“Of course.” Morgan cut the conversation short. “I’ll let you go. Please keep me posted. I’ll say a prayer for Rachel.”
“Thank you.” Nadine’s voice broke. “She needs all the prayers she can get.”
THE MINUTE HE got home, Lane snatched up the package the Central Clerk’s Office had messengered over. He unlocked the door to his digital photo lab, flipped on the light, and deactivated the alarm system. With almost a quarter of a million dollars of equipment and highly sensitive information inside these four walls, his photo lab was a secure lockbox, off-limits to everyone except him.
The windowless room looked similar to most offices with computer workstations, except on a larger and grander scale. The equipment was state-of-the-art—way beyond most budgets. Then again, most budgets weren’t partially subsidized by the U.S. government, since most photographers didn’t take on covert assignments for the CIA.
Lane wasn’t most photographers.
And his lab wasn’t most labs.
The IBM T221 LCD monitor alone cost $10,000, and Lane had two of them. With twice the resolution of other high-quality displays, the monitor made it possible to see minute details in digital images—details other monitors wouldn’t even show. And that was only a small portion of the elaborate digital darkroom.
Lane walked over and turned on the air-conditioning unit. Even in wintertime, with all the equipment running, the room would quickly become an oven. One by one, he powered on each piece of equipment in sequence, and as they hummed to life, he turned and opened a drawer underneath the work surface, removing the necessary equipment and supplies to transform the film into digital images.
His mind was racing faster than his hands, reflecting on the conversation that had been taking place at Lenny’s when he arrived.
He’d been ten feet from his father’s table for a good five minutes before announcing himself. He’d perched behind the coat stand, leaning over his camera bag, his back to the table so as not to be spotted. Having heard the name George Hayek, he’d decided to eavesdrop.
He’d been bugged by the George Hayek link to Lenny all weekend. He’d been stunned, and baffled. Given what he knew through his CIA connections, he couldn’t figure out where Hayek fit into the picture. Monty, of course, wasn’t privy to the same information he was. So, like the pro he was, Monty was pursuing the angle like a dog with a bone. But nothing in the conversation Lane had overheard had triggered any warning bells. Still, given what Hayek was currently involved in, he planned to keep a close eye on things, and act on them, if necessary.
Turning back to the work at hand, Lane completed his preparation. Then he opened the envelope, extracting the negative carrier and carefully removing the first negative strip from the sleeve. Taking his ionizer gun, he eliminated the accumulated dust with blasts of electrically charged air. That done, he held the strip up to the light, pleased to see there were very few fingerprints on the film. He carefully placed it inside the SlickMount drum and, using a pipette, carefully added a few drops of oil between the film and the inside surface of the drum. Then he inserted the drum into the scanner and closed the cover. Returning to his workstation, he fired up the ScanXact software and the scanner came to life.
He was eager as hell to get started. For Monty’s sake. For justice’s sake.
And, yeah, for Morgan’s sake.
She was getting under his skin, that was for sure. There was something powerful happening between them, something downright riveting. And it wasn’t just sexual tension, although that crackled like a live wire. But there was more, something that was entirely new and extraordinarily intriguing.
In the midst of all this, she was hurting, fighting a nightmare she’d never escaped and was now being forced to confront again.
He was determined to help her.
JONAH STOOD IN the reception area of Congressman Shore’s office, fiddling with the F-stop on his camera as he waited for the congressman to finish up. Jonah was nervous. This was the first solo assignment Lane had given him; and it was a big one. He was responsible for capturing just the right photos of the congressman—shots that depicted him as the charismatic, committed representative of the people of New York that he was.
Right now, he was chatting with one of his local aides, a perky young woman who emanated good looks and wide-eyed admiration. She was gazing up at the congressman as if he were a superhero, and he was answering her question with warmth and intensity, his body language conveying a keen interest in what she was saying. He was leaning toward her, his head cocked slightly to one side, his forehead creased in concentration as he listened, nodding every minute or two, alternately listening and talking.
Impulsively, Jonah raised his camera and snapped a couple of shots. It would round out the photo essay to show the congressman interacting with his staff as well as interacting with his constituents.
“Don’t bother.” It was a woman’s pained monotone, coming from just behind Jonah’s shoulder. “There are enough of those shots in the Enquirer.”
Startled, Jonah turned. He recognized the petite, attractive middle-aged woman immediately. “Mrs. Shore,” he managed, feeling self-conscious at the strain on her face, in her voice. “I didn’t mean to…I’m just assisting Lane Montgomery in his…”
“I realize that.” The look in her eyes was hollow, like she’d been through something bad and was desperately trying to come to grips with it.
She stared directly at her husband, swallowing hard as she did. “You’re just doing your job. You want to capture the congressman doing what he does best. Which you are. But trust me, this isn’t what Time wants. If anything, it’s what they want to avoid.” She turned away. “So do I.”
MORGAN CALLED THE hospital to check on Rachel while she waited for Karly at the Greenwich Village café where they’d arranged to meet.
Karly walked in just as Morgan was finishing up. She snapped her phone shut, feeling moderately encouraged by what she’d been told. The doctors had operated on Rachel. Her prognosis was good, although she’d need a fair amount of physical therapy to come back to herself. Fortunately, she was young and strong. But she’d suffered internal injuries, including a ruptured spleen and several broken ribs. There’d been internal bleeding, and a pelvic fracture, so the prediction of pain was almost guaranteed to be true.
Karly slid into her chair, looking as depleted as Morgan felt, although she forced herself to smile. “Hi. I appreciate your going so far out of your way to meet me. My last appointment was way downtown. It was pressing or, frankly, I would have bagged it and just gone home. This day has been…” She shook her head. “Anyway, after we talk, I’m heading home. I can’t even think of going back to the office.”
“I hear you,” Morgan murmured. “It’s been a hellish day—obviously for both of us.”
“Amen.” Karly massaged her temples. “But no business crisis seems to matter—not after what I witnessed a few hours ago. I was on my way to catch the subway at Madison and Fifty-third, and I saw a young woman get struck by a hit-and-run driver. It was horrible. I can’t get the image out of my mind. The creepy part is, I was right behind her. Five seconds later, and it could have been me. That van flew out of nowhere. The whole thing happened in an instant. I didn’t even have a chance to react, much less to prevent it. One second she was brushing by me, and the next she was lying in the street bleeding. I could scarcely keep myself together long enough to call 911.”
Morgan’s eyes widened. “Are you talking about Rachel Ogden?”