He was about to shove that pain in her face.
“Sorry about changing our meeting time,” he began. “It’s been a day from hell.”
“I hear you.” She gestured toward the overstuffed club chair situated diagonally across from the sectional. “Have a seat.”
He perched at the edge of the cushion, gripping his knees and leaning toward her. There was nothing to be gained by delaying the inevitable. So he plunged right in.
“The reason I pushed back our appointment today is that I’m not here to discuss my social life. I’m here to discuss a plea bargain the Brooklyn D.A. struck this morning. It directly affects you. It concerns your parents’ murders and who did—or didn’t—commit them.”
She went very still. “Go on.”
“Nate Schiller’s confession was bogus. He didn’t do it; he was too busy killing a cop and a gang leader at the time of your parents’ homicides.” Charlie paused to gauge Morgan’s reaction, interpreting her silence as initial shock. “I’m sure this news is hitting you like a ton of bricks, and for that I apologize. As for why you’re hearing it from me, there was a daylong political haggling session between my office and the Brooklyn D.A. Our side argued professional courtesy; theirs argued professional jurisdiction. Our side won. So here I am.”
To his surprise, Morgan gave a humorless laugh. “Your side won. But you lost. What happened—did you draw the short straw?”
“Huh?” Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this.
“Who am I kidding?” She answered her own question. “The D.A. just handed you your instructions and showed you the door. It makes perfect sense. You and I are acquainted. We have a comfortable, positive working relationship. Plus, you knew my father, maybe even worked a few cases under his direction. Therefore, you were the logical choice to break the news to me. How civilized of both D.A.s. Or how self-serving, depending on how you look at it. Is it my reaction they’re worrying about, or is it Arthur’s? Because I’m stunned and unnerved. I have been for the past few hours, since I got word. As for Arthur, he doesn’t know yet. But if I had to venture a guess, I’d say he’ll be infuriated to find out that my parents’ murder investigation was botched and that whoever really killed them is still out there walking the streets.”
Charlie stared. “You already knew about Schiller?”
“A friend told me. He wanted to spare me the pain of hearing about it from a stranger, or worse, from the press.”
“I see.” A long pause as Charlie regained his composure. “You either have a very well-connected friend, or we have some serious leaks. This news wasn’t supposed to get out before you were told—personally.”
“I’m sure that’s true. But at this point, it’s immaterial.” Morgan forced a tight smile. “Stop looking like you’re about to face a firing squad. I don’t believe in shooting the messenger. The news is out, its initial impact over, and I’m still in one piece.”
He eyed her speculatively. “We’ve never really spoken about your parents, other than the niceties. You know I was fresh out of law school when I came on board at the Manhattan D.A.’s office. Your father was an icon. Every newbie hero-worshipped him, including me. He was a brilliant prosecutor, with dead-on instincts. I never met your mother, but I heard she had a heart of gold.”
“She did.”
Charlie blew out his breath. “Their murders sent shock waves through the entire system. I can’t imagine what it did to you. You were a ten-year-old kid. Not only did you lose your parents, but you were at the crime scene.”
“I found their bodies,” Morgan supplied tonelessly. “And you’re right. You can’t imagine. But you can guess. It changed me forever.”
“And now you’ve got something new to deal with—this news about Schiller.”
“True. But my coping skills are a lot stronger now. So’s my will. I’m not going to sit passively by and let the job of finding my parents’ murderer become another item on someone’s to-do list. I’m going to move it along.”
That got Charlie’s attention. He went very still. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m going to start out by assessing just where this matter stands in the various law enforcement offices.” It was her turn to lean forward. “Tell me, Charlie, how ticked off is the Manhattan D.A.? Angry enough to push Brooklyn to initiate a whole new investigation? Or is this a back-burner case, icon or not?”
He was walking a thin line and he knew it. “I’m not sure how this will play out. The old-timers are ripping. Especially the ones who were close to your father. They want resolution. The younger crowd’s a different story. They only know Jack Winter as a name. Bottom line is, reopening the investigation will require resources. Lots of them. It’s been seventeen years. The trail is cold. So is the case.”
“We could heat it up. Or rather, you could.” Morgan reacted to the wary expression on Charlie’s face. “I’m not suggesting you play Deep Throat. Or even that you step on toes. I’m just asking that you dig up a little information for me about what cases my father was working on at the time of his death.”
“Who might have had it in for him, you mean.”
“Exactly. It would be a start.”
“I’m sure Brooklyn’s Cold Case Squad will kick in and cover that territory.”
“Eventually. Once the turf war is over and the files are dusted off. I don’t want to wait for that. I want to cut through the red tape. Starting with the old-timers, as you put it. You could talk to them, see what you could find out.”
“There are two problems with that strategy. For one thing, whatever cases your father was handling are now spread out all over the place—from solved and filed away, to cold and in storage, to wide open and reassigned. And for another thing, you’re assuming this crime was a personal vendetta. It could still be a robbery gone bad.”
“We won’t know until we check. But that brings us to the third problem—or rather, the fundamental problem—the one that’s really causing your reluctance. Politics. The battle over which jurisdiction gets—or wants—this case. Till you’re sure of that, you run the risk of pissing people off. Well, relax. I’ll take care of it. I’ll talk to Arthur. He’ll make sure you’re given the green light, and that just enough of the powers that be are made aware of that.”
A hollow laugh. “You make me sound like a self-serving bastard.”
“No. Just a guy who values his professional future. I don’t fault you for it. Now, will you help me?”
Charlie steepled his fingers in front of him, lowering his gaze to study them. He couldn’t look Morgan in the eye and remain unswayed. Actually, he couldn’t remain unswayed even without eye contact. Too many personal feelings were involved here—complex, multifaceted personal feelings. Staying impartial was an impossibility. It had been then. It was even more so now.
He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
HEATHROW AIRPORT WAS a zoo—wall-to-wall travelers all scrambling to get to and from their destinations.
Lane Montgomery just wanted to get home.
He shifted in his seat, glancing at his watch to see how much longer it would be before boarding time. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t be soon enough. Talk about jet lag. He’d been to Beirut, Istanbul, Athens, Madrid, and now London, all in ten days. He was cranky, bone-weary, and overtired. All he wanted was an hour in his Jacuzzi, and eight more between his sheets.
He leaned back, shut his eyes. He loved his work. But this part of it was starting to get to him. The life of a paparazzo had been exciting as hell at twenty. At thirty-three, covert photo ops that felt all too similar to his tabloid days in strategy and execution—despite the fact that they were CIA-sanctioned, being done for an entirely different, noble cause—were getting old. The crazy schedule, the requisite secrecy, and the subsequent isolation—all of that was eroding the thrills and excitement and replacing them with a new kind of restlessness.
Life on the edge was great. But a little more n
ormalcy would be a welcome relief.
His cell phone rang just as the overhead voice announced that his flight was starting to board—finally, after an hour plus of delays.
He stood up, slung his camera bag over his shoulder, and dug his cell out of the pocket of his leather bomber jacket. He was already walking toward the boarding line as he glanced at the caller ID.
It was Hank Reynolds, the editor he worked with at Time.
He punched on the phone. “Hey, Hank.”
“Hey. Where are you?”
“About to hop on a plane at Heathrow.”
“Heading away or home?”
“Home. And not a minute too soon. The flight’s already been pushed back twice. I’ve worked twenty hours a day for the past week and a half. I’m wiped. I plan on sleeping the entire way to Kennedy. I’ll wake up just long enough to get through customs, get home, and get from my bath to my bed.”
Hank chuckled. “Understood. Tell you what. Give me a call tomorrow. I’ve got an assignment for you.”
Lane groaned. “Where and when?”
“Next week. That gives you plenty of time to rest up. And it’s right here on your home turf—New York. No travel. No time change. No long days without food or sleep.”
And no dicey undercover work, Lane added silently. Just a nice, normal photojournalist assignment. “You sold me. What’s the subject?”
“Congressman Arthur Shore. You’ve worked with him before, right?”
“Yup. During his last reelection campaign, I did a photo essay on him and his hobbies—rock climbing and bungee jumping—for Sports Illustrated. What’s he up to that would interest Time?”
“Obviously, you haven’t had a chance to pick up a newspaper this week. Shore’s fighting to push through some pretty cutting-edge legislation. He’s also still living the daredevil life of Indiana Jones. Skydiving and zooming down the Rockies’ most treacherous ski slopes are his newest things.” A pause. “Plus there’s another high-profile aspect of his personal life that just exploded onto the scene. I’ll get into details tomorrow. The bottom line is, I want a comprehensive photo essay on the personal, professional, and recreational risk-taking, boundary-pushing daredevil congressman. You’re the perfect guy to give it to me.”
“Yeah, okay. Count me in.” Lane was only half absorbing Hank’s words. “I’ve gotta sign off now. The plane’s boarding and I’m really out of it.”
“You sound it. Go home and get some sleep. The last thing you want is to burn out.”
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”
FIVE
Dinner at the Shores’ Upper East Side apartment was Chinese. It was quick, it was easy, and it caused no interruption to the heavy discussion taking place in the living room.
Seated on the sofa, Morgan filled Arthur in on the day’s events. He grew more furious by the minute, pacing around the room, brows drawn together as he processed the information. Nothing unusual there. Arthur never sat still. And when he had a problem to mull over, he paced. Jill never left her post by the floor-to-ceiling windows—where she’d been scowling at the cluster of reporters still camped outside the building, hoping for a personal reaction from the congressman.
When the food arrived, she and her father joined her mother in the kitchen. Elyse had already set the table and made a pot of green tea, although she had one ear cocked toward the living room, listening to what was going on. She wanted to gauge her husband’s reaction, see how much he could do to bring closure to this nightmare, keep it from wreaking havoc on their lives again.
No one felt like eating. Still, for the sake of sustenance and a shred of normalcy they sat around the kitchen table, going through the motions. Conversation ceased, the only sounds in the room those of rustling cardboard and clinking silverware as portions were doled out. The silence continued as they picked at their food, sipped at their tea.
“I still don’t believe a screwup like this went through the whole criminal justice system unnoticed,” Arthur muttered at last, pushing back his chair and giving up on his meal. He rose, a tall, handsome, charismatic man who exuded energy and passion in everything he did. “Such gross incompetence is inexcusable.”
Elyse pursed her lips, glancing over at Morgan to see how she was holding up. Her own food remained largely untouched—and not, in this case, because of her preoccupation with healthy eating and staying young and fit. After seventeen years as Morgan’s surrogate mother, she knew how much Lara and Jack’s homicides had cost their daughter. She had genuine doubts over whether Morgan could hold up under the strain of reliving that entire chapter of her life. “It’s appalling,” she agreed. “We’ve got to resolve it as soon as possible.”
“That’s easier said than done.” Jill’s forehead creased. “A wrongful conviction that’s almost twenty years old? Unraveling it to get at the truth will be a bear.”
“It’ll be done,” Arthur pronounced. “That’s a given, not an if. But that doesn’t change the fact that the whole situation’s indefensible. Not only because it’s Jack and Lara we’re talking about. Or even because Jack was such a high-profile A.D.A.” A muscle worked in Arthur’s jaw. “I was kept up-to-the-minute during those homicide investigations. I knew every move the cops made, every avenue they were pursuing.”
“I remember,” Elyse murmured. “You checked in with Detective Montgomery every day by phone. And you met with him once a week at your dad’s deli to go over the status of the investigations.”
“Yes, well, those conversations are what’s bugging me now. Detective Montgomery was never a hundred percent on board with the idea that Schiller was guilty. He kept saying it felt wrong, that there were inconsistencies nagging at him. Then Schiller confessed. That nipped Montgomery’s theories in the bud. The investigation was wrapped up. Schiller was tried and convicted. Case closed.”
“That’s the way the system works, Dad,” Jill reminded him.
“But it’s not the way I work. I shouldn’t have been so damned accepting. I should have made them review every piece of evidence even after the confession.”
“Arthur, don’t do this,” Morgan interrupted, speaking up for the first time since the meal had started. “Detective Montgomery ran through this same thought process in my office today. You’re both blaming yourselves, and that’s absurd. You pushed as hard as you could. A killer confessed. There was no reason to doubt that confession. End of story.”
Arthur shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and regarded Morgan with a brooding expression. “You said you hired Montgomery. That was a shrewd move. As a PI, he’ll take more risks than he could have as a cop. I’ll get in touch with him first thing in the morning, offer him whatever resources he needs. As for this Charlie Denton, I’ll place a few calls and make sure the decks are cleared for him to get whatever he can on the cases Jack was handling.”
“Thank you,” Morgan said gratefully.
The taut lines on Arthur’s face eased. “I don’t want thanks. I want you to do something for me. Ease off. You look like you’re about to collapse. I’m home now. Leave this in my hands and in the hands of professionals like Montgomery. You made great strides. You started the ball rolling. Now take a step back. You’re having a hard enough time coping with the anniversary of your parents’ deaths. Don’t ask more of yourself than you can handle.”
“I told her the exact same thing,” Jill chimed in. “Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
Morgan forced a strained smile. “I listen to all of you. I realize you’re worried about me. I’ll try to gain some perspective on this, and pay attention to my own limitations. But tonight’s not the night to do that. In fact, tonight’s not the night to do much of anything. I’m beyond wiped out. All I wanted was to fill you in ASAP. Now that I have, I really need to head home and get some sleep.” She rose, weaving a little as she did.
“My driver’s parked around back,” Arthur informed her. “He’ll take you home.”
“That’s not necessary. I
can walk.”
“Right, and faint in the street. Forget it. You’ll take the car. Besides, it’ll help you dodge the press.” He glanced at Jill. “You, too. You’d never be able to walk by them without spouting your opinion on invasion of privacy.”
Jill’s nose wrinkled. “You know me well.”
“We know you both well,” Elyse amended. “We know your weak spots and we know when you’ve maxed out.” She hugged each of them in turn. “Now go home. Get some sleep.”
“You don’t have to twist my arm,” Morgan assured her. She sent Arthur a questioning look. “Can we talk tomorrow, after you’ve made those calls? Do you have time?”
“I’ll make time.”
“What about your meetings?” It was no secret that Arthur was swamped.
“It’s all under control,” he replied. “I’ll have plenty of time to reach out to everyone I need to. Remember, Congress is in recess until after the holidays, so nothing’s getting done in Washington. Which leaves me free to stay in New York and concentrate on my home base. I’ve got a dozen or so irons in the fire. In terms of national publicity, I’ve agreed to do a story for Time. ‘The Daredevil Congressman,’ I think they’re calling it. That’s a great angle. So stop worrying.”
He studied Morgan’s pale face, the dazed look in her eyes, and a flash of fierce determination crossed his face. “None of this means a damn. Your situation takes precedence over everything. I’ll make those calls first thing in the morning. After that, I’ll head over to Winshore. You can make me a cup of espresso with that fancy machine of yours.”
This time Morgan’s smile came naturally. “You’ve got a deal.” She felt like the weight of the world had been partially lifted off her shoulders. “Thank you, Arthur. This means the world to me.” She turned to Elyse. “Will you forgive our running out and leaving you two with the cleanup?”
“What cleanup?” Elyse waved away her concern. “Stacking plates in the dishwasher and putting cartons of uneaten food in the fridge? That should take all of ten minutes.” From the corner of her eye, she spotted her husband whipping out his cell phone, turning away to check his messages. A wistful expression crossed her face. “I think I’ll turn in early, as well. We all need to recharge. Any way you look at it, the road ahead’s going to be rocky.”