Gabelli was a good guy. During the quieter part of his workday, he’d managed to make a copy of the entire original file—from interviews to written reports to crime-scene photos. After that, he’d packed it up and left the precinct for the night, making a quick detour to Little Neck. According to the voice mail he’d left Monty, he’d slid the file under Monty’s office door, so it would be the first thing he tripped over when he walked in tomorrow morning.
Monty couldn’t wait to get his hands on that file. Not that he needed it to remember the crime-scene details; those were forever etched in his mind. But he did need it to review and reevaluate each investigative step they’d taken, this time with a fresh eye and the more sophisticated forensic tools at their disposal.
Checking for a DNA match would be easy—provided the perp was already in the system. But if he wasn’t, if the murders had been, as Monty suspected, personal and committed by someone without a record, there’d be zip to go on.
The crime-scene photos were another matter. True, they’d been taken in the late eighties. But their quality had been pretty decent, and the area and angles they’d covered had been comprehensive. Which was a good start. Because, as luck would have it, Monty knew the best damned image-enhancement and photo-retouching expert in the business. A pro whose skill at interpreting photos had earned him respect within the law enforcement community and beyond.
Monty took another belt of coffee. It was the middle of the night. If he remembered his dates right, his poor son had just gotten home from Europe a few hours ago. He was probably sprawled in his bed, dead to the world.
Okay, Monty would give in to his paternal instincts—for one night.
But tomorrow Lane was getting a phone call.
MORGAN JERKED AWAKE, plagued by that gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach–the feeling that something was wrong, but not quite grasping what it was.
Abruptly, she remembered, and everything inside her went cold.
She sat up in bed, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them. Arthur would set things in motion. And Detective Montgomery would be on this case like a bloodhound. Still, it wasn’t enough. It was her parents who’d been shot to death, and she couldn’t take a passive role in figuring out who’d really pulled the trigger.
There had to be something more she could do.
She scrambled out of bed, went back to the spare bedroom, where she’d left her parents’ memorabilia. Maybe there was something here that could help her. The problem was, all the photos were personal, as were the mementos. And the newly discovered journals were her mother’s. They dealt with plans to aid abused women, to offer them counseling and medical care. That had been Lara’s passion—and why Morgan had initiated the pro bono branch of Winshore. If she could help women who’d survived abusive relationships find healthy ones, she’d be contributing to her mother’s dream.
As for her father’s things, there were no notes, no old date books, nothing personal other than the framed photo of her and her mother, and the handsome pen set he’d kept on his desk.
However, along with the stack of photos her mother had collected were newspaper clippings, tributes to major cases that Jack Winter had prosecuted and won.
Carefully, Morgan laid out the articles. She’d been reading through every one word for word. The names and convictions didn’t ring any bells. Then again, she’d been a child when they occurred. The fact was, any of those criminals could have had outside contacts or angry family members who’d “take care of” an A.D.A.
Bottom line—any of these articles could contain the kernel of a motive, one she didn’t have the knowledge or expertise to spot.
Damn. Morgan sat back on her heels, swamped by a sense of frustration. She was grasping at straws. But at least she was grasping. No matter how worried about her Arthur and Elyse were, how insistent they were that she stay out of the line of fire, she couldn’t. She had to take an active role in this investigation.
Her posture rigid with purpose, she refolded the articles and slid them into an envelope. She’d give them to Detective Montgomery. Maybe the names would mean something to him. If not, maybe they’d ring a bell with Charlie Denton, or with another attorney who’d been with the Manhattan D.A. at the time.
It was a potential avenue.
One she had to take.
SIX
As luck would have it, Hank Reynolds reached Lane before Monty did.
Lane had just finished his workout and was gulping down a bottle of water when the phone rang.
He draped a towel across his shoulders and walked across the room he’d converted into a home gym when he renovated the Upper East Side brownstone he’d bought from his brother-in-law, Blake. The place was great, roomy enough for an extensive digital photo lab, a gym, and a media room.
With a quick glance at the caller ID, Lane picked up. “I must admit, you’ve got balls,” he informed his editor. “I know that I wouldn’t mess with me this soon after the ten days I just had and the bed I’ve barely slept in.”
“Well, I would,” Hank replied. “Plus, I know you. You always swear you’re going to be zoned for a week, then you’re bored after eight hours. You sound out of breath. Bet you’re just back from the gym.”
“Nope. I worked out at home.” Lane grinned, polishing off the water. “But you’re right. I bounce back fast. And bed gets boring when you’re by yourself.”
“Yeah, well, get out your BlackBerry, pick a name, and click for company. That’ll solve your lonely bed problem by tomorrow.”
Chuckling, Lane tossed aside his towel and sank down on the padded bench against the wall. “I think you’re exaggerating just a little. But I like the image, so I won’t argue. Now, tell me about this piece on Congressman Shore you’re so hot to run. And skip the current political events update. I might globe-trot like a lunatic, but I do have Internet access.”
“Fair enough. But there’s a new scandal in the congressman’s life—one that has nothing to do with politics.”