred. That’s what we used to call him. Like one of James Bond’s martinis.”
“You’re a Bond fan?” Jonah had asked.
“Big-time. Arthur and me. We never missed a movie when he was a kid…”
That struck a chord in Lane’s head; snippets of the conversation he’d eavesdropped on that day at Lenny’s. Monty had questioned Arthur about Hayek. Arthur had responded by saying that Hayek had joined him and Lenny on their father-son trips to the movies.
Father-son trips to the movies. No doubt that included seeing their mutual favorite: “Bond. James Bond.” And one thing all Bond enthusiasts knew was that 007’s weapon of choice was the Walther PPK.
From the get-go, Monty had been puzzled by the use of a Walther PPK to kill Jack and Lara Winter. Lane could still remember his father’s preoccupation over the odd choice of weapons.
Maybe not so odd after all.
“George never forgot the breaks my father gave him,” Arthur had said. “His loyalty ran deep.”
Just how deep was the question. Deep enough to save Arthur’s ass when he got in way over his head? Especially when Arthur had saved his ass when he was facing gunrunning charges?
A good chance the answer was yes.
Lane had picked up the secure phone in his photo lab and punched in the usual number.
“Yeah.” The standard greeting.
“Listen, we have a situation here,” Lane had stated flatly. “You know what my father’s like. He’s all over this murder investigation. And Hayek’s name is screaming in his ear.” Succinctly and sans emotion, Lane repeated Monty’s earlier diatribe. “As you can see, he’s not going away. That can only end up making trouble for all of us. So here’s a suggestion. Contact Hayek. Ask him three specific questions. Get me the answers. If they check out, my father will be satisfied, and you won’t be hearing from me about this again.”
Silence. Then: “Your father’s a pain in the ass. No promises. Give me the questions.”
“Where was Hayek on December twenty-fourth, 1989, between seven and nine p.m.? Prior to that date, did he supply someone with a Walther PPK? And did he hire someone to trash Morgan Winter’s brownstone last Wednesday night and run my father off the road two nights later?”
“Hayek’s not going to confess to murder. And we’re not asking him to.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that. I think he’ll have an alibi. And I think he’ll remember it. If he doesn’t, that’ll be our problem. And if it turns out he’s guilty of anything short of murder, grant him immunity. He’s your contact. You need him. My father doesn’t. All he needs is the information Hayek possesses. Believe me, Monty doesn’t want anyone but the killer. Help us get him. You’ll keep what you want, and I’ll owe you one.”
Another long pause. “I’ll let you know.”
Click.
That had been hours ago. Damn, Lane wished he had his answers.
Frustrated, he channeled his energies into something productive.
He pulled up the digitized negatives of the Kellermans’ Christmas party on his monitor. Time to focus on those, give his mind a break from the crime-scene shots in the hopes that a little space would grant him new perspective.
Now that he knew Arthur had worn two different shirts during the course of the evening, he concentrated on that visual detail. It was easy to differentiate the before-and-after shots, since the images were in sequential order. In the majority of the shots in which Arthur was present, he was wearing the second shirt. That fact supported his claim that the inopportune need for a change of clothes had come early in the evening.
