Dark Room by Andrea Kane Page A

again.”
    “Huh?” Monty arched a quizzical brow.
    Lane inclined his head, regarding his father with that wise, probing look. “You just couldn’t catch a break. No wonder you were so pissed off.”
    “I’m not following.”
    “I was sixteen, Monty. I remember. You were never on board with the theory that Schiller did it. Not really. I heard you on the phone—with your precinct, with the D.A., with everyone involved with the case. I remember you kept repeating that the pieces just didn’t fit. Something felt off. I didn’t get the whole picture; not then. But now, hearing the lack of tangible evidence, I can imagine how frustrated you felt. The D.A. had nothing but Schiller’s confession and pressure to solve the case. You had a gut feeling that contradicted both. Too bad they didn’t listen.”
    Monty leaned back against the sofa cushion, folding his arms across his chest, his forehead creased in surprise. “I never realized you were so plugged into my work.”
    It was Lane’s turn to look surprised. “You’ve got to be kidding. You knew how much I looked up to you.”
    “Yeah, but like you said, you were sixteen. We barely saw each other, even on our scheduled weekends. You were either on a ski trip or with a girl. I didn’t have the slightest idea you listened to my phone calls, or paid attention to my caseload.”
    “Paid attention?” A corner of Lane’s mouth lifted. “I hung on every word. You were one hell of a role model.”
    “I was a jackass.” Monty jumped on the chance to speak his piece. “It took me half a lifetime to realize what was important. Don’t emulate me, not in those ways.”
    “It’s a little late, Monty.” Lane gave an offhand shrug. “I am who I am. But don’t be so hard on yourself. You were a great father. You still are. Pig-headed as hell, but great. How about taking some advice from your adult son? Stop viewing things in such a binary fashion. If I’ve learned anything from my career, it’s that very little is black-and-white. Images, photographs—it’s all about shades of gray. And since life imitates art…well, you get the drift.”
    “Yeah.” Monty felt a tremendous surge of pride at the man his son had become. “I get the drift. I’ll try to bear it in mind.” He cleared his throat, reverting to the original topic. “So, is that everything you need to know about the crime-scene photos?”
    “For now. I’ve got lots to work with. The bodies. The blood splatters. The basement. The exterior of the building. Once I get the negatives, I’ll scan them all into my computer. Then I’ll bust my ass until I find something to show you. Something that’ll help you put the real killer away.”
    “That’s what I want to hear. And not just for my sake.”
    “Right.” Lane lowered his gaze, staring at the rug. “I met Morgan Winter last night. I see why you feel for her. It’s obvious she’s going through hell.”
    “Did you tell her you’re working with me?”
    “No. Before she showed up, Congressman Shore specifically asked me to steer clear of the subject. As it is, Morgan’s pretty obsessed with this investigation. The reason she was late getting to the Shores was that she stopped by the D.A.’s office to drop off copies of some newspapers clippings. But you already know that. She said she’d given you the originals.”
    A nod. “They’re articles about her father’s more noteworthy arrests. I’ve dug up some pretty interesting facts from them—some of which I’ll need to clarify with Congressman Shore at Monday’s meeting.”
    “Okay, now you’ve aroused my curiosity. Anything you can run by me now?”
    Monty got that intense homicide-detective look. “Jack Winter put away a big-time drug and weapons dealer named Carl Angelo a few months before the murders. Angelo had quite an entourage on his payroll over the years. I did some research, going way back. Thirty years ago, Angelo hired a twenty-six-year-old piece of street scum to