Dark Room (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 2)

“You’re early,” Lenny informed Monty. “Neither of our boys is here yet.”

“That’s because they’re both old and we’re young. We move faster.”

Lenny threw back his head and laughed. The guy was amazing. Seventy-eight years old and still going strong. Quick as a whip, steady-handed, and seemingly tireless, Lenny still ran his deli almost full-time. His wife, Rhoda, kept the books, paid the staff, and made the coffee, the matzo-ball soup, and the chopped liver from scratch every day. The two of them had opened the deli over forty-five years ago, and taken the place from a small-time sandwich shop to a New York landmark. Some of that success was due to the food, some to the personable warmth of the owners, and some to the political fame of their congressional son.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The space and the clientele might have grown along with the profits, but Lenny Shore hadn’t changed a bit. Quite simply, he loved what he did. He liked his customers and they liked him.

“How’s Sally?” Lenny walked over to Monty, wiping his hands on his apron before reaching out to shake Monty’s hand.

“Great—but jealous. I told her where I was eating. She said not to come home without a pastrami sandwich and a pound of Rhoda’s chopped liver.”

“I’ll give you two pounds. Save some for when the kids come over. Let’s sit down. Tell me about the family.” He led Monty to the rear of the restaurant, which was slightly quieter than the rest of the place. “I already know how Lane is. Busy. Half the countries he’s been to, I’ve never even heard of. But he’s doing well, and he’s happy. So that’s all that matters. Tell me about those beautiful daughters of yours.”

“Grown up.” Monty scowled. “Time passes too damned fast. Merry’s a senior at SUNY Albany already. She’s graduating this spring, and going on to get her master’s in education.”

“A teacher like her mom.”

“Yeah, she’s a lot like Sally—softhearted and superattuned to kids. And she’s got a law school boyfriend, but let’s not go there.” Monty grunted. “As for Devon, her veterinary clinic is thriving. It’s been written up in more publications than I can name. Oh, and she and Blake just bought a big house in Armonk. They’re hoping to become homebodies, and actually see each other once in a while. He spends too many hours running Pierson & Company. They need some downtime.”

“A house?” That perked Lenny up. “With lots of bedrooms? Sounds to me like that town house of theirs is getting too small. And you know what that means. Any day now they’ll be calling you and Sally up with the happy news that—”

“Not yet.” Monty cut him off with a grin. “At least not right away. But it wouldn’t surprise me if they decided to make me a grandpa in a few years.”

“That would be wonderful! Especially since, given Lane’s lifestyle and the number of women he’s dated, I wouldn’t hold my breath in the hopes that he’ll do you that honor first.”

“Believe me, I’m not.”

“There’s nothing like grandchildren. They fill your life with joy.” A pained look crossed Lenny’s face. “My poor Morgan. It makes my insides twist when I think of what she’s going through. I know she’s not mine by blood. But I love her the same way I do Jill.”

“I know you do.” Monty blew out a breath. “This whole screwup sucks.”

“You’re helping Arthur, though, right? He said you’re launching a whole new investigation.”

“That’s a little overstated. Morgan hired me, Arthur’s throwing his support behind me, and yeah, I’m reinvestigating the Winters’ double homicide. But I’m a PI now, not a cop. So I’m not launching anything—at least nothing official.”

“I know you, Monty. If you’re in it, you’re on top of it. So what did you find out?”

“Bits and pieces.” Monty had intended to wait until Arthur arrived before addressing the issue that had been bugging him all weekend. But given Lenny’s interest, he decided the hell with it. “Listen, Lenny. I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“What do you know about George Hayek?”

Lenny’s gray brows arched. “George? Wow, talk about a blast from the past. He worked as my delivery boy when he was a kid, right after he and his mother fled from Lebanon and came to the U.S. It must have been thirty-eight, maybe thirty-nine years ago, a handful of years after we opened. Why?”

“Because I was sifting through some paperwork and I found his arrest record,” Monty answered evasively. “He listed you and your deli in the phone-call section of his booking sheet. It was the only name he specified.”

“That’s not a surprise. His mother didn’t speak English. And he had nowhere else to turn.” Lenny’s forehead creased as he thought back all those years. “George was basically a good kid. But his father was killed in Lebanon, and he came over here a pretty angry teenager. He had no role model, so, yeah, he became a little wild. He acted out, fell into a rowdy crowd. They boosted a car, and he got caught. It was stupid, and he knew it. He needed a break, someone to give him a little support. So I filled that role. I showed up on his behalf, and I posted his bail. Why? How did George or his arrest record come up in your investigation?”

“It didn’t. Not directly. I had the Central Clerk’s Office in Manhattan dig up some old case files for me—all the ones Jack Winter successfully prosecuted during the last year of his life. One of those cases involved a guy named Carl Angelo, a big-time drug and weapons dealer. Jack Winter got him convicted a few months before the murders. Angelo had a long list of scumbags on his payroll. A couple of those scumbags used to run in the sam

e crowd as George Hayek. Like you said, they were a pretty sketchy bunch.”

“That was when they were teenagers. Who knows what they grew up to be? They could be murderers. They could be priests.” Lenny turned his palms up in an it’s-anybody’s-guess gesture. “As for George, he didn’t deal in drugs or guns. He stole a car. And that was twenty years before that Angelo guy was arrested.”

“True.” Monty nodded. “Are you and Hayek still in touch?”

“Nah.” Lenny shook his head. “The deli was just a starting point for George. Once he got enough cash under his belt, he left. Wanted to start his own business, help some of his family back home. And he wasn’t exactly the letter-writing type. The last I heard, he’d moved out to L.A., then to somewhere in Florida. I don’t know where he settled.”