by Andrea Kane
Morgan stared at him blankly. She’d heard what he’d said, but his words might just as well have been gibberish.
“You’re wrong,” she said at last. “That’s impossible. He was convicted. He confessed. Plus, the pattern…it fit his MO. The prosecution proved it. He’s guilty.”
“That’s what everyone working the case thought. They were wrong. The same night your parents died, a cop and a gang leader were shot to death in Harlem. The times of the two crimes were concurrent. Which means two separate perps. The D.A. just got new evidence to support that. Nate Schiller was in Harlem that night, which means someone else killed your parents.”
“Oh my God.” Morgan leaned back against the wall, using its solid weight to brace her. “But why would he confess if he didn’t…”
“He knew he’d be doing time no matter what, but perps who kill gang leaders don’t fare well at Sing Sing.” A tense pause. “Are you all right?”
“No.”
He scowled, looking pained and disgusted. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. But frankly, I don’t think mincing words would make it any easier to bear.”
“You’re right. It wouldn’t.” Morgan forced out the next question. “Do the police know who did do it?”
“Not yet. But they’re working on it.”
“They?” Her head came up. “Not you?”
“I’m not with the department anymore. I retired five years ago. I’m on my own now; a PI.”
“Yet you’re the one here, telling me the news.”
“That was my choice. You’ll be getting official word from the D.A. this afternoon. A contact of mine tipped me off. Your parents’ homicides were my case. I feel responsible.”
“You felt responsible then, too,” Morgan reminded him.
She hadn’t forgotten. She’d never forget. He’d been a true hero; a knight in shining armor to a little girl faced with a horror that no amount of time could erase.
She’d been in shock when he’d arrived at the scene. Elyse and Arthur had already been notified. They’d gotten there in a heartbeat. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t respond to them.
Arthur had summoned a grief counselor. But it was Detective Montgomery who’d taken charge. He’d handled things just right, wrapping a blanket around her to stop the shivering, speaking to her in gentle but steady tones. When she’d balked at the Shores’ overtures to take her home, he’d suggested they give her some space. And when she’d stuck to his side like glue, he’d advised Elyse and Arthur to get in their car and follow him to the police precinct.
He’d put her in his car and driven her to the Sutter Avenue police station. She remembered the sign, because its bold-lettered designation: 75th precinct, police department city of new york had looked so official and intimidating.
Detective Montgomery had guided her past the seedy-looking people and up the stairs to a skinny kitchenette that looked like her school cafeteria, only smaller and messier. He’d brought her a hot chocolate and sat down beside her. Then, he’d talked—about his kids, about how he wasn’t living with them right now and how hard that separation was for him, about how no distance could ever break the bond between parent and child.
He told her that her parents would always love her. Always be with her. No matter how far away heaven was from earth.
That’s when the dam had broken. She’d cried—no, sobbed. Big, gulping sobs that racked her body and tore her heart into fragments. Once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop. She’d cried until her body was too exhausted to continue, at which point she’d slid down, curled up across two tattered chairs, and fallen asleep. Vaguely, she remembered Detective Montgomery carrying her into a small, musty room with stacks of files and storage boxes—and a cot. He’d placed her on it, and tucked a blanket around her before he left. He’d made sure the door was ajar so she could hear voices—his included. He’d even left on a light so she wouldn’t be scared.
Months later, after dozens of therapy sessions that enabled her to begin dealing with that night, Morgan had started taking emotional baby steps. She let Elyse in enough to ask questions to fill in the blanks. She’d learned that Detective Montgomery had worked with the Shores and the counselor. He’d called several times over the intervening months to check up on her, to make sure she was holding up.
She hadn’t been surprised. She’d been touched. He was a good, kind man. She’d tried to express that in the note she eventually wrote to him.
But that first night, she’d felt nothing. She’d been numb. She’d stayed with the Shores because they were the closet thing to family she had left, and because that was what her parents had wanted. Anything more seemed impossible. Love them? No way. Not when she was so filled with pain and anger. All she wanted was to turn back time, wave a magic wand and have her parents alive and with her again.
Elyse and Arthur had been wonderful. They’d tried so hard, offering her everything from time and tenderness to the best medical care and the finest crisis counselors and child therapists money could buy.
She was grateful. That part had come easily. But the rest had taken longer.
“Remembering?” Detective Montgomery interrupted her musings to ask.
“Yes.” Morgan raised her head and met his gaze. “I was remembering how astute you were. You never pushed. You never told me what I was supposed to feel. You let me grieve. You didn’t intrude, but you didn’t walk away. Without you, I’m not sure I would have gotten through that night.”
“You’re giving me way too much credit. You had a lot of people in your corner. Besides, you were a trouper.”
“I didn’t feel like a trouper. I felt like my life had ended.”
“It had. You’ve rebuilt it.”
“I suppose.” Morgan folded her arms across her breasts and rubbed the sleeves of her sweater with her hands. She suddenly felt cold. “But scars like the ones I have don’t go away. Not completely. So hearing this bomb you’ve just dropped—it’s like the wounds are being ripped open again.”
“Yeah.” He acknowledged that reality with a scowl. “I wish like hell I could make this go away. The last thing I want is to deprive you of your peace of mind. It took long enough for you to find it.”
The sincerity of his words touched her. “You’re still a very kind man.”
“I’m a very pissed man. Don’t kid yourself. I want this case solved. I plan to keep close tabs on it until the real perp is caught.”
“What makes you think that’ll happen?” Morgan bit out. “The case got botched when it was new. Now it’s old. Plus, you’re out of the picture. To me, that says the odds of solving this are next to nil. The real animal who cold-bloodedly shot my parents to death will keep walking the streets a free man—just like he has been for the past seventeen years.” Morgan’s voice quavered, the impact of her own words sinking in. “God,” she whispered. Her eyes filled with tears, and she pressed her hands against her face. “How can this be happening?”
“I don’t have an answer. But it sucks.” Detective Montgomery didn’t insult her with placating words. He just walked over to the sideboard, picked up the pitcher of ice water that was sitting there, and poured her a glass. “Here.” He pressed it into her hand.
“Thank you.” Morgan took a deep swallow. “I didn’t mean to lace into you like that.”
“You didn’t. You’re frustrated and in shock. You have a right to be. You also have a point. This case has been closed for ages. But don’t underestimate the clout that Congressman Shore wields. He’s a high-ranking member of the House of Representatives, a big shot on the House Committee for Financial Services. New Yorkers love him. So does most of the country. He’s got pull—and visibility. And he’s sponsoring a high-profile bill. The noise Congressman Shore is bound to make will give the powers that be the incentive they need to hang in there until they get it right.”
The censure in Detective Montgomery’s tone was hard to miss—as was its meaning. “You never were totally on board with the
findings of the previous investigation,” Morgan realized aloud.
“I had my doubts,” he replied bluntly. “But that’s all they were—doubts. I didn’t have a shred of proof. Then Schiller confessed. So I assumed my instincts were unfounded.”
“You assumed wrong.”
“Yeah, well, hindsight is twenty-twenty.”
Morgan studied his expression. She wasn’t fooled by his flippant remark or his stoic facade. “You’re still beating yourself up for not exhausting all the possibilities.”
“I wasn’t given a choice. Am I kicking myself? Sure. But regret is part of life.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Not this time.” Morgan set down her glass. “Handle this investigation. Find my parents’ killer.”
His brows arched slightly. “I already told you I’m off the force.”
“You also told me you’re a PI. Well, I’m a client. Name your price. I’ll find a way to pay it. I don’t have faith in the cops, or the D.A. I have faith in you.”
“That’s flattering. But the D.A. thinks I’m a pain in the ass. So does my old boss. I wouldn’t be doing you any favors by taking this on.”
“Yes, you would. You’re not the type to be intimidated by people, or by protocol. You’d get around both.”
“You think so?” He looked amused. “Maybe sometimes. But this isn’t one of those times. Believe me, no matter how low I fly under the radar, I’ll still show up on their screen. The sparks would fly.”
“A part of you would relish that,” Morgan guessed shrewdly. “You’d take on the system—and you’d win.”
He chuckled. “You’re a pretty good judge of character, Ms. Boutique Social Agent. But you’re giving me way too much credit.”
“I don’t think so.” Morgan drew in a breath, sparks of recall flickering in her mind. “I remember. I might have been a child, but that night is engraved in my mind forever. You took charge. You were ten steps ahead of everyone else. And you didn’t play games. You were a straight shooter. And, yeah, maybe a maverick.”
“There’s no maybe about it. I’m a cowboy. That’s why I left the force and went out on my own. Playing by the rules is not my strong suit.”
“Good. Play by whatever rules you want. Bend them. Break them. I don’t care. As long as you get that bastard.” Morgan grew more intense, taking a step forward and pressing her palms tightly together as she gazed straight at him. “Please, Detective, I’m begging you. Do this. Do it for your own peace of mind. For whatever made you go that extra mile all those years ago.” Her lips quivered and she swallowed, hard. “For the little girl you held together and the haunted woman she’s become. Please.”
A myriad of emotions crossed his face, and Morgan could tell she’d reached him. He was reliving the past, remembering the same agonizing moments she was.
“You believe you can get this guy,” she determined, reading his expression. “I believe you can, too. In fact, I know it. So I’m pleading with you—do it. Take me on as a client.”
He nodded, his jaw set. “All right,” he said gruffly. “You’ve got yourself a PI.”
FOUR
Morgan sat alone in the conference room for a long time after Detective Montgomery left. Her whole world had been turned upside down. Mixed with the shock and pain was anger. And, on some level, there was also a sense of emotional reinforcement—a confirmation that her feelings of uneasiness and apprehension were founded in reality.
Her parents’ killer was walking the streets—and had been for the past seventeen years.
There was a light tap on the conference-room door, and Jill eased hesitantly inside. “Morg?”
“Come in.” Morgan answered her friend’s unspoken question, even as she continued to stare off into space.
Jill walked over, perching at the edge of the conference-room table. “What’s going on? Jonah says that Pete Montgomery is a detective.”
“He is.” Morgan tilted back her head to meet Jill’s worried gaze. “He was with the NYPD. Now he’s a PI.”
“That much I know. He’s apparently a regular at Grandpa’s deli. He has been for years—with his precinct buddies and with his family. His son’s the photographer Jonah’s working for. What did he want?”
“To forewarn me.”
“About?”
“A major screwup. One that’s going to affect us all and push me beyond what I can handle.”
“Morgan, you’re scaring me.” Jill sank down into a chair and leaned forward. “You obviously know the guy. Judging from what I overheard, he hasn’t seen you since you were a kid. Was he part of the team that investigated your parents’ murders?”
“He was the lead detective. He was also the first cop on the scene, the one who saw me through the initial trauma, and the one who gave your dad updates from day one until Nate Schiller’s arrest, trial, and conviction. As it turns out, it was all for nothing.”
Jill’s eyes widened. “You’re not telling me they’re letting that animal out on parole?”
“No. He’s definitely locked up for life.”
“Then what?”
A shaky exhale. “Schiller’s not the one who killed my parents. He committed all those other murders, plus two more—a cop and a gang leader. But my parents weren’t among his victims.”
“What?” Jill stared. “I don’t understand. They’re just finding out about this now?”
“It’s a long story. But, in a word—yes.” In a tone that was devoid of emotion, Morgan filled her friend in. “So we’re back to square one,” she concluded. “No—worse. Now I have to live with the knowledge that whoever really killed my parents is still out there. That he’s been out there all these years. That there might have been other victims since. That there might be more yet to come—” Morgan broke off.
“Stop it.” Jill wrapped a supportive arm around Morgan’s shoulders. “Don’t let your mind go there. Focus on the fact that this screwup’s going to be fixed.”
“Oh, it’s going to be fixed all right,” Morgan agreed. “Because I’m going to make sure of it. I’m not ten years old anymore. I plan to take steps to resolve this—on my own and by choosing the right pros to do what I can’t.”
Jill absorbed that thoughtfully. “Do those pros include Detective Montgomery?”
“They start with him. He’s key. I hired him on the spot.” As Morgan spoke, her shock and upset began rapidly transforming to proactive determination. “Is Charlie Denton here yet?”
“He just arrived. Do you want me to take the appointment for you?”
“No. I want to talk to him. He works at the Manhattan D.A.’s office. He came on board several years before my father was killed. He knew and respected him. I’m guessing that by now word’s gotten around the office. Maybe Charlie will have an update on what’s being done to reopen the investigation into my parents’ murders. I want to know how riled up his office is, and how much pressure they’re going to exert to get at the truth.” Morgan rose.
“What can I do to help?” Jill asked, spreading her hands in a helpless gesture.
“Just give your mom a call. Ask if you can postpone your dinner. I’d like us all to sit down and discuss this situation as soon as Arthur’s plane lands. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely.” Jill looked relieved at being given a concrete task she could wrap her hands around. “I’ll call Dad first. Maybe he can catch an earlier flight. The sooner he hears about this, the better. If anyone can light a fire under the right asses, it’s him. But, Morgan, in the meantime maybe you should wait before jumping in with both feet.”
“I can’t.” Morgan squeezed her arm, already heading for the door. “Your heart’s in the right place, and I love you for it. But if I don’t do something, I’ll fall apart.”
Jill nodded mutely, watching her friend hurry from the room, shoulders rigid with purpose. She wasn’t fooled by Morgan’s burst of adrenaline or show of bravado. The blow she’d just been dealt was crushing. Her emotional state had been fragile enough befo
re Detective Montgomery arrived. And now? Now her one source of comfort had been obliterated.
Reaching over, Jill scooped up the telephone and punched in her father’s number.
SEATED IN WINSHORE’S cozy waiting room, Charlie Denton shifted in his chair. The espresso Beth had brought him offered little appeal. For the conversation he was about to have, a few shots of whiskey wouldn’t be strong enough.
He’d been a prosecutor for almost twenty years. He was tough and thick-skinned, with no problem about going for the jugular. It took a hell of a lot to rattle him, and rarely did confrontation throw him off balance.
This time was different.
It hit way too close to home.
Setting down his cup, he reached around to massage the back of his neck. The sooner he got this over with, the better.
From across the hall, he heard the intercom on Beth’s desk sound.
“Yes?” she asked, having picked up the phone. “Of course. Right away.”
A minute later she appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Denton? Morgan’s ready for your meeting. I’ll show you up.”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary. Second-floor sitting room, right?” He waited for Beth’s nod. “I had my original interview there. I know the way.”
With that, he hustled up the staircase, stopping only when he’d reached the second door on the right.
It was ajar, and Morgan was seated on the taupe microsuede sectional, her forehead creased in thought, an open file on her lap.
She was a beautiful woman. Fine-boned, delicate, with a rare combination of gentleness and intensity that was both reassuring and sexy. Ironic that she could be so oblivious to it—oblivious to so many things—she, who was highly intelligent and intuitive when it came to reading others.
He stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Hi.”
“Hello, Charlie.” She looked tired. And pale. The anniversary of her parents’ murders was coming up. She had to be hurting.
