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“Give me specifics.” Monty had whipped out a pad and was scribbling down the information. “Is there a pattern to the calls? Does the caller say or do anything before hanging up? Can you tell if it’s a male or a female? What display shows up on your caller ID? Take me through it from beginning to end.”
“It’s a man. The only reason I know that much is that when he calls the gym, he asks whoever answers the phone for me. When I take the call, he hangs up. No words. Just deep, even breathing. He makes sure to do that long enough so I know it’s him; almost like he’s issuing a wordless threat. As for my cell, he only calls when I’m alone, walking or driving. The same with my home—the calls only come when I’m by myself. It’s like he knows my schedule. Caller ID is useless; it always reads ‘private.’”
“How long has this been going on?”
A heartbeat of a pause. “Since the day after Morgan hired you.”
Monty stopped writing and looked up. “And you’ve said nothing? Not even to your husband?”
“What could I say?” Elyse leaned her head back against the chair cushion. “I couldn’t even be sure it meant something. Arthur’s a congressman. It’s not the first time some weirdo’s harassed him. He’s gotten phone calls, e-mails, you name it. And now, with him sponsoring a major piece of legislation, it could just as easily have been related to that.”
“Except that he’s not the one being harassed. You are.”
“I know.” Elyse pressed her lips together. “But my family’s under so much pressure right now. You know that better than anyone. To announce that I was getting creepy hang-up calls would only make things worse. And without any real proof that the caller was anything but a crank…I thought it was best to keep quiet.”
“Until yesterday. You mentioned something happening then.”
A nod. “I took a walk down Fifth Avenue at lunchtime. I was hoping the cold air and some window-shopping would calm my nerves. From the minute I left the gym, I had the oddest feeling I was being followed. I turned around a half-dozen times, but no one was there. Truthfully, I was beginning to think I was losing it from the stress. I headed back to the gym. As I got there, I felt someone staring at me. The feeling was so strong that I swerved around to scan the area. I saw a man standing diagonally across the street, leaning casually against a van, watching me. When he realized I’d spotted him, he aband
oned the whole casual act. He averted his head, fumbled with the car door, then jumped in and drove away.”
“A van?” Monty repeated, his gaze narrowed on Elyse’s face. “What kind of van?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Worn. Nondescript. Like every other van in Manhattan.”
“Was it white?”
“Yes.” An apprehensive look. “Is that important?”
“Could be. The car that ran down Rachel Ogden was a white van. What did the man look like?”
“I couldn’t make out his features. He was wearing a hooded parka and jeans. But he was slight, and not too tall.”
“Do you remember what time this was?”
Elyse thought for a moment. “Around one-fifteen, give or take a few minutes.”
Monty’s mouth thinned into a grim line. “Rachel Ogden’s hit-and-run occurred at one-forty, on the corner of Fifty-third and Madison.”
“It must have been the same car.” Elyse’s voice was practically a whisper. “Which means both incidents were intentional. But what’s the motive?”
“To scare the hell out of you. To get Morgan to back off this case.” Monty swung his pad shut. “The tactics are extreme. Then again, I doubt the guy meant to hurt Rachel Ogden so badly. He was probably hired to knock her off balance, maybe cause some cuts and bruises. Either to Rachel or to Karly Fontaine.”
Elyse turned up her palms, still dazed and confused. “I’m not following. Are you saying Rachel wasn’t the intended victim?”
“I’m saying either one of them would do, if the goal was to give Morgan a warning. Whoever planned this did his homework. He knew both women’s schedules. He must have cross-checked them. It’s not a reach that they’d each routinely cross that intersection—it’s right in the heart of midtown, and so are they. He just found a time interval when the odds were good they’d both be nearing that corner—which maximized the chance that his hired hand would clip one of them. One thing’s for sure. This is more than enough proof in my book to confirm that the Winters’ double homicide was no random robbery gone bad. It was murder, pure and simple. And whoever killed them is still out there, determined not to get caught.”
THE FOUR-AND-A-HALF-HOUR flight from Teterboro to Telluride was uneventful.
Arthur worked nonstop, alternately reviewing paperwork and calling influential people to garner support for his legislation. Once or twice, he got up to stretch his legs, to swallow a glass of springwater, and to check in with the pilot.
Lane slept for the first couple of hours, having stayed up all night working for Monty. He woke up in time for a fabulous brunch of fresh-squeezed orange juice, warm croissants, and a sautéed crabmeat, grilled asparagus, and provolone omelet. After that, he unpacked his Canon EOS 5D, peered out the window of the Gulf Stream V jet, and took several awesome shots. He also took a few shots of Arthur, forehead creased in concentration, talking intently on the phone, then leaning back in the plush leather seat to review his notes.
There was a lot to be said for traveling with the rich and powerful.
Instead of being shuffled around like pieces of cargo, Lane and Jonah had been escorted by limo to Teterboro airport. They’d swung by the Marriott Glenpointe to pick up the congressman, since he’d attended a dinner there and spent the night. Minutes later, they arrived at Teterboro.
The private jet had been waiting on standby. No arriving hours early. No pain-in-the-ass baggage checking. No enduring long lines at check-in and then security. No being squashed in a narrow seat between a screaming infant and an offensive-smelling passenger who removed his shoes five minutes into the flight. No endless delays and running for connecting flights to reach an area of Colorado as remote as the San Juan Mountains.
