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“It did. I’m counting on Monty to figure out what it means. He’s running with a couple of different theories.” Morgan dipped her spoon into her soup, stirring it around. “He’s planning on pinning Arthur down tomorrow, asking for an explanation and an alibi. I’m not looking forward to the results. Arthur’s going to bust a gut.”
“It’ll be difficult. But it’ll clear up a lot of questions. And if all that was involved was an affair, it’ll be business as usual. Monty will corroborate Arthur’s story, then verify that the woman in question can account for her whereabouts during the time of the murders. If all that checks out, it’ll be a done deal and Monty will keep the whole thing under wraps. The only people who will know about it are us and the Shores. If it’s Elyse you’re worried about, I’m sure she won’t be shocked. She knows who she’s married to.”
“You’re right. She does.” Morgan raised her chin and stared straight ahead, watching the crackling flames of the fire. “I could never accept that, never live that way,” she heard herself say. “To me, marriage is more than blind, passionate love. It’s a union—a union that includes fidelity. Not the kind you offer because you have to. The kind you offer because you want to.”
“True. But that’s not always the hard part,” Lane answered quietly. “Even with unwavering fidelity, marriage is a huge, complicated commitment. And you’re right—love’s not enough to make it work. I saw that with my parents. They were crazy about each other. But they were also very different people. They wanted and needed entirely different things. That pulled at their marriage until it frayed, then finally snapped.” He paused. “On the other hand, they never stopped loving each other, and one day they realized that mattered more than the differences. So who knows?”
“Maybe no one. Maybe it’s all about taking chances. Huge, complicated chances, as you just pointed out.” Morgan swallowed, dropping her gaze to the blanket. “I’m not sure I’m up for something of that magnitude. What’s worse is that the description you just gave of your parents’ contrasting personalities sounds disturbingly like us. Which probably means we should walk away now, while I’m still in one piece. Much longer, and it’ll be too late.”
“It’s already too late,” Lane countered. “Walking away’s not an option. Not for me. I’m in too deep—way too deep.”
His words swirled through Morgan like an aphrodisiac. “So am I,” she admitted. “You have no idea how deep. So what do we do?”
“We see it through. We trust our instincts. We shove dinner aside and go upstairs to bed.” He was following words with actions, pushing away bowls and plates and rising to his feet. “We spend the rest of the night blocking out all the vast unknowns and losing ourselves in each other. Then we deal with the rest as it comes. How’s that for a plan?” He held out his hand to her and waited.
Morgan drew a sharp breath, exhaling in a rush. It was no use. She couldn’t fight these feelings. Come hell or high water, they were here.
Placing her fingers in his, she scrambled to her feet. “Plan approved.”
IT WAS SNOWING lightly as Monty’s Corolla turned onto the Taconic State Parkway and toward home.
Reflexively, he clicked his wipers on, his mind preoccupied with the case’s most recent developments. He was counting on Barbara Stevens and Arthur Shore to fill in some blanks.
The congressman had sounded strained and pissed off at Monty’s demand for an early morning meeting. Especially when he’d heard it was personal. His reaction could have been rooted in fatigue and stress. Or it could have been rooted in guilt.
Monty was so deep in thought that he scarcely noticed the BMW 325i that barreled down the entrance ramp and onto the Taconic, downshifting as it accelerated past his beaten-up Toyota. It rounded one of the parkway’s winding bends and disappeared.
Just how deep did Arthur Shore’s involvement run? Monty mused. Fidelity and morality were clearly dispensable in his book. So was honesty, since he’d lied about having spoken to George Hayek since he’d left his job at Lenny’s. That could have been at the D.A.’s request. Or not.
Monty was nearing the Route 132 exit, where the road narrowed from three lanes to two when, out of nowhere, a pair of flashing hazard lights appeared, outlining a car that was at a near standstill. It was practically invisible in the snowy evening sky. And Monty was almost upon it.
“Shit!” He hit his brakes, swerving to the left lane, narrowly missing the BMW’s rear end.
Still muttering, Monty glanced into his rearview mirror and glared at the other vehicle. He was half tempted to turn on the dome light and give the guy the finger for being such a road menace. But he restrained himself, instead concentrating on accelerating up the incline as he reached the overpass.
His headlights illuminated the falling object a split second before it hit.
Then his front windshield exploded.
Spiderlike cracks gave way to shards of glass that sprayed everywhere. Monty raised his arms to protect his face, simultaneously slamming on the brakes as the car swerved out of control. He managed to hook his elbow into the steering wheel, giving it one hard shove so the car veered to the right, away from the center divider.
The Corolla slid off the road, bouncing down the uneven ground of the wooded decline until it struck a tree and came to a stop.
Dazed but conscious, Monty angled his head toward the passenger seat, and saw the brick lying beside him. A foot or two closer and he’d be dead.
SATISFIED THAT HIS goal had been accomplished, the driver of the BMW slowed his vehicle down, stopping only long enough to pick up the man waiting just under the overpass.
MONTY SWORE, AWARE that there was blood trickling down his jaw. Fragments of glass were everywhere—on the dashboard, the seats, the floor, and all over his parka. His hands had been spared, thanks to his gloves, and he used them now to gingerly brush as much glass off himself as he could.
At that moment, he heard the rumbling sound of another car approaching. The BMW that had been creeping along.
It wasn’t creeping now.
Headlights off, its running lights were barely visible as it blew by. Monty tried to make out the license plate, but it was too dark, since the Taconic had no streetlights. As for his own car, it was in no shape to move, much less launch into a high-speed chase.
Ripping mad, he stared after it. Clearly, Morgan wasn’t the only one the perp wanted scared off.
Well, the son of a bitch didn’t know who he was dealing with.
