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Turning to the first shots—the one in which Arthur was wearing shirt number one—Lane focused on those depicting the Winters and the Kellermans together. Once again, he was struck by the level of tension their body language conveyed. There was definitely something going on here, some really bad feelings between “friends.”
He turned his attention to the next image—the first one Arthur appeared in after the shirt change. The photo was of Elyse and Arthur, standing alone together in front of the panorama of windows, raising their flutes of champagne in a toast. Judging from their full glasses and enthusiastic poses, Lane would guess it was the initial toast of the evening. Made sense, both sequentially and in conjunction with Arthur’s story. The champagne moment was just as he’d described. New shirt. Arm around his wife’s shoulders. The political guest of honor and his lovely spouse. Arthur’s hand was wintry red, a clear sign that he’d just been outside. His rosy cheeks confirmed that, as did his hair, which was visibly windblown. Clearly, he’d just returned from his mystery jaunt.
From behind the happy couple, Lane spotted what appeared to be a reflection in the window—a tall, narrow, wood-toned object. Frowning in concentration, he tweaked the image.
A grandfather clock.
As expediently as possible, Lane zoomed in on the clock’s reflection. He then reversed the image and adjusted the shadow, midpoint, and highlight levels, until he could clearly make out where the hands were pointing.
Eight forty-five. An hour and a half after Arthur had claimed he’d returned to the party.
For a moment, Lane sank back in his chair, absorbing the significance of what he was seeing. It wasn’t unshakable proof. But it was a big step in that direction.
He wished Monty would call.
More important, he wished Morgan would call, let him know she was okay. The idea of her being with Arthur Shore—even with Jill and Elyse there—was making him increasingly uneasy.
The phone rang shrilly, making him start. But it wasn’t his cell. It was his secure line.
He snatched it up. “Montgomery.”
“Hayek was in Vegas on Christmas Eve 1989, sharing the holiday with a lady friend,” his contact informed him. “He was there from the twentieth of December to the day after New Year’s. Our surveillance records confirm it. So forget the homicides. Not only didn’t he commit them, he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.”
“Got it.”
“He only bought one Walther PPK, and it was thirty-some-odd years ago. He bought it for his boss, to protect him from a string of local robberies. Who might or might not have borrowed that gun, he has no way of knowing. And, yeah, he did arrange for a couple of recent scares, one at the brownstone you mentioned and one on the Taconic Parkway, but only because he was pressured into doing so. Seems he was warned that his CIA asset status could be changed overnight into a liability status. Guess that’s an easy threat to make when you’re a congressman with friends in high places. Friends like the director of the CIA.”
“Yeah.” Lane heard everything that was, and wasn’t, being said. “Can I use any of this?”
“Nope. Just to move that pain-in-the-ass father of yours in the right direction. Tell him he’s got his answers. Time to get off our backs and go find his killer.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“This subject’s now permanently closed.”
MONTY DROVE KARLY home so he could prep her on what to expect next and how to handle the press when they figured things out.
She got out of his car after they exchanged promises to keep each other apprised the second either of them heard any news. She had tears in her eyes as she thanked him. Then she gathered up her purse, climbed out, and walked into the lobby of her lovely Upper East Side apartment.
Monty eased away from the building, pulling over to the next fire hydrant and shifting the car into park. He needed some time alone to think. His mind was crammed with the day’s events. Karly Fontaine’s crisis might be on the verge of resolution, but the ramifications of what Monty learned today had shoved his investigation of the Winter homicides into overdrive.
Arthur Shore was a piece of work. He’d stood there in Monty’s office—ninety percent politician and ten percent human being—as he watched his world teeter and struggled to right it. The ten percent was that tiny, redeemable part of Shore that cared about family, the part that had raised Morgan as his own and now wanted to save the life of a son he never knew he had. Of course, it didn’t hurt that his actions would give a huge boost to his popularity. Any way you sliced it, Shore stood to win big from playing the hero.
But what about seventeen years ago? Back then, he’d have been screwed any way he turned. Nothing good could have come from Karly’s pregnancy. And with a young family and a career that was just beginning to skyrocket, his entire life would have gone up in smoke if Lara and Jack had called him on the carpet.
That provided a hell of a motive to keep them quiet.
Monty rubbed the back of his neck, torn about what to do next. He was just a mile away from Lane’s place. He should go there, talk to him. He knew Lane was waiting on pins and needles. How could Monty blame him? Lane had no idea what was going on. He, on the other hand, did. But he wasn’t at liberty to reveal the details. Hopefully, Morgan would solve that problem for him—and soon.
So, yeah, he was stalling. Which sucked, not only for Lane but for himself. He was itching to get on with this investigation and move the process along, armed with the newly discovered info on Arthur. But he couldn’t do that, not without providing Lane with an explanation he wasn’t authorized to provide.
Like it or not, his hands were tied.
His cell phone rang.
So much for stalling. It was Lane.
He
