Dark Room (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 2)

“They’re meant to withstand cold, not the trauma of seeing your home violated.”

“My home.” Morgan tilted back her head, gazed up at Lane. “God knows what they did to it. All we’ve seen so far is part of the office.” Her jaw set. “I can’t just stand here doing nothing. Not even for ten minutes.”

Lane studied her determined expression. She wasn’t budging in her resolve. Then again, neither was he. “You’re not going in there. So if you want to do something productive, start putting together a mental list of your valuables. Jewelry. Antiques. Electronic equipment. That way, the cops can get a quick handle on what’s missing.”

“You’re placating me,” Morgan countered. “Don’t. We both know this wasn’t a robbery. Winshore is doing well, but Jill and I are pouring all our profits back into the business. The Impressa is the most expensive purchase we’ve got in the place, other than our computers and our server. As for personal property, I collect self-help books and Jill collects yoga CDs. There’s not much resale value in those. No. This break-in is tied to the murder investigations. That’s why that photo was shoved under my doormat. Whoever did this must have planted it there.”

“Okay, fine, I agree.” Lane’s restless gaze swept the brownstone, and Morgan realized he was as impatient for answers as she was. “So let’s move on to the next question. Was this just another scare tactic? Or was the intruder actually after something? If so, what? And did he get it?”

At Lane’s final question, Morgan’s hand instinctively went to her tote bag. “Probably not. Not unless I have something of my parents that I’m not thinking of. Because the most obvious tie to them would be these.” She pulled out a packet of snapshots and newspaper clippings. “These and all the other personal items—journals, mementos—that I’ve spent every night poring over these past few months.”

Lane’s brows rose. “You packed everything for one night?”

A nod. “I know it sounds strange. But as I was walking out of my bedroom last night, I got this weird feeling about leaving it behind. So, at the last minute, I crammed everything into my tote bag.”

“Good impulse.”

“Maybe.” Morgan blew out her breath in a frosty puff. “If any of this is what they were after. Assuming they were after anything at all.” An edgy pause. “Or any one at all.”

Lane glanced at his watch. “Let’s stop speculating. Time to call the cops.”

TWO PATROL CARS from the Nineteenth Precinct pulled up to Morgan’s brownstone about three minutes before Monty’s Corolla roared up to join them. He hopped out of his car, nodding at Al O’Hara—the PI he’d hired to be Morgan’s bodyguard—who was dashing over at the first sign of police activity.

“Chill, O’Hara,” Monty advised, gesturing for him to wait a discreet distance from the building. “Ms. Winter is fine. No one was hurt, or home. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Okay.” The PI posted himself near the curb, lighting up a cigarette.

Monty strode up the stairs to where Morgan and Lane were starting to brief the cops. There were four in all, two darting into the brownstone, hands on weapons, the other two interviewing Morgan.

“Impressive,” Monty noted as he reached them. “Four officers for a simple B and E. Must be your congressional connections, Morgan.” He winked at her.

She managed a thin smile in return, realizing that despite his casual air and wry humor, Monty was scrutinizing her, trying to assess her state of mind.

“You okay?” he asked bluntly.

“More or less.”

“Hey, Montgomery.” One of the cops—a middle-aged guy with a balding head and a solid build—greeted him, his tone and demeanor a tad aloof. “I’m not surprised to see you. I heard you were hired to work this case. But you sure got here fast.”

“Help work this case,” Monty corrected him. “As in: assist, facilitate, do what I can. Don’t worry, Stockton. I have no intention of stepping on your toes. We want the same thing.”

Stockton’s thick salt-and-pepper brows rose. “Yeah, you gave me that same BS the last time we worked a case together. It was a bit of a stretch.”

“That was different. I was a cop back then. I had the same pressure on me you did. Both our precincts wanted to take credit for the arrest of that three-borough rapist. This time, you can take full credit. All I want is for the perp to be caught.”

“And you want in when we search this place.”

“Damned straight. And now, when you talk to my client. It’ll save her the trouble of repeating herself.”

“Fine.” Stockton gave the okay nod to his partner, then turned back to Morgan. “You said that you and your boyfriend here—” A quizzical look at Lane as he scribbled down notes. “What’s your name?”

“Lane Montgomery.”

Stockton’s pen paused, and his head came up. “I don’t suppose you’re any relation to Monty here.”

“He’s my father.”

A grimace. “Of course he is. That explains his quick arrival.” Stockton waved away Lane’s forthcoming explanation. “Forget it. Let’s keep going.” He angled his head back toward Morgan, his pen poised to resume writing. “You said the front door was double-locked when you got here.”