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Lane summarized the specifics, counting off on his fingers. “Tell me when we’re on the record and when we’re off; when I’m taking the lead in this interview and when I’m taking a backseat; and when you want me to make myself scarce so the two of you can talk privately. Officially, I’m here to take whatever photos and corresponding text you want readers to see regarding the homicide investigations. At the same time I want to give maximum exposure to your proposed legislation. I already have photos of you with your family. I’ll want some of you among your constituents. The order and the structure of how things get done is up to you. I’m at your disposal.”
Arthur steepled his fingers in front of him, tapping them together as he spoke. “Let’s start by cutting through the BS. You and I are flying out to Colorado tomorrow, and driving up to the Poconos a couple of days later. We’ll be together for the better part of a week while you chronicle our adventures for Time. There’ll be plenty of time to talk. Believe me, I’ll chew your ear off about my bill. In between trips, we’ll find more than enough photo ops. But today’s meeting is about who really killed Jack and Lara. I know your involvement in this investigation is more in-depth than the photo essay you’re doing for Time. So tell me, where do things stand with the crime-scene photos?”
Lane was ready for the question. It confirmed what he’d already suspected—that this was the real reason Arthur had wanted this collaborative meeting. He was aware of Lane’s expertise, realized Monty had tapped into that expertise, and wanted to amass the information cumulatively.
“Everything I’ve done is preliminary,” Lane informed him. “I expect that to change in about two hours. That’s when the negatives are being delivered to my town house. Once I scan those negatives into my computer, I’ll be able to enhance every detail. If there’s something there, I’ll find it.”
Arthur turned to Monty. “Is there any correlation between what you’ve asked Lane to focus on, and the path you were pursuing with my father and me a few minutes ago? Is Lane searching for something visual that would connect the Winters’ murders to one of the criminals Jack put away right before he died?”
“No,” Monty stated flatly. “It would be stupid to narrow our scope. Not without a shred of proof. Lane’s got an expert eye. The best thing he can do is view those photos without any preconceived ideas; only facts. That way he won’t overlook anything. In the meantime, I’ll keep pounding away at my investigation. Anything I uncover that impacts his analysis, he’ll hear about ASAP. We want to keep this as open-minded an investigation as possible, until we’re damned sure we’re heading in the right direction. No more screwups. Not this time.”
“Amen,” Arthur muttered. “I still can’t believe no one saw through Schiller’s bogus confession.”
“If by ‘no one’ you mean you, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Monty replied. “Schiller’s a thief and a murderer. It wasn’t a reach to think the Winters were two more names on his victims list.”
“Right.” Arthur’s tone was rife with self-censure. It was evident he still hadn’t forgiven himself. “Anyway, what else have you got?”
“I’ve got the rest of Jack Winter’s caseload to go through. I’ve got leads on everyone from perps he prosecuted, were convicted, and who were either released or paroled right before he was killed, to relatives, friends, or associates of perps still serving time, to none of the above.”
“What’s none of the above?”
“You name it. Unrelated perps with histories of breaking and entering or theft w
ho were in Brooklyn in December 1989. Also, guys with police records and histories of violence whose wives frequented Lara Winter’s shelter. It’s possible that one of those husbands flipped out that night and came to the shelter to teach his wife a lesson. Lara and Jack could have been casualties of that visit. And that’s just the tip of the ‘none of the above’ iceberg.”
“God, there’s so much ground to cover.” Arthur rubbed his forehead in a weary, frustrated gesture.
“Yup. The good news is, I work fast.” A pensive look crossed Monty’s face. “How’s Morgan? Is she holding up okay?”
Arthur’s shrug was ambivalent. “She spent most of the weekend alone. Jill tried to coax her out, but no luck. This investigation is eating away at her. So ‘okay’ is a relative term. Elyse and I are really worried.”
“She’s hanging in there,” Lane supplied quietly. “It’s not easy, but she’s a strong woman.”
Both men looked at Lane in surprise.
“You spoke to her?” Arthur asked.
“Actually, I ran into her. Saturday night. We both wandered into the Carlyle for a drink. We ended up having dinner together. She was definitely more relaxed when I walked her home.”
“Good.” Arthur sighed with relief. “I’m glad she got out. And that she had a little fun. Thank you, Lane.”
“No thanks necessary. I had a great time. Truthfully, I was wound pretty tight myself. So the evening did as much for me as it did for Morgan.”
Monty opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the arrival of their lunch.
“Here you go.” Anya whisked over and began unloading plates of food onto the table. “I’ll be right back with your drinks. Lenny’s on his way out; he’s putting together Jonah’s next big delivery order.”
“Thanks, Anya.” Arthur gave her a broad smile. “This looks great.”
“Save the compliments for your mother,” she advised him with wry humor. “Eat all that noodle pudding.” She pointed at the side plate, which could barely hold the enormous square of steaming noodle pudding that was hanging over the edges.
“Yes, ma’am.” Arthur snapped off a mock salute.
Anya had just left, when Jonah shuffled over to the table, looking awkward and uncomfortable. “Hey, Lane? Sorry to bother you, but you said to let you know when that package from the Central Clerk’s Office was delivered. It showed up at your place just as I was leaving.”
Lane exchanged a surprised glance with Monty.
“Earlier than expected,” Monty murmured. “That’s a first.”
