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Barely had Monty agreed and hung up, when his doorbell rang. Morgan was standing on the front step, hands shoved in the pockets of her wool overcoat. She came in long enough to proffer an envelope of articles regarding convictions her father had won, then asked what else she could do.
Monty cleared his throat. “Look, Morgan, I’m going to be honest with you. I got my hands on a copy of the case file. It’s not pretty. The details are gory and the photos are graphic. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you—”
“I want to see it.” Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides. “I need to see it.”
He had to admire her pluck. He also understood the basis for her resolve. But he knew better than she what she was letting herself in for, and the emotional preparation she needed to face it.
“Here’s the deal,” he told her. “I need time to scrutinize every report, every interview, every lead. In the meantime, you need time to steel yourself. What you’re about to see will be hell. So let’s each take a couple of days to prep. When we’re both ready, we’ll walk through that door together. Just understand that that not only means digging up painful memories, but reliving a nightmare. I’m sorry—but there’s no other way.”
“I understand,” she said tonelessly. “I knew what I was signing on for when I hired you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I spoke with Congressman Shore. He’s worried about you, and your ability to handle the repercussions.”
“I know he is. And I’m grateful to him for it. But this is something I have to do. If that means living through more intense and frequent nightmares, so be it.”
A terse nod. “Fair enough. Give me a day or two.”
“Then we’ll talk?”
“More than talk. We’ll get into a detailed recap. You were there that night. Till now, you’ve been fixated on the scene you walked in on, the memory of discovering your parents’ bodies and all the horror that went with it. Now you’ll have to think beyond that. You might have seen or heard something that could amount to a clue. And that’s just the beginning. I want to go over whatever you remember about the weeks leading up to the night of the murders. Telephone calls your parents received. Conversations. Arguments.”
Morgan’s eyes widened. “Detective, I was ten years old—hardly privy to the details of my parents’ lives or their marriage.”
“You’d be surprised. Kids pick up on a lot more than they realize.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“To the same place you were going when you collected these newspaper clippings for me. Was this a random killing or was it personal? Your father was a prosecutor. He put away criminals. That means he made his fair share of enemies. Did one of them go after him and your mother for revenge? If so, there might have been warning signs. Signs your parents discussed, and you overheard.”
“So back to square one.” Morgan raked a hand through her hair. “With all our digging, this might still turn out to be a burglary gone bad.”
“Yeah. It could. This personal vendetta angle could be a dead end. It’s just as likely that some strung-out junky killed your parents for their cash and jewelry. But, no matter who’s responsible, I plan to find him.”
“If he’s still alive.”
&nb
sp; “Even if he isn’t, I want to find out who he is—was. We all need the closure.”
PONDERING HIS OWN words after Morgan left, Monty admitted to himself that they were bullshit. There was only one way to find real closure. And that was to find that son of a bitch alive and make him pay. Anything less would leave a gaping void—for him and, more important, for Morgan.
He opened the file again, studied the photos of the murder scene. Christmas Eve, 1989. Lara and Jack Winter shot dead in the basement of a renovated building on Williams Avenue where Lara ran her women’s abuse center.
The murders had taken place between 7:30 and 8 p.m. At the time, Lara and Jack had been there alone—except for Morgan, who’d begged to come along and help decorate for the center’s first annual holiday party. They’d come straight from a Christmas Eve political bash for Arthur, hosted by Elyse’s parents in their posh Park Avenue penthouse. Talk about a modern Tale of Two Cities—Manhattan at its most affluent and Brooklyn at its most indigent. But from what Monty had learned, the Winters’ hearts had been far bigger than their egos.
And their reward? Being shot dead, left crumpled in pools of their own blood on a filthy, broken-up cement floor, only to be discovered by their ten-year-old daughter, who’d come down to see what was taking her parents so long to carry up the paper goods.
His gaze darting from one photo to the next, Monty reached for the phone and punched in a number on speed dial.
“Hey, Monty. Your ears must be burning,” Lane greeted him.
“Huh?”
“My editor at Time and I were just talking about you. He told me you’re working with Congressman Shore. That means you and I will be having lunch together on Monday. Pastrami on rye at our favorite deli—just like old times.” Lane paused, cleared his throat roughly. “Actually, once Hank told me you were taking on the Winter case—again—I was going to give you a call, make sure you were okay. I know that investigation was a tough one for you. This news must have hit you hard.”
“I’m fine.” Monty frowned. Of his three kids, Lane had been the only one who’d been old enough, mature enough, to sense the parallel between the splintering of their own family and the wiping out of the Winters’. And Monty had sucked at hiding it from him, at protecting him from his father’s inadequacies. Actually, he’d sucked at pretty much everything back then—everything but polishing off a six-pack and being a cop.
“Monty—you still there?”
