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“What am I looking for?
” Monty asked.
“The shirt.”
“A white dress shirt—hardly original.”
“Right. They all pretty much look alike. Which is probably why Arthur made the mistake.” Lane pointed at the photo taken earlier in the evening. “Look at the collar. It’s a standard three-point spread.” His finger shifted to the other print. “Now check out the collar here.”
“It’s narrower.” Monty picked up the two prints, scrutinized them closely. “These are two different shirts.”
“Yup. Which means Arthur changed while the party was going on.” Lane’s tone took on a skeptical note. “He could have spilled a drink on himself.”
“Drink, my ass. If that were the case, he would have mentioned it during one of the dozens of conversations we had about the night of the murders. More likely, he slipped out to boff one of his ‘Angels.’” Monty ran a palm over his face. “Another red flag with Arthur Shore’s name on it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I just got a fax from my contact who ran a couple of background checks for me. One was on Charlie Denton. Seems that as a kid in law school, he worked on Congressman Shore’s—then State Assemblyman Shore’s—campaign. Their parting was abrupt and, evidently, not amicable. I’m coming up dry on the specifics. But Denton never mentioned it.”
Monty picked up the fax, skimmed through the pages. “Then there’s the other link to the Shores. George Hayek. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s involved in this. He goes way back with the Shores. If I’m right, he was a CI for Jack Winter. His file is sealed, so I have no idea where things stood between him and Jack, or him and Arthur, when he moved to Belgium. But my sources tell me that he’s been a busy little beaver these days, raking in money from everywhere. Could be legitimate weapons trading. Could be illegal and unsanctioned. Plus, my contact says that Hayek’s got a slew of markers he could call in from ‘associates’ with diplomatic immunity in the U.S.—‘associates’ sophisticated enough to have pulled off the trashing of Morgan’s place. No surprise—a few of those bastards are always hanging around the U.N., their consulate, or running up parking tickets all over the city and never paying.”
Lane didn’t reply.
“Make the phone call and check it out, Lane,” Monty stated flatly, his head coming up so he could meet his son’s gaze. “I know it’s classified. I’m not asking for details. Just find out if Hayek’s status has changed, or if the CIA is pulling his strings in any new and interesting ways.” A hard pause. “If you won’t do it for me, do it for Morgan.”
“I’ve got to run back to the lab for a minute.” Lane’s expression never changed.
“You do that.”
INSIDE THE LAB, Lane shut the door.
He made the call on his secure line. It was answered on the second ring. He quickly got a vehement denial—along with a not-too-friendly warning to leave this one alone.
Backtracking to the kitchen, he reported tersely, “No status change. It’s a dead end—at least for me.”
“In other words, they’re not telling you squat,” Monty muttered. “Well, like I always say, if you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.”
“Tread carefully, Monty.”
“Don’t worry about me. You just find something in those high-tech scans. Bust your ass. Tomorrow’s a lost day; you have your next boys-with-toys adventure with Arthur. Oh, and stick those color prints you just made in your safe. Now, before Morgan wakes up. There’s no reason for her to see them—yet. I need time to cogitate, to talk to a couple of people, and to make sense out of all these loose ends. When there’s something to say, we’ll tell her.”
“Agreed.” Lane glanced toward the staircase. “But that ‘when’ better be soon.”
Monty’s forehead was creased in thought. “It will be.”
AT CIA HEADQUARTERS in Virginia, Lane’s operative punched in the number to a secure telephone in Belgium.
A man’s voice answered in French. “Vas-y! Parles!”
“Hayek?” The response came in clear, irrefutable English. “What the fuck are you doing?”
TWENTY-FIVE
Morgan had definitely regained her strength, and her resolve, by the time Monty delivered her to the Shores’ apartment.
She grilled him the entire way. First, because she was sure he and Lane had discussed something of importance while she was asleep—something they were keeping her in the dark about. Second, because she was determined to conduct a regular business afternoon, depleted or not. And third, because she wanted to conduct that business at Winshore.
The last argument was the easiest one for Monty to win.
