Dark Room (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 2)

That made Morgan feel doubly guilty for the subject she had to broach now. “Did you and your mom touch base today?”

Jill looked surprised. “A little while ago, yes. But only for about ten seconds. She was on her way over to my grandparents’ to spend the night. That seemed kind of weird. I hope she’s not reacting to one of my dad’s indiscretions.”

“Not this time.”

Morgan’s solemn tone struck home, and Jill’s head came up. “Clearly, you know what’s going on. What did Mom tell you?”

“Nothing. What I heard, I heard from Detective Montgomery.” With a heavy heart, Morgan relayed the entire scenario to Jill.

“This has been going on all week?” Jill’s features tightened with c

oncern. “She didn’t say a word.”

“Not to anyone. Not even your father. Although now that she’s aware of the link between Rachel’s hit-and-run and her own creepy episodes, she’ll want to fill Arthur in.”

“And he’ll be all over it,” Jill said, taking comfort in her own words. “There’s no way the two vans weren’t the same. Which means whoever did this drove all the way from Union Square to the Upper East Side then back to midtown, just to make a point.”

“Not a point. A message. Delivered to me. Via my family.”

Anxiously, Jill searched Morgan’s face. “He didn’t try to hurt Mom? You’re sure of that?”

“Positive. This was a scare tactic. Nothing more. If it was…” Morgan met Jill’s gaze, raw tears glittering in her eyes. “After losing my parents the way I did, I could never—ever—put Elyse, or any of you, in danger.”

“I know that. Does Detective Montgomery have a theory?”

“Yes. Besides scaring your mom, he also thinks the van driver hurt Rachel a lot more seriously than he was instructed to. He believes the order was to sideswipe her, knock her off balance. But hired hands are amateurs, and amateurs screw up. So Rachel was an innocent casualty.” Morgan’s lips thinned into a grim line. “There’s only one person this sicko wants to get to—me. He’s trying to frighten me into backing off. That’s not about to happen. Especially now. He’s just confirmed what Detective Montgomery and I already felt in our bones. He’s no random burglar. He killed my parents in cold blood. And he’s still out there.”

NINETEEN

Wednesday morning couldn’t come fast enough for Monty.

He was up at dawn, out the door by seven, and making arrangements on his cell phone during the entire two-hour drive from his Dutchess County home to New York–Presbyterian Hospital.

By the time he arrived for the fifteen-minute interview Rachel Ogden’s doctor had grudgingly permitted, he’d lined up enough full-time security to keep an eye on Jill, Elyse, and Morgan.

Last night’s phone call from Arthur Shore had brought back memories of the riled-up man who’d ridden Monty’s ass after the double homicide seventeen years ago. This time, the congressman had raved about the vulnerability of his “girls,” and given Monty carte blanche about whom he hired and how much he paid them to watch Elyse, Jill, and Morgan round-the-clock.

There was no denying that Arthur cared about his family. That much, Monty could relate to. So he’d made the requisite arrangements, set the security team in place.

Now he had two interviews to conduct: first, Rachel Ogden; then, Karly Fontaine.

He didn’t expect either meeting to yield any earth-shattering revelations. After a fair amount of background digging, he still believed the two women were arbitrary pawns.

Still, a few curious pieces of information had come up, one pertaining to each woman. Neither was a glaring red flag. But both were interesting enough to address.

Karly Fontaine’s real name was Carol Fenton. She’d glamorized it when she moved from New York to L.A. and became a model. Nothing unusual there. It was the timing of it that captured Monty’s attention. Sixteen-plus years ago, just six months after the Winters’ homicides. Worth bringing up in conversation.

As for Rachel Ogden, she was the living embodiment of what Arthur Shore liked in his mistresses, right down to the fact that she gravitated toward successful, married men. In addition, her appointment book—which her assistant had agreeably shared with Monty—included a dozen recent client meetings, all generically listed sans names or numbers, and all conducted in hotel restaurants. Ironically, all the hotels in question were located within a several-block radius of Arthur Shore’s Lexington Avenue office, and all the meetings occurred on dates when Arthur Shore was in New York—reportedly in and out of his office all day.

There was no actual evidence that the two of them were sleeping together. That didn’t mean it wasn’t happening. And that, of course, piqued Monty’s interest, especially in light of the story Elyse Shore had told him yesterday.

His first impression had been that Elyse was being straight up with him. Still, there were a couple of points still bugging him.

The first was the timing of the accident.

The punk who’d mowed down Rachel Ogden had taken a huge risk. He’d ripped off the van on Tenth Street, driven to the Upper East Side to harass Elyse Shore, then shot over to midtown to hit Rachel, finally dumping the van in the Bronx. Talk about time and territory. He’d pushed the limits of both. Whoever hired him had to know that the longer the van went missing, the greater the chance it had of being spotted by the cops. It was quite a risk to take, just to upset Elyse and put the fear of God in Morgan.

Then there was the news coverage.