by Andrea Kane
“Okay, so you’re figuring the guy was a confidential informer.”
“Had to be. If he wasn’t a CI, why would they drop the charges and seal the file? And why would he be testifying against Angelo thirteen years later? I plan on getting hold of the accusatory instrument read at Angelo’s arraignment. Plus, if this CI really was a CI, and Winter needed him for Angelo’s arrest, then there’s a master file somewhere with his forms and registration number. I plan on getting my hands on that, too.”
“Matching a name with a CI registration number is a tall order. Especially in the D.A.’s office.”
“Not to worry. Even though those control officers are determined to protect their informers’ identities, I’ve got my contacts. I’ve also got Congressman Shore’s leverage. In the meantime, I’ll start out the easy way. I’ll call the Central Clerk’s Office and have them dig the Angelo case file out of storage. That’s a matter of public record. I’ll go over the trial transcript with a fine-tooth comb. When I find the witness testimony I’m looking for, that’s when I’ll call in my favors from the D.A. I’ll get a copy of this CI’s documents, or at least a couple of forms with his registration number, some basic info, and some dates on them. I’ll compare the details there with the details of his testimony. Believe me, I’ll be able to figure out if it’s the same guy.”
“You’re going to a lot of trouble to follow up on this angle. Who is this guy?”
“His name is George Hayek. He’s an international arms dealer.” Monty studied his son’s expression, saw no visible recognition. “I guess you didn’t cross paths with him in your overseas assignments. He lives in Europe; Belgium, I think. He’s made a fortune, selling weapons to foreign governments. Whether or not those deals are legit, I don’t know.”
“Is there evidence to say otherwise?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t get it. Why are you focusing on him in connection with the Winters’ homicides? What’s the tie-in?”
“Hayek’s arrest record. Not the sealed one. He had a previous conviction before the gunrunning incident. Nothing major, just an attempted car boosting. He got off with a couple of months’ time and community service. I got hold of that online booking sheet. Hayek made one phone call—to Lenny Shore.”
Lane did a double take. “Lenny? What’s Hayek’s connection to him?”
“Good question. But there definitely was one. Lenny posted Hayek’s bail. Which gives us an interesting link. Lenny is Arthur’s father. Seventeen years ago, Arthur was a state assemblyman and Jack Winter’s closest friend. And Jack Winter was prosecuting Carl Angelo, who I suspect Hayek was informing on for years and who testified against Angelo in court.”
“So the Winters’ homicides could have been an act of revenge.”
“It’s a distinct possibility. Or maybe Hayek ratted on Angelo to move up in the gun-trafficking world. It’s still all supposition. I need the D.A.’s records and the court transcripts. Most of all, I need to learn about what makes Hayek tick. I’m hoping I can learn that from Lenny Shore. I’m glad we’re eating at his place on Monday.”
“Me, too. This is starting to sound more exciting than my heli-skiing trip with the congressman later in the week.”
“Speaking of which, what happened the other night at the Shores’?”
“The evening was short, and pretty benign. Some vegetable drinks, some casual family photos, and a discussion of next week’s itinerary. Oh, and an invitation to Winshore’s holiday party. Apparently, Jill Shore thinks I need a life partner.”
Monty’s lips twitched. “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Although I’m sure you turned down the invitation.”
“Actually, I accepted. Not to find a life partner, just to have a few kicks. Or, to be more honest, because I was provoked into it.”
“By who—Jill?”
“Nope. Morgan.” Lane chuckled, remembering. “She might be emotionally raw, but she’s also quite a ball-breaker.”
“Now that’s a side of her I’ve never seen.” Monty reached for his coffee and took a belt. “What made her choose your balls to break?”
“She read my facial expression, or my body language, or both. I’m sure I looked less than enthused about attending a Christmas party of beautiful people talking about insipid crap.”
“And she pushed you into changing your mind?”
“More like challenged me into changing my mind. Let’s see.” Lane drummed his fingers on his knee. “I think her exact words were: ‘Why not go for it? It’s a weeknight. Too late for cocktails and a quickie, too early for nightcaps and bed.’”
Laughter rumbled in Monty’s chest. “Sounds like she sized you up pretty well.”
“Uh-huh. And she dared me to prove her wrong. She didn’t use that phrase, but it was out there. So I took the dare.”
“Interesting.” Monty eyed his son. “She’s a very pretty woman. Some might call her beautiful.”
“No arguments there.” Lane paused, brows drawn in concentration. “But ‘beautiful’ is too generic. ‘Haunting.’ ‘Riveting.’ ‘Complex and fascinating.’ Those seem to better apply. Something about her draws you in.”
“It obviously drew you in.”
“You’re right. It did. Not only is she a knockout, she’s sharp and direct. I see the same vulnerability you do, and I understand why you’re worried about her. But I also see another side—a confident, self-assured woman. Don’t underestimate Morgan Winter. She’s got a quiet inner strength. It’ll see her through this crisis—and anything else life throws her way.” A corner of Lane’s mouth lifted. “Plus she’s quick. One hell of a sparring partner.”
“She made quite an impression on you.”
“Enough to make me go to Winshore’s holiday party.” Lane shot his father a look. “And now that we’ve agreed that Morgan is smart, assertive, and sexy, we’re dropping this conversation.”
“Sexy? I don’t remember that adjective coming up.”
“Monty.” That was Lane’s warning voice. “We’re done here. You have nothing more to ask and I have nothing more to say.”
“You’re wrong. I have something more to say.” Monty finished off his coffee and set down the cup with a thud. “Normally, I stay out of your personal life. Not this time. That girl’s been through hell. I saw it firsthand. Now she’s being forced to relive it. Don’t do anything to mess with her emotionally.”
“Monty…”
“I mean it, Lane. Don’t.”
TEN
Morgan took the C train to Euclid Avenue in Brooklyn’s East New York section. From there, she walked to the Cypress Hills housing project where the Healthy Healing Center was located. Today was colder than yesterday, and the wind cut through her camel-hair overcoat as she hurried by construction sites and old, run-down buildings toward her destination. The apartments were sprinkled with Christmas decorations, and from somewhere on Fountain Avenue a Salvation Army Santa rang his bell. The sights and sounds of the holiday season carried a bittersweet quality, registering a certain incongruity in this area of the city still plagued by poverty and crime.
Morgan paused for a moment, looking back over her shoulder in the direction of Williams Avenue, where her mother’s shelter had been. She knew the building was still standing, although it was now a thrift store. Swamped by nostalgia, she was half tempted to turn around and…
No. She couldn’t. No matter how strong the pull was. She’d never be able to handle it. The effect of walking in there, confronting the scene of the nightmare, the effect would be devastating. Maybe someday. But not now. And not alone.
She forced herself to continue on her way, not pausing until she reached the Cypress Hills housing project. Sucking in a breath of frosty air, she walked into the low-rise brick building adjacent to it.
The receptionist at the desk finished her phone conversation and rose, flashing Morgan a warm, cordial smile. “Ms. Winter?” At Morgan’s nod, she continued. “I’m Jeanine. We spoke earlier. Barbara’s expecti
ng you. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
A minute later, Morgan was shown into an inner office—a ten-by-twelve paneled room with the same color scheme and modest decoration as the reception area, only homier, thanks to a window ledge filled with thriving plants. A big old walnut desk dominated the floor space, its surface piled high with paperwork, file folders, and a steel nameplate that read barbara stevens, counselor. Behind the desk sat an attractive, middle-aged African-American woman in a lemon-yellow turtleneck sweater and toast-colored slacks, whose entire demeanor emanated warmth and comfort.
As Ms. Stevens rose and extended her hand, Morgan had a flash of recall: this same woman—younger, with a more trendy hairstyle, but with the same soothing presence—walking up to the front of the chapel and squeezing a traumatized ten-year-old’s arm.
Yes, Barbara Stevens had been at the funeral. Morgan remembered.
That twinge of sorrow that never quite went away darted through her.
“Morgan…” Barbara was greeting her, sentiment warming her gaze. “I would have known you even if you’d come in unannounced. You look so much like your mother.”
“I hear that quite a bit.” Morgan met the older woman’s handshake. “But no matter how often I do, I take it as a compliment.”
“You should. Lara was a beautiful and special person, inside and out. She was also the most psychologically intuitive woman I’ve ever met.” A painful pause. “I read about the wrongful conviction that was just discovered by the D.A. It’s appalling. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’m so terribly sorry.”
“Thank you.” As she heard the glowing description of her mother, Morgan’s twinge was replaced by pride. It was amazing how many lives Lara had touched—through her work in social services, fund-raising for charitable causes, and most of all, through starting up and running the women’s abuse center. She’d become an emotional lifeline to dozens of women. Morgan had been peripherally aware of it as a child. But now, as an adult, she truly understood it. Lara had offered these women not only security but a foundation for a renewed sense of self-worth.
Barbara Stevens had been an integral connection to that.
“Are you all right?” she asked Morgan gently.
“Yes. And, with regard to what you said, my mother thought just as highly of you. I’ve discovered that more and more over the past weeks. I found her last working journals, and I’ve been reading through them. Your name is mentioned constantly.”
Barbara acknowledged that with a soft smile, indicating the armchair across from her desk. “Please. Have a seat. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? I just made a fresh pot.” As if to verify her words, the drip coffeemaker on the end table gave a few sputters of finality.
“I’ll grab a cup. Thanks.” Morgan scooted over and helped herself, then sat down and crossed her legs. “I appreciate your time.”
“I’m glad you called. Given what’s happened, I’m sure you need to talk.”
“Yes.” Morgan felt a wave of relief that Barbara understood her need to feel closer to her mother. But where to begin?
“Your parents were killed on Christmas Eve,” Barbara said with quiet insight. “The holidays must be very difficult for you, even on a regular basis, much less this year.”
“They are. The odd thing is that this year was particularly bad, even before I knew about the wrongful conviction. I felt so unsettled, and I had an eerie sense of foreboding. And now—I have this strong need to feel connected to my parents. I’ve been going through their things every night, searching for clues, for closure. It’s like I need to personally solve this case, or at least have a major hand in doing so. I know it’s not logical. But it’s real.”
“I don’t doubt it. Plus, you mentioned finding your mother’s last journals. That must be both a comfort and a torment.”
“It is. I keep poring over them. Sharing her inner thoughts is tearing me up inside. But I can’t seem to stop.”
“And you have questions.”
Morgan leaned forward. “Did you see her a lot those last weeks before she died? Personally or professionally?”
Barbara didn’t dance around the point. “You want to know if she did or said anything that could point you toward the real killer. Believe me, I’ve asked myself that question a dozen times this week. I’ve relived our visits and our conversations over and over in my mind, racked my brain for a clue. The truth is, there wasn’t one. Mostly, we discussed the women we were counseling or offering sanctuary to. As far as personal news, I remember her telling me you’d won a spelling bee at school that week, and how proud she and your father were.”
A soft chuckle escaped Barbara’s lips. “Lara said that Jack had literally raced out of Supreme Court during a recess so he could be at the school to see the principal give you your certificate. She said he hadn’t left work that quickly since the day she went into labor.”
Morgan swallowed. “Anything else about my father’s career—general or specific?”
“She expressed concern for his safety. But that wasn’t unusual or surprising. You father prosecuted some dangerous criminals.”
“I know.” Morgan jumped on that. “During those last weeks or months, did my mother bring up any specific names? Of the criminals themselves or any of their associates? Did she mention my father receiving any threats? Phone calls? Even an unpleasant altercation?”
Barbara gave a rueful shake of her head. “I wish I had something solid to offer you. But the truth is, Lara and I were so absorbed in figuring out ways to help the women who came to us, there was little or no time for small talk.”
“I understand.” Morgan’s shoulders sagged. It had been a long shot and she knew it. Still, it didn’t ease the frustration.
“I’m sorry, Morgan—truly. If I think of anything, anything at all, you know I’ll call you.”
“I know.” Morgan nodded, wishing that restless feeling in her gut would subside.
It didn’t.
So she dealt with it by switching gears, moving from the professional to the personal. “Barbara, I have tons of memories of my mother. But they’re all childhood memories. I never got the opportunity to know her as a woman—and she was obviously a remarkable one. Elyse talks about her sometimes, but not easily. They were like sisters, and the pain of losing her still obscures the joy of remembering her. So, please share some anecdotes with me. They don’t have to be life-altering, just moments that would make her come alive, make my memories of her fuller, more multidimensional.”
“With pleasure.” Another nostalgic smile. “Lara loved Milky Way bars. So did I. We used to call them our greatest weakness. One night, after a particularly stressful week, Lara showed up here with four giant-size bags. She challenged me to a Milky Way eating contest. We ate ourselves sick. I would have happily called it a draw. But Lara insisted on counting the wrappers to see who’d won. It turned out I had, by two. She had those two wrappers framed for my birthday that year.” Barbara leaned across her desk, picked up a five-by-seven frame, and handed it to Morgan. “As you can see, I still cherish it.”
Morgan looked at the delicate, filigreed gold frame, inside of which were two neatly trimmed and flattened wrappers, placed one above the other on a parchment background. A gold crown had been drawn in the upper left-hand corner of the parchment, beside which was penned: To the Queen of the Milky Way in her mother’s familiar script.
Tears burned behind Morgan’s eyes. “My dad and I were big Snickers fans. But I remember how much my mom loved Milky Ways. No matter how stuffed with food our freezer was, we always had a bag of Milky Ways crammed inside.”
“Eating them frozen was the best. It was definitely Lara’s favorite. But not for binges. We found that out the hard way. We tried it. Three candy bars later, Lara could barely move her jaw and I had chipped a tooth. So we gave in, settled for the soft, squishy version. It was a small price to pay.”
The two women’s gazes met and they laughed
—a genuine, heartfelt laugh. Morgan was amazed how good it felt.
“Most of the time we got together, we forgot to eat altogether,” Barbara admitted. “We were so immersed in our work. Without Lenny’s sandwiches, we probably would have starved.”
“I know that feeling.” Morgan gave a commiserating nod. “Sometimes I think half of Brooklyn and Manhattan would starve without Lenny. He never forgets a meal, or a customer. As for me, I’m really lucky. He sends Jonah all the way up to my office just so Jill and I won’t starve.”
“You’re family. Both of you.” Barbara studied Morgan’s face. “You do feel that way, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.” Morgan didn’t hesitate in her reply. “All the Shores are wonderful. Elyse and Arthur have treated me like their own since the day they took me in. They’re fine people.”
“But they’re not your parents,” Barbara concluded simply. She leaned forward, took Morgan’s hand. “No one ever will be. That privilege belonged to Lara and Jack.”
“I know that.” Morgan gave an unsteady nod, and handed Barbara the picture frame. “Tell me more about her.”
“Everyone thought of Lara as soft-spoken and softhearted. And she was—most of the time. But if someone pushed one of her buttons, look out.”
“What were some of her buttons?”
“You, your father, her friends—she’d defend you like a lioness. The same applied to her principles and the women she helped. Some more than others. She was the champion of the underdog. She threw herself into cases involving victims with the least strength, ability, or resources to defend themselves. Children who were abused along with their mothers. Young girls who were abandoned when they were barely more than children themselves and who fell pray to men who dominated them and stripped them of their self-worth. Situations like those infuriated her. And she instinctively took the victims under her wing. That was your mother.”
“I’m seeing that firsthand in the journal entries I’m reading,” Morgan murmured. “The situations were heartbreaking. Especially little four-year-old Hailey and her mother Olivia.”
