Lane groaned. “This isn’t going to be an exposé is it? I’ve heard all the rumors about his younger women. I’ve read the blogs on ‘Arthur’s Angels’ claiming he has—and enjoys—the best-looking interns in D.C. I couldn’t care less.”
“This is Time, Lane, not the Enquirer. The piece has nothing to do with his sex life. It has to do with his best friends’ murders, which happened seventeen years ago. Apparently, the killer who confessed didn’t do it.”
“What?” Lane’s head came up. “Are you talking about Jack and Lara Winter—those murders?”
“The very same. There was a major screwup. It’s just now surfaced. Who knows how many asses it’ll come back to bite.”
“My father worked that case. He was the lead detective.”
“I know. So does the congressman. Which makes hi
m twice as eager to have you be the one assigned to do this photo-essay piece.”
“Why?” Lane was instantly wary. “I was sixteen when it happened. I wasn’t privy to the case details. And I wouldn’t pass them along if I had been.”
“Take it easy. He’s not looking for a mole. He doesn’t need you to pry information out of your father. He hired him. Actually—it was the Winter’s daughter who hired him. But it’s the same difference. She’s been Shore’s ward since her parents died. Anyway, the point is, Shore is a busy man. Meeting with you about the article, while he touches base with your father about the case, will save him time and give him peace of mind.”
“How’s that?”
“Trust. He wants to have editorial approval over the photos and text we use to portray this angle.”
“‘This angle’—meaning the reopening of the Winter’s homicides?”
“Yup. Given that Pete Montgomery is your father, Shore feels comfortable you’ll respect his wishes and limit your coverage. In other words, you’ll depict concern and intensity, but nothing more.”
“He doesn’t want to blast the system—at least not publicly, and not yet.”
“Right. He’s restricting his media appearances to discussions of his proposed legislation. Nothing on the Winters’ murders. No interviews. No official news conference. He’s deflecting any questions on what he considers to be a highly sensitive and personal issue. If pressed, he’ll say only that all inquiries should be directed to the authorities. So, with regard to this subject, you’re it.”
Lane rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Fine, so I’m getting a preliminary exclusive. I’ll hear the lowdown on the homicide investigation, take a few candids of him and my father.” A pause. “We should do this at Lenny’s. It’ll add a familial touch. The shots will be homey but earnest. Not to mention that I’ll be well fed. My father and I have been regulars at Lenny’s since I was a kid.”
“You and the rest of the five boroughs. But you’re right; it’s a good idea. The subtle reminder of the congressman’s humble roots will play out well in contrast to the charismatic and successful politician he’s become.”
“I can pick Shore’s brain about his proposed legislation there, too. Afterward, I’ll take some shots of him among his constituents. Now, what about the thrill-seeking angle? Where does that come in?”
“I was wondering how long it would take for you to get to that,” Hank replied wryly. He knew Lane, and how he’d be chomping at the bit to strike out on some high-risk adventures. “Not to worry. From what he said, the congressman has great plans in store for you. He mentioned heli-skiing in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains, and skydiving in the Poconos—not the run-of-the-mill jumps you’ve done a dozen times, but some accelerated free falls. He’ll tell you all about it tonight.”
“Tonight?” Lane interrupted. “What’s tonight?”
“Oh…that.” Hank cleared his throat. “I sort of promised him you’d drop by his place for cocktails. He wants to run through the key points of the photo essay and go over the itinerary for next week.”
“And he wants me to take some at-home shots of him and his family. That way the public will see for themselves how well the Shores are coping with this bomb that was dropped on them. At the same time it’ll show their solidarity, and portray the congressman as a loving family man. He could use that now; it might just neutralize whatever negative impact those rag magazines are generating by running nonstop pieces on his extramarital affairs with twenty-five-year-old women.”
“You got it.”
Lane shrugged. “Works for me. I would have appreciated having a little more than six or seven hours’ notice, but what the hell. What time does he want me?”
“Six o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
MONTY SPENT THE entire morning poring over the file Gabelli had shoved under his door, updating notes and making a list of every possible ball the NYPD had dropped.
His analysis was interrupted first by the expected phone call from Arthur Shore and then by the less expected visit from Morgan Winter.
The congressman offered Monty every means of support he had and all the resources that were at his disposal. He said he’d be speaking to both the Manhattan and Brooklyn D.A.s, using his political clout to ensure their cooperation. And he requested weekly meetings between himself and Monty so he could act as a liaison between the official and unofficial investigations and, at the same time, protect Morgan from taking the brunt of this traumatic situation.
Their phone conversation was interrupted when Arthur got a return call from the Manhattan D.A., which he signed off to take—but not before arranging an initial meeting with Monty. Monday. Noon. At Lenny’s. For lunch.