“Like I said, it’s a shot of Lara and Jack Winter’s bodies. The good news is it’s pretty clear, it’s centrally focused on both bodies, and crime scene took it before they touched or shifted anything or anyone. Which means we’ve got a fair chance of finding something here. If I had to choose one overlooked negative, this would be it.”
“It shouldn’t have been overlooked in the first place,” Monty muttered. “It was careless and stupid. Everything was just chucked in a box and filed away once Schiller confessed. That should never have happened.”
“Don’t go down this path, Monty. It’s total BS, and a waste of energy. Even if you’d kept digging, you wouldn’t have made any progress. The technology didn’t exist back then to enhance these images. Now it does. The case has been reopened for less than a week, and you’re all over it like white on rice. Stop rethinking the past. You’re fixing it. We’ll finish what you started.”
“Seventeen years too late. After permanent scars have formed.”
A hint of a pause. Then Lane cleared his throat. “Is Morgan okay? What was this minidrama she was referring to?”
“A coincidence and a manipulation.” Monty filled Lane in on the details. “The hit-and-run I can easily get the specs on, and figure out if it really was just a coincidence. As for Charlie Denton, he knows something. Whatever it is, he’s keeping it close to the vest. That bothers me, but not as much as why he’s doing it. Obviously, he’s protecting his job. For that, I don’t blame him. But the rest falls into the gray zone. Is he really in our corner? Is all this secrecy just to minimize the fallout? Or is it a whole lot more personal, and uglier, than that?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he was working in the Manhattan D.A.’s office when the Winters were killed. Does whatever he’s hiding tie directly back to him? Is it his job he’s fighting to save, or his ass?” Abruptly, Monty changed the subject. “Speaking of Morgan’s well-being, I heard you ask her out. So I took the liberty of giving her a few tips about you. Now it’s a level playing field. So I feel better.”
Lane groaned. “What did you tell her?”
“To stay one step ahead of you. To keep the ball in her court. Not to let you get away with anything. The basics.”
“Are you trying to sabotage this relationship?”
“Nope. I’m trying to make sure Morgan knows what she’s letting herself in for. Apparently, she does.” A chuckle. “You, on the other hand, are in for a few surprises. Kiss your ego good-bye.”
“Thanks for the tip. But make it the last one. Butt out.”
“Done.” Monty rounded the corner. “I’m almost at your place. Which reminds me, I’m assuming you’re alone.”
“Yeah. Jonah left a while ago. He was pretty upset. Apparently, Elyse Shore walked into Arthur’s office this afternoon while Jonah was taking shots of the congressman hovering over a young, pretty staff member, and she didn’t react too well. She ripped Jonah a new one. The severity of her reaction kind of surprised me.”
“Why? It can’t be pleasant to watch your husband constantly coming on to other women, most of whom are young enough to be your daughter.”
“Agreed. But Elyse knows who she’s married to. Plus, I’ve met her enough times to get a feel for what she’s like. She’s free-spirited like her daughter. She’s also composed and easygoing. Barking at Jonah seems out of character.”
“What’d he say in response?”
“Nothing. She turned around and walked out. Which is weird, too. He said she looked emotionally beaten up.”
“First hostile, then depleted. Sounds like she needs some Prozac.” As he spoke, a far-fetched idea formed in Monty’s head. “What time did Jonah take those office photos?”
“I don’t know. Three-thirty, four o’clock. Why?”
“Just asking.”
SIXTEEN
Getting the police report on the hit-and-run was the easiest part of Monty’s day. By the time Lane and Jonah had joined Arthur Shore on the private jet he’d secured, Monty had assimilated all the facts.
Running down those facts proved very interesting.
It turned out that the white van that struck Rachel Ogden was a delivery vehicle for a florist located near Union Square. The delivery guy had foolishly double-parked it—still running and with the keys in the ignition—long enough to dash into an office building and leave a holiday poinsettia at the front desk. He’d exited two and a half minutes later, to find the van gone.
At the time, the cops had treated it like a straightforward car theft. They’d interviewed a few people who’d been in the area, none of whom had noticed much. They’d all assumed that whoever drove away with the van was the same guy who’d arrived in it—at least until he’d rushed to the curb shouting that his van had been stolen. Two local construction workers had come up with a less-than-exciting description of the thief: he’d been wearing a hooded parka and army boots, and was slight of build and quick on his feet.
Which, to Monty, meant a punk kid who was either a run-of-the-mill car thief, or—if the incident had be
en related to the Winter cases—a hired hand.
The van itself had provided no answers. It had turned up, dumped and stripped, in a seedy area of the Bronx. The cops had dusted it for prints; no matches turned up.