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“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.
THIRTY-FIVE
Monty 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.”
