Dark Room (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 2)

“Yes.” Barbara blew out a breath. “That was another heartbreaker. Unfortunately, it didn’t end nearly as happily as the previous one.”

“I gathered as much. I’ve only just started reading, but my mother’s outrage is palpable.”

“Her reasons were valid. Janice’s sexual abuse left lasting scars. She couldn’t get past them. She continually sought relationships that victimized her. It became a vicious cycle. With each choice she became more careless and self-destructive. The culmination—” Barbara broke off. “Let’s just say your mother took it very much to heart. And, yes, she was angry. Very angry. It’s hard to excuse sick men like Janice’s stepfather.”

“That’s because there is no excuse for them.”

Another of Barbara’s gentle smiles. “You’ve got a lot of your mother in you.” She paused, her smile fading and her expression becoming intense. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. While Lara expressed her indignation privately, publicly she was all encouragement. She exuded positive thinking and action, and was convinced that laughter and camaraderie healed far better than anger.”

Morgan reflected on what Barabara had said. Suddenly her head came up. “Oh, that reminds me—when my mother referred to the lighter moments, she kept mentioning ‘cardathons.’ Was that an inside joke?”

“Cardathons.” Barbara began to laugh. “I’d almost forgotten. No, no joke. One of Lara’s pet programs. She was a crackerjack cardplayer. When it came to gin rummy, almost no one could beat her. She taught the women in the shelter how to play. Two Saturday nights a month, she held all-night marathons, which she playfully called cardathons. She gave out prizes—a spa day at Elizabeth Arden, a shopping spree at Bloomingdale’s, a complete makeover with a professional hairstylist and makeup artist—things the women at the shelter never imagined in their wildest dreams. It did wonders. In some cases, jobs and career paths materialized. Most of all, it generated hours of fun, friendship, and laughter.”

At that moment, the intercom on Barbara’s desk buzzed. “Yes, Jeanine?” She glanced at her watch. “Goodness, I had no idea it was three o’clock already. Please tell her I’ll be with her in a minute.” She hung up. “Morgan, forgive me, but I have a counseling appointment.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry.” Morgan was already on her feet. “I came to chat for a few minutes. Instead, I’ve taken up an hour and a half of your time. I really apologize.”

“Don’t. I’ve loved every minute of this. Meeting you after all these years. I was hoping you would seek me out when you were ready to learn about your mother.” She squeezed Morgan’s hand. “Stay strong, just like your mother. The police will find your parents’ killer. And if I think of anything that could help, I’ll call you. I promise. In return, if you need to talk, don’t hesitate to pick up the phone. I mean it.”

“I know you do.” Impulsively, Morgan leaned forward and hugged the older woman. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

ELEVEN

Lane was unusually restless.

He’d spent hours scrutinizing the photos Monty had given him, until there was nothing more he could do without the negatives. He then began prepping for next week’s assignment with Congressman Shore.

By eight o’clock, he was stiff, cranky, and getting cabin fever.

He changed into a black cable-knit sweater and khakis, grabbed his shearling-lined leather jacket, and left his brownstone a little after eight, with no particular destination in mind. He headed over to Central Park, then down Fifth Avenue, where the Christmas decorations had a magical quality. Somewhere between his place and the park, it started to flurry. It got colder, too, although not unpleasantly so. It felt good, invigorating, another testimonial to the upcoming holidays. The sidewalks were packed with shoppers, the streets were jammed with taxis, and Lane just drank it all in, shoving his hands in his pockets and watching his breath emerge in frosty puffs.

For some unknown reason, he cut over to Madison Avenue and found himself standing in front of the Carlyle Hotel. Bemelmans Bar was just inside. He hadn’t been there in ages. It wasn’t his usual haunt—too old-money-ish. But the decor, with that black granite bar and amazing mural, was striking, the piano bar was a real draw, and the Black Angus burger was ground to order and delicious. In fact, the more he thought about it, an Angus burger, a spectacular cocktail or two followed by a cognac, and an hour of good music sounded damned good, especially since he hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast. So he found himself walking in.

He was just settling himself at a table not far from the piano, which was temporarily deserted, when he spotted a familiar face seated at a table down the way. She was sitting alone, either for the moment or for the evening, staring intently into her glass and twirling the swizzle stick around in her drink.

He gestured for the waiter to hold off taking his order, then walked over to her table. “Morgan?”

Her head came up, and those extraordinary eyes widened in surprise. She was wearing a lime-green cashmere sweater, her dark hair loose, tumbling around her shoulders. She looked fantastic. She also looked solemn, preoccupied, and very worn out. “Lane. Hi. What brings you here?”

“Actually, my feet.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “I needed air. I took a walk. Next thing I knew I was outside the Carlyle. It’s been a while, but the thought of a good drink and some mellow piano jazz hit the spot. So here I am.”

“Funny. Sounds identical to my story.”

“So maybe it wasn’t just my feet. Maybe it was fate.” Lane glanced around politely. “Are you alone?”

“Very.”

Her pointed tone hit its mark. “Meaning you’d prefer to keep it that way?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, giving a long-drawn-out sigh. “The truth? No. I’d rather have company. Would you like to join me?” Her sense of humor intervened, and her eyes twinkled. “Unless you have one of your numerous no-strings-attached dates waiting for you.”

“Nope. I’m all by my lonesome. And I’d love to join you.” He was already signaling to the waiter, alerting him to his plans. “Have you eaten?”

Morgan’s forehead creased in thought. “Now that you mention it, not since breakfast.”

“Good. Me, either. And I hate eating alone. The Angus burgers are great. So are the marinated lamb chops. We’ll order both.”

“Sounds perfect.”