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HOURS HAD PASSED. Lane was exhausted but satisfied with the results. He had coaxed every bit of resolution out of the original crime-scene negatives. He was in the middle of backing up the files to DVDs when his doorbell rang.
Right on cue.
He tore himself away from his work long enough to leave the lab and let his father into the brownstone. “Hey, Monty,” he greeted wryly. “What took you so long?”
“Cut the chitchat.” His father marched inside. “What did you find? And what were you doing skulking around Lenny’s like Secret Agent Man, hiding behind a coatrack?”
Lane exhaled sharply. He should have known. Nothing got by Monty. “I was getting a feel for the turf, figuring out what aspect of the investigation you guys were talking about.”
“In other words, this is about Hayek. Fine. You’ll tell me when you’re ready. Just make it soon.” Monty didn’t miss a beat. “Back to my question—what did you find out?”
“Give me a break, Serpico,” Lane retorted, rolling his eyes. “I just finished turning your precious negatives into digital gold nuggets. I haven’t had time to do anything beyond making sure that the scans were high quality.”
That response was greeted with a scowl. “How much longer before we get our answers?”
“This isn’t like shooting Polaroids, Monty. They don’t develop in three minutes.”
“Fine. I’ll give you five minutes.”
“Gee, thanks. Tell you what. Instead of harassing me, why don’t you make yourself useful? Go out and pick us up some dinner. And buy us three jumbo cups of coffee each. It’s going to be a long night.”
“Great.” Another scowl, this one surlier than the last. “I’d better call your mother and tell her I won’t be coming home. She’s going to be pissed and it’s your fault. I’ll be sure to tell her that, too.”
“She’ll forgive me.” Lane looked unconcerned. “I’m her favorite son.”
“You’re her only son.”
“True. You, on the other hand, might not be so lucky.”
“Why? I’m her only husband.”
“Yeah, but if she doesn’t get her pastrami sandwich and Rhoda’s chopped liver, you’ll be sleeping on the couch for a week.”
“Not to worry. I’m safe. I drove home after lunch and delivered Lenny’s food. Your mother will find it in the fridge when she gets home.”
“Ah. Then there’s hope for you yet.” Lane jerked his thumb in the direction of the front door. “Enough banter. You get dinner and coffee. I’ll get back to work. We have a lot of ground to cover. The sooner I start, the sooner we’ll have our answers.”
MORGAN WAS JUST popping a Lean Cuisine into the microwave when her phone rang. She scooped up the telephone as the microwave whirred into action. “Hello?”
“Morgan?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Charlie Denton. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
She paused in the process of reaching for a pot holder. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“That hit-and-run on Madison. I’m sure you heard about it on the evening news. The victim was Rachel Ogden. I requested a copy of the police report, which I just got. It turns out that Karly Fontaine was the person who called it in.”
“Yes, I know. The whole situation’s tragic. Rachel had to go through surgery, and it’ll be months before she’s herself. And Karly—she’s a mess. I spoke with her. She’s pretty traumatized.”
“I’m sure she is. But what about you?”
“Me?”
“Morgan, you’re the common denominator here. It worries me. Think about it. Two of your clients, both in the exact same spot at the exact same time. Not only that, but it happens to be the exact instant that some maniac driver comes barreling around the corner and plows one of them down.”
“It’s a horrible coincidence, I agree. But—”
