The business card had Lara’s name, and the address and phone number of her Brooklyn shelter printed on it. Beneath the address, she’d scribbled her home number. The note wrapped around the card was bent, and the words had faded a bit with time. But they were definitely visible.
J—Call anytime—L.
“J,” Monty muttered. “I wonder who that is.” He glanced at the Post-it, obviously penned recently—judging from the ink smear—and in a different, but also feminine handwriting.
There was no salutation and no signature. It simply read, Your mother once helped me. I’m returning her kindness by helping you. Look close to home. Trust no one.
“I called the messenger company,” Morgan supplied. “It’s downtown on West Twenty-second Street. They said a woman dropped off the package with specific instructions to deliver it to me at the Shores’ apartment between noon and five today. She was wearing a hooded black coat and sunglasses. Which means we have no description. And she paid by cash.”
“Great,” Monty said drily. “So much for increased security measures. She could have been dropping off an envelope of anthrax. What sender’s name did she provide?”
“Jill’s. So that does us no good, either.”
“Someone went to a hell of a lot of trouble to get this to you—and to remain anonymous doing it.”
Morgan raked a hand through her hair. “The only reason for her to do that would be because she knows something about who killed my parents, and because she’s terrified to come forward.”
“Or because she was hired to lead us on a wild-goose chase.”
“Huh?” Morgan’s brows arched in puzzlement.
“The timing
is interesting,” Monty noted. “But before we get into my theory, let’s explore yours. Say that whoever sent this heard about the break-in at your house, and that she has reason to tie it to the murders. Adding all the pieces together, she became afraid for you—afraid enough to come forward. But anonymously, because she’s also afraid for herself. Makes sense.” Another glance at the Post-it. “Let’s focus on the ‘close to home’ reference. If you’re right, that’s a pointed warning with some ugly implications. If you’re wrong, it’s an equally pointed diversionary technique orchestrated by a perp who feels the walls closing in on him.”
“That’s the wild-goose chase you’re referring to,” Morgan concluded. “But who’s the puppet who delivered the message and who’s the puppeteer initiating the chase?”
“Don’t know the puppet. Might know the puppeteer.”
Morgan made a frustrated sound, then called Monty on the carpet. “Okay, I’ve been patient. Now I want an explanation. You know something. I sensed it yesterday and I’m sure of it now. What is it? And in full sentences, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Monty gave her a crooked grin, trying to soften the blow she was about to be dealt. But she was the client. She had a right to know. “It’s possible Arthur spent some time with another woman the night of the murders. If so, she’s a new lead. Suspect, witness, woman scorned—anything’s possible. Maybe this is from her. Or maybe it’s from someone who knows about her.”
Morgan was staring. “What are you talking about? Arthur was at the Kellermans’ party the night of the murders. He was with Elyse. How could he have hooked up with another woman? And, even if he did, why would she want to kill my parents?”
“I can’t answer that. Not until I find out who she is and what her agenda was. For now, all I have are gut feelings and seemingly disconnected pieces to this puzzle.”
“I want to hear all of them, starting with why you suspect Arthur was with another woman that night.”
Monty filled her in on Lane’s discovery, showed her the color prints with the zoomed shots of Arthur’s neck clad in two different dress shirts.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Morgan said, having reviewed the prints three times for confirmation. “Arthur’s no saint, but he’s not about to slip out of his in-laws’ party just to have sex with some woman. He has more than ample opportunities for that.”
“True. But when sex is involved, men rarely think with their heads. Either way, I need an explanation for the shirt change. And if Arthur was with someone that evening, I need to know who and when.”
It was the “when” that struck home.
Morgan’s eyes widened. “When you said you might know the puppeteer—you’re not implying that Arthur is a suspect?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating that everyone who knew your parents has to account for his or her whereabouts between the hours of seven and eight on the night of the murder. If Arthur was away from the party during those hours, then, yes, he has to provide an alibi.”
“Have you talked to him about this?” Morgan asked woodenly.
“Not yet. But I did talk to Elyse. She had a hard time keeping it together when I showed her the photos.”
“I can imagine. Is that why you wanted to see her alone yesterday?”
“Yup.”