“That’s the nice conclusion. The uglier one is that James is using and intends to keep that under wraps.”
“I hope not.”
“Yeah, well, the James who just called you isn’t the emotionally frayed nervous wreck his grandfather described. He was barely ruffled.” Monty shook his head. “I’m not sure what’s going on here. Yet. What I am sure of is that I don’t trust James Pierson.”
“What about Blake Pierson?” Devon felt compelled to ask. “Do you trust him?”
Monty heard her question loud and clear. He stopped pacing and looked at her. “There are a dozen company cars with the same make and model as Frederick’s. All the execs have them—from Edward to Philip Rhodes to Louise Chambers. And, yeah, to Blake. He must have used his this morning when you saw him at the clinic. But he’s a very bright guy. If he’d driven up to Lake Luzerne and torched his uncle, he wouldn’t be parading around in the car he drove up in. Feel better?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Well, don’t. I might not think Blake’s a killer, but that doesn’t mean I trust him. And you shouldn’t, either.”
Devon nodded. “Don’t worry. My guard is up.” She massaged her temples. “This case is getting more complicated rather than less.”
“They always do. That’s when we solve them.” Monty leaned forward and scooped an apple out of the fruit basket on the coffee table. “Where’s your sister?” he asked, taking a bite. “She let me in, then vanished.”
“Probably in the guest room, on the computer. She’s battling her way through a big econ assignment.” Devon glanced over at the deserted living-room computer. “She was working here when I came home.”
“Until she saw me. Then she took off.”
Devon sighed. “Monty…”
“Don’t worry.” He waved away her words of appeasement. “I’ve got thick skin and a will of iron. I’m not giving up. So, since you two haven’t eaten, how about I whip up some of my famous linguini in Montgomery sauce?”
That conjured up a warm, nostalgic memory. “Wow,” Devon replied, snippets of childhood flashing through her mind. “Talk about a blast from the past. We haven’t had linguini in Montgomery sauce in years. Even Lane might be persuaded to stay home for dinner.”
“Where is he?”
A shrug. “Who knows? He’s met with a few colleagues and made a couple of trips into Manhattan. But he’s being very vague about what his reasons are.” Devon crossed her fingers and held them up. “I’m hoping he’s putting out feelers for East Coast assignments. That way we’ll get him back home where he belongs.” She rose. “I’ll find Merry.”
“No.” Monty stopped her. “You make sure we have all the ingredients I need. I’ll find Merry.”
Devon nodded her understanding, then headed for the kitchen. “Good luck to us both.”
“Don’t forget the chili peppers,” Monty called after her.
“How could I?” she called back. “They don’t forget me—not for three days after I eat your famous Montgomery sauce.”
PHILIP RHODES LOCKED his office door and flipped on the light.
It was after nine. No one was in the building. Still, he had to ensure he was alone. Especially if he found what he expected to. Then the walls would come crashing down.
He logged onto his computer and punched up a security code.
Access.
He knew which file to look for. He’d read snatches of it earlier in the day. But he kept getting interrupted. Coworkers. The police. Montgomery.
Especially Montgomery. He was getting suspicious.
Bingo. There it was—the ticking bomb.
Rhodes highlighted the file. Opening it, he pored over the data.
Twenty minutes later, he sat back in his desk chair, sweat dripping down his face.
It was worse than he’d feared. Totally incriminating.
There was only one course of action for him to take.
He slid open his top drawer, groping around till he found what he needed.
His fingers closed around it.
Then he reached for the telephone.
CHAPTER 17
Devon woke up feeling more relaxed.
A family evening. How long had it been since she’d had one of those? Ages. They’d eaten, talked, even laughed. Merry had definitely thawed—especially when Monty whipped out the Bat Phone and suggested they all call Sally together.
There had been tears in her mother’s voice—bittersweet tears, of happiness, longing, and loneliness.
She wanted to be home.
Monty would make it happen. More and more, Devon believed it. She also believed he was right about Sally’s growing impatience. No way would she stay in hiding much longer. Five days and already she was fidgety, like a caged bird ready to soar. The more time passed, the farther away the threat seemed to be. And the farther away it seemed to be, the more likely she’d be to wing her way home and screw the consequences.
This murder investigation had better be wrapped up, and soon.
Monty had stayed at Devon’s until midnight, during which time Lane had cleaned them all out in a poker game. Like old times, they paid him with IOUs for Snickers bars.
Devon had drifted off at twelve thirty, more content than she’d been in a long time.
Only when she was half-asleep did she realize she’d never returned Blake’s calls.
HE RECTIFIED THAT at 7 A.M.
Barely had Devon stepped out of the shower when her telephone rang.
“Hello?” she said breathlessly.
“It’s a good thing I’ve got a strong ego. Otherwise, I’d be concerned that you were blowing me off.”
Devon felt her lips curve. “Hi, Blake. I’m sorry. I didn’t get home last night until seven something, and then the night just got away from me. By the time I sat down, it was midnight. I didn’t know if you’d still be up.”
“I was up,” he assured her, the thrumming background noise telling Devon he was in the car. “I usually am. I don’t need much sleep. Which is good, because I rarely get any.” A pause. “Speaking of which, I know it’s early. Did I wake you?”
“Nope. I’m an early bird, at least on workdays. I like to get into the clinic by eight. The animals scheduled for surgery arrive between eight thirty and nine. I try to meet with their owners before I conduct the presurgical physical exams. It gives everyone a little extra peace of mind.”
Blake digested that. “That’s very sensitive of you.”
“It’s my job. Pets are family members. They deserve to be treated with care and respect. Of course, so do their owners. They’re going through a trauma as well.”
“It’s good to hear someone speak so passionately about what they do,” Blake replied. “Maybe I’ll forgive you for not calling me back. Or maybe I won’t. Tell you what. Have dinner with me tonight and we’ll discuss it.”
Devon hesitated, for a whole host of reasons. She was still feeling off balance from the sizzling kiss they’d shared. Monty’s warning about Blake’s trustworthiness—or lack thereof—was still ringing in her head. And she still wasn’t sure how much of Blake’s interest in her was real and how much of it was part of Edward Pierson’s grand plan.
“I don’t know,” she replied, ducking the invitation. “It’s been a pretty crazy week. I’m really dragging—”
“Too much sledding? Or too much, too soon?” he interrupted.
“Both.” She abandoned evasiveness and went straight for honesty. “I’ve got a demanding career. I’m not used to nonstop social engagements topping off my hectic workdays. I’m also not used to being on acute emotional overload from so many different sources at once.”
“And I’m one of those sources.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I know I got to you.”
Silence.
“If it makes you feel better, you got to me, too,” he added.
Yes, it made her feel better. She wished it didn’t.
“I have to go, Blake
. I’ve got patients waiting. And you’ve got a business to run.”
“Fair enough.” Clearly, he wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Here’s the deal. I’ll let you off the hook for tonight. But tomorrow’s Friday. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“I’m working Saturday.”
“So am I. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s the weekend. We need some downtime.”
“Downtime,” Devon repeated, her tone amused. “Let me guess—a rematch of our snowball fight?”
“Nope. A quiet evening at home for two tired workaholics. I’ll cook. I make a mean poached salmon with dill sauce.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Uh-uh. I’m a man of many talents. So, do we have a date?”
“Yes.” She gave up and gave in. “We have a date.”
BLAKE WAS PLEASED with the way his morning had started.
The call to Devon had opened on an ambiguous note and closed on a positive one. With any luck, the rest of the day would go as well.
He left his car in the parking garage and headed up Fifty-fourth Street to the office. Entering the building through the revolving doors, he nodded at the security guards, then strode through the lobby to the elevators.
He stepped out on the twenty-seventh floor, the executive level of Pierson & Company. The place was dark. Not a surprise, given it was 7:20A.M. He made his way through the corridor. The light sensors picked up his presence, illuminating each section of hallway as he crossed it. He was the first one in. That wasn’t unusual. Not since Frederick’s death.
Instinctively, he shot a passing glance at his uncle’s office. It was dark. Barren. Seeing it that way still felt surreal. Somehow Blake half expected Frederick to be hunkered down at his desk, making phone calls or reviewing sales projections.
Shoving aside the thought, Blake continued on to his own office, where he dropped off his briefcase and scanned the contents of his desk. His “Priority To Do” pile was sky-high. Plus, after yesterday’s incident at Wellington, there’d be damage control to initiate.
He headed down the hall and around the bend, his destination the kitchenette, his goal a cup of strong, black coffee.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted Philip Rhodes’s office and came to a surprised halt. The door was tightly closed. That was unusual. Rhodes worked long hours, but was never in before seven thirty. He was a creature of habit. Early mornings were spent at the gym.
The guy must really be sweating it, Blake thought grimly. He’d been a wreck ever since Frederick’s murder. Not that he blamed him. Keeping James on track had been hard enough before. Now it was brutal. And after yesterday’s fiasco at the Gold Coast Classic…
Drawing a sharp breath, Blake put his coffee quest on hold and headed toward Rhodes’s office. They had some details to iron out regarding Chomping at the Bit. Now was as good a time as any.
Reaching the door, Blake knocked.
No response.
“Philip?” he called.
Again, no reply.
That was odd.
Frowning, Blake tested the handle. Unlocked.
He pushed open the door. The hum of the computer told him it was on. Rhodes’s coat was hanging on the brass coatrack, and his briefcase was placed neatly beside it.
“Philip?” Blake stepped inside, looked around, and stopped dead in his tracks.
Behind the curved mahogany desk, Philip Rhodes was crumpled in his chair. The side of his forehead was bloody. Some of the blood had oozed down, leaving an ugly red stain on his shirt and a small puddle on the rug beneath him. His arms hung limply at his sides.
Below his right hand lay a pistol.
“JESUS CHRIST.”
Edward Pierson sank into his chair, sheet white, as Monty faced him in his office a short while later.
“Drink,” Monty urged, indicating the glass of water Blake had poured him.
“Water’s not going to help,” Edward snapped. “It won’t bring Philip back. Or make any sense of this lunacy.”
“Grandfather, you’ve got to relax,” Blake instructed. “Dr. Richards is on his way.”
“I don’t need a goddamned cardiologist. I need an explanation.” Edward loosened his tie, wiping perspiration off his brow. “What made Rhodes do this? Why was he so over the edge?” Despite his protests, Edward lifted the glass to his lips and drank.
“The police are reviewing the evidence now,” Monty replied. “There’ll be an autopsy performed. But given what we know—the gun, the call to you, and the presence of a typed note—the medical examiner is preliminarily ruling this a suicide.”
“That much I comprehend. Rhodes blew his brains out. But why?”
“Good question.” Monty eyed Edward intently. “You knew Rhodes had a gun?”
“Yes, I knew.”
“So did I,” Blake added. “It wasn’t a secret. He bought it a couple of years ago for protection.”
“It didn’t do much of a job, did it?” Monty noted drily. His gaze returned to Edward. “You said Rhodes called you around eleven o’clock last night?”
“A little past. I was watching the news.”
“He didn’t sound desperate?”
“Desperate? No.” Edward set down his glass with a thud. “He sounded upset. Maybe a little out of it. I asked if he’d been drinking. He said no. He said the pressure had gotten to be too much, and he had to leave. I thought he meant the company. I asked if this pressure was connected to what happened to Frederick. He said I’d have a full explanation in the morning. I assumed he wanted a private meeting. I said I’d be in at eight sharp. He said good night. I tossed and turned all night. Then I came in to find this.”
“There was no finality to his tone or his words?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Edward planted his palms on the desk, clearly trying to calm himself down. “At the time it didn’t seem that way. Now when I think back, his choice of words was strange. But, Jesus, who’d expect the guy to kill himself?”
“Yeah. Who would?” Monty muttered. He glanced at Blake, who was watching his grandfather with a brooding expression. “You saw the suicide note on the computer screen. Do you remember what it said?”
“Not verbatim,” Blake replied. “Then again, I was reeling from finding Philip like that. My focus was on calling 911, not scrutinizing Philip’s last words. I remember something about him not being able to forgive himself, something about Frederick’s death, and something about a slush fund he’d been siphoning money out of.”
“Did he say he killed Frederick?”
“I don’t think so. Not that I saw. He referred to Frederick’s suspicions about his activities and how cornered he felt. He might have said more. I just don’t remember. I guess I was in shock.”
“Probably,” Monty agreed. “It’s not every day you find a dead body at your workplace. Even rarer that it’s the body of a valued employee and longtime friend—and one who died a violent, if conveniently timed, death. Don’t bother with your water. I’d advise having a stiff drink.”
Blake’s gaze narrowed. “Is that some kind of cryptic accusation?”
“No accusation. Just thirty years of experience. I’m still on the fence as to whether or not this was a suicide. I’ll reserve judgement until I’ve talked to the crime-scene investigators, the M.E., and Midtown North.”
“What are you saying?” Edward demanded. “You think this was murder?”
“I’m saying I’m a tough sell.” Monty shrugged. “Especially with everything that’s gone down this week.” He turned and walked to the door. “I’m heading over to the precinct to have a word with the detective assigned to this case. Hopefully, he’s someone I know, and he’ll share a few of the facts. If nothing else, I’ll get a glimpse of the alleged suicide note.” He paused in the doorway, looked at Edward. “No other phone calls last night?”
“Hmm—what?” Edward’s blank expression transformed to hollow awareness. “You mean the extortionist? No. He never called. Does that mean he
is—was—Rhodes? That Philip was our blackmailer?”
Monty shrugged again. “Maybe. Or maybe our blackmailer framed and killed Rhodes. We’ll see.” He reached for the doorknob. “I’m out of here. You follow your doctor’s instructions. Try to take it easy. I’ll be in touch.”
DEVON STEPPED OUT of surgery at one thirty-five to find a healthy pile of morning lab reports to review and the usual number of pink message slips.
She wasn’t expecting three of those to be from Monty. She certainly wasn’t expecting them to say things like sooner than ASAP and urgent.
She darted into her office and punched up his cell.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Devon. Good.”
The instant she heard his voice, she knew something was very wrong. “What is it?” she asked. “Is it Mom?”
“No. No news about your mother.” Monty was responding to her question and subtly reminding her that they weren’t on the Bat Phone. “It’s Philip Rhodes. He’s dead. Gunshot to the head. It happened in the office. The media’s swarming all over the place. I didn’t want you to hear the news and freak out. I’m fine.”
“Another death linked to the Piersons?” Devon sank into her chair, her mind quickly processing this. “Was it murder or suicide?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. I’m outside Midtown North now, swallowing a hot dog. I’ll know more later. Can you grab dinner with me tonight?”
“Just us?”
“Yeah.”
Devon understood. Monty wanted to bounce the situation around with her. And he didn’t want to do it in front of Merry, who’d always been too sensitive to sit in on these crime-solving brainstorming sessions.
“I can grab a train to the city as soon as I finish here,” Devon said. “That should be around six, unless we have an emergency.”
“No. I’ll drive up to you. It’ll save time. I’ll pick you up at the clinic. We can eat at the diner on Main Street.”
“Done.” Devon paused. “You don’t think it’s suicide, do you?”
“Nope. See you later.”