Wrong Place, Wrong Time

by Andrea Kane

  The extended-stay scenario was imperative, partly because they all needed to be together for emotional support, and partly to keep up appearances. Their family had to come off as worried sick, glued to the phone for any word from the police. Supposedly, they had no idea where Sally was and if they would ever see her again. As a result, they’d be too paralyzed to return to their day-to-day lives.

  Devon had done her part by calling Dr. Joel Sedwell, the founder and senior partner of Creature Comforts & Clinic, and arranged for superflexible hours until this family crisis was over. And Monty had put his entire caseload on the back burner.

  In private, the Montgomerys were relieved as hell. They’d all spoken to Sally, heard her voice, and knew she was okay. Meredith had called three times before she was convinced her mother was safe, settled in at the Garners’ house, and on the mend. Rod had run Sally over to a local doctor, who’d treated her for a minor concussion and an irritated trachea. She was now well fed, tucked in a warm feather bed, and fast asleep.

  After that, Monty had reviewed the drill with his kids. They were sworn to secrecy. If anyone asked, they had no idea where Sally was. If pressed, they’d parrot the story Monty had given the Warren County Sheriff’s Office. As for talking to Sally, they’d do that only at designated times, and only on the Bat Phone.

  But thank God she was all right.

  Devon had promised Sally she’d take care of Scamp and make periodic drives up to the house to check on the horses, who were being fed and exercised by one of the Piersons’ grooms. That promise was hardly a sacrifice. Not only did it put Sally’s mind at ease, but Devon was crazy about Scamp and the house she’d spent her teens in. This gave her an excuse to enjoy both.

  Having spoken to her mother, Devon had felt lighthearted enough to cook—a desire that didn’t come along too often. Monty stayed for dinner, after which he made a slew of phone calls, which resulted in streams of incoming pages on Devon’s fax machine, all of which he was now poring over. Lane took the opportunity to drag Meredith to a movie—a chick flick, no less—to help her relax. He looked pained at the prospect, but his concern for his baby sister won out. He did ask Devon to join them, but she refused—not because she didn’t want to go, but because something told her she should stay here with Monty.

  Tossing down the dish towel, she wandered into the living room, sinking down on the sofa next to her father and tucking her legs beneath her. “What did you find out?” she asked, peering over his shoulder.

  “That the Pierson empire is a golden octopus with tentacles all over the place.” Monty pointed at the page he was reading. “Look at this rundown on their history. Edward Pierson started the company fifty years ago as a small paper-goods distributor to the food industry. It grew like crazy, expanding into food services and catering. Evidently, Pierson pulled the right strings, because all of a sudden, his little company dominated the food-services business at major sporting arenas all across the country.”

  Pulled the right strings. Devon had heard her father use that expression often enough to know what it meant. “You think he bribed politicians, threatened competitors—that kind of thing?”

  “Big-time. The man is smart, unscrupulous, and a corporate bulldozer. He wasn’t happy standing still, even after locking up the sports venues. He wanted more than just a food-services division—something more refined. So he launched a fine dining division—those swanky Grand Prix restaurants he owns. The first one opened in Palm Beach twenty-five years ago. It’s still thriving. Only now it has nineteen siblings, all located near the major equestrian competition sites: Lexington, Peapack-Gladstone, Bridgehampton, Fair Oaks, Napa Valley—you get the drift.”

  “Wow. That’s quite an empire. Edward Pierson must be in his glory, especially since overseeing the fine-dining division means he can indulge his passion for showing horses.” Devon leaned closer, reading the corporate summary. “What’s this about a family-dining division?”

  “That’s his newest restaurant venture: Chomping at the Bit.”

  Devon grinned. “Cute name.”

  “Yeah, and another gold mine in the making. It’s going to have the same horse theme as the Grand Prix restaurants, but aimed at a whole different crowd.”

  “Families.”

  “Yup. Lower prices, casual decor, kid-friendly atmosphere. The flagship restaurant is set to open this spring a block away from Yonkers Raceway.”

  “Yonkers Raceway—that’s a far cry from Palm Beach. Then again, it’s a shrewd choice. Busy area, lots of horse lovers, adjacent to a big shopping center. It’ll bring in families by the droves.” A pensive frown formed between Devon’s brows. “Edward Pierson’s almost eighty years old. Vital or not, he can only do so much. And with Frederick gone, who else is running all this?”

  “Which Pierson isn’t? Edward’s got the whole family managing the company. Frederick ran the food services division. Niles, Edward’s second son, heads up the fine dining division. And Edward’s grandson, Blake, is in charge of the family dining division. It looks like Chomping at the Bit was his baby. Blake’s father, Gregory, is Edward’s youngest son. He’s the VP of marketing. There’s another grandson, James—he’s Niles’s kid. He’s VP of sales and a champion show jumper….” Monty shoved the paper aside. “I’m getting a headache.”

  “And I’m getting the idea.” Devon leaned back against the sofa cushion. “So Edward Pierson’s combined all his passions into one—family, horses, money, and notoriety. Pretty impressive.” A questioning look. “All the company execs are family?”

  “Looks that way. All except their attorney, Louise Chambers, and their senior VP of sales, Philip Rhodes. Oh, and their CFO, Roger Wallace, but he doesn’t count as nonfamily. He’s a grandson-in-law, married to Niles’s daughter, Tiffany. She’s VP of business development, by the way. And Blake’s sister, Cassidy, is VP of human resources. Gee, I wonder how many more Piersons are out there who never made it into this report.”

  “Interesting.” Devon ran a hand through her hair, sorting out her thoughts. “What you just described leaves lots of room for resentment. Family members resenting other family members for having more power. Nonfamily members resenting family members for having all the power to begin with. Employees who feel they’ll never get ahead, that nepotism rules the day. I wonder what kind of boss Frederick Pierson was?”

  “Good question.”

  “What about Edward’s grandchildren? Don’t any of them belong to Frederick?”

  “Nope. Frederick was a childless widower. His wife, Emily, died of a heart attack two years ago.”

  “Hmm.” Devon pursed her lips. “I’d love to see Edward’s will. I wonder who’s next in line to inherit and/or run the Pierson empire. And how the family fortune is allocated.”

  “More good questions. As a matter of fact, you’re following my train of thought to a T.” Monty shot his daughter a look. “I told you you have the mind of a cop. Cut back on your animal hours and go into business with me.”

  Devon rolled her eyes. “We’ve been through this a thousand times, Monty. I’m not cut out to be a cop. I don’t have a tough enough skin. Besides, I love what I do.”

  “My buddies at the ASPCA’s Humane Law Enforcement Department—the ones who ran those off-site training classes you took—said you were the sharpest one in the bunch. A chip off the old block. And, no, they weren’t blowing sunshine up my ass. They meant it. No one believed you were in vet school going for a DVM. They thought you were in the Police Academy, joining the force.”

  “It was one of the best summers of my life. But that’s because of the animals. And because I was spending so much time with you.”

  “What time? I was working a case.”

  “Maybe. But you showed up anyway. A couple of times each day. Kind of like you were checking up on me to make sure I was performing up to snuff. Remember?”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  “The pride on your face meant more to me than I can say.”

  Mo
nty blew out his breath. “Devon, your instincts are dead-on. Your mind’s like a steel trap. Think about how many pet owners you’ve helped, not in the clinic, but in the field. You’ve managed to locate dozens of missing animals. Pets who were lost for weeks and no one could find—not even with flyers plastered everywhere and big rewards offered.”

  “Just call me Ace Ventura.” Devon squeezed Monty’s arm. “Seriously, that’s not because I’ve got a cop’s mind. It’s because I understand animals. I know their habits. I know their minds. And I know what questions to ask to zero in on their idiosyncrasies. Then I look for clues. And, hopefully, I turn up something.”

  “What the hell do you think a cop does?”

  Devon sighed. “Monty, you know how much I love and respect you, and what you do. And, yes, every once in a while I’d love to play Nancy Drew. But there’s no brutality in her cases—not like the kind you deal with.”

  “Things are different than they were before. I’m a PI now. Not every case I take on has—”

  He was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone.

  “It’s my office line,” he observed. “I call-forwarded everything to my cell while I was here.” He glanced down at the caller ID and frowned. “Private. Well, that really narrows down the prospects.” He punched the phone on. “Montgomery.”

  His brows lifted slightly, and he glanced over at Devon. “Yes, Mr. Pierson, I know who you are. My condolences on the loss of your son.”

  Edward Pierson? Now, that was a surprise.

  Devon leaned forward to listen.

  “Care to tell me why? I’m sure the sheriff gave you the exact same story he gave me.” Monty paused. “Yes, I heard from my ex-wife. She’s terrified and on the run. Whoever killed your son tried to kill her, too. She’s afraid he’ll try again. The only reason she contacted me is so I could bring the cops up to speed on what actually happened in that cabin, and so I could let our children know she was alive. She hung up without saying where she was or where she was going. Nope, she never saw the guy. So there’s not a lot more I can tell you. Certainly not enough to warrant your sending down a limo to drive me up to your farm for a meeting.”

  Another pause, as Monty absorbed whatever Edward was saying. “That’s very flattering, and very intriguing. But I can’t imagine where you’re going with this. Care to elaborate? Right. In person. Okay, I’ll bite. Sure, late afternoon’s fine. Four o’clock works. My office is in Little Neck—a semiattached house. One side’s my home, the other’s my office.” Abruptly, Monty broke off, and he snapped around to face Devon.

  Uh-oh, Devon thought, recognizing only too well that gleam in her father’s eyes. He had a plan. And whatever it was, she wasn’t going to like it.

  Sure enough, Monty gave a hard shake of his head, as if negating the last part of what he’d just said. “I have a better idea, Mr. Pierson. I want to check in on my kids anyway, make sure they’re holding up. They’re in bad shape, as you can imagine. They’re all staying at my daughter Devon’s place. It’s in northern White Plains. That’s a good half hour closer to Millbrook than Queens is. It’ll take just an hour plus to get to you. Devon’s driving up to Sally’s place tomorrow anyway. She wants to check on the house and the animals. I’ll just grab a ride. I’m sure she could use the company.” He ignored his daughter’s glare. “I should be there around six. We’ll continue this discussion then.”

  He punched end and turned to Devon. “Well, what do you know. Edward Pierson wants to hire me. He seems to think I can do a better job of finding whoever killed his son than the Warren County sheriff can.”

  “Yeah, what do you know.” Devon folded her arms across her breasts. “And you seem to think I’m partnering up with you.”

  “You are.”

  “No, Monty, I’m not.”

  His hands balled into fists, made deep indentations in the sofa. “Devon, this time’s different. It’s your mother’s life at stake.”

  “Dammit, Monty, that’s emotional blackmail.”

  “Is it working?”

  “You know it is. You know I’d do anything for Mom. But this is a mistake. I don’t have your nerves of steel or your ability to stay objective. I’m emotionally involved. That’s a detriment, not an asset. How can I possibly help you?”

  “I’m not sure. But my gut tells me you can.”

  “How?” Devon could feel her resolve weaken.

  Worse, so could Monty. He jumped all over her ambivalence, firing out suggestions as if he’d been cogitating for days, rather than devising them on the fly. “The groom who’s been caring for Sally’s horses. Talk to him. Maybe he can give you a feel for the players. The grandchildren. Pierson just mentioned that they’re all flying in or driving up tomorrow. They’re congregating at the farm to make funeral arrangements—and probably to avoid the press. They’re all around your age or a little older. Strike up conversations. See what dirt you can dig up.”

  “In other words, be the mole,” Devon responded, summing up Monty’s thought process. “The innocuous veterinarian who blends in with the crowd and empathizes with their loss. My mother was seeing their uncle. She was nearly killed at his murder scene. That’s our common ground.”

  “And your fear that Sally’s still in danger—that’s your jumping-off point. From there on, the conversation will take on a life of its own.”

  “So, while you’re closeted in some private office with the family patriarch, I’ll be hanging out with the yuppies, getting to know them.” Devon gave a tentative nod. “It could work.”

  “It will work.”

  “I’ll need to look at that report of yours,” Devon heard herself say, reaching for the pages. “Just so I can remember which Pierson is which.”

  “Here.” Monty thrust them in her hand. “The more I think about that phone call, the more I know Edward Pierson’s got something up his sleeve. Think about it. He’s about to get official confirmation that his son’s dead. His entire family is converging under the worst of circumstances. That means emotional meltdown and, in this case, business upheaval. Tomorrow is going to be the day from hell. So why is Edward calling me tonight, insisting we meet ASAP? Why not wait until the storm has passed?”

  Devon was used to going through these mental exercises with Monty. “Because time is of the essence. Edward’s son was murdered. He’s grieving, angry, and impatient. He’s a man who’s used to getting what he wants when he wants it. He’s determined to find Frederick’s killer—yesterday, if not sooner. He’s banking on the fact that you can do that for him. Maybe he’s also hoping to capitalize on your personal relationship with Mom and your brotherhood with the cops.”

  “Both, I’m sure. But there’s more to it. He’s done his homework, just like I have. He knows I’m good, and he’s also hoping I have inside information. But he’s got to know I can’t be bought.”

  “He’s counting on having superior methods of persuasion, like a six-figure check. Or maybe he’s counting on outsmarting you.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he likes the fact that I won’t sell out. Maybe he figures it’ll translate into my keeping my mouth shut with regard to whatever I turn up in this investigation. A loyal-at-all-costs Sam Spade.”

  “Which brings us back to the fact that he has an agenda.”

  “Yup. Especially when you add to the mix the argument your mother overheard earlier this week between him and Frederick.”

  “What argument?” Devon’s head snapped up. “You didn’t mention any argument.”

  “I was about to when my cell phone rang.” Monty filled Devon in on what Sally had told him.

  “Whew.” Devon blew out her breath. “A criminal offense that could jeopardize the company. That’s pretty heavy stuff. I wonder who’s guilty. And why Edward didn’t view him that way. Maybe Frederick’s murder changed his mind.”

  “And opened his eyes—enough to realize he had to protect what was his. The question is, what is he protecting—a member of his family or the survival of his empire?”<
br />
  “Or both,” Devon added. “He said nothing to give you any indication?”

  “Nope. He wants to discuss it in person. But he definitely wants to keep our meeting under wraps. I’m being escorted to his office through the back entrance. He was blunt about the fact that he doesn’t want to risk any family member seeing me, or knowing I’m being hired.”

  “Which could mean one of them is under suspicion.” Devon shrugged. “Or just that he’s trying to spare them further upset.”

  “I opt for the first choice. Incidentally, Edward also specified that it’s crucial he gets all relevant information first—another reason I’m his PI of choice. He went out of his way to stress my success ratio and fast turnaround time.”

  “First,” Devon repeated. “As in before the cops?”

  “Sure sounded that way.”

  “That would certainly support the entirety of your theory, including the issue of loyalty.”

  “Uh-huh. I could find the killer and help Edward Pierson keep a lid on a nasty Pandora’s box he doesn’t want opened.”

  “You’d never withhold evidence.”

  “He doesn’t know that. I’ve got a reputation for bending the rules. He’s counting on my willingness to do that, if not for his family, then for mine. And he’s not wrong. I’ve already bent them. I’d do more than that if it meant keeping my family safe.”

  “Your family. In this case, that’s Mom,” Devon clarified softly.

  “Yeah. It is.” Monty paused, his jaw working. “Look, Devon,” he blurted out. “Your sister’s not here now, so I’m going to be blunt. I’m worried as hell about your mother.”

  “Why? Is there something I don’t know?”

  “You know everything—including your mother. How long do you think she’s going to stay in hiding—cut off from her kids, her home, her life? A week? Two? Yeah, I’ve made sure she’s safe. But that’s a double-edged sword. Soon her fear will start to subside. She’ll want to come home. There’s a killer out there—one who might still be looking for her. He needs to be behind bars before Sally’s restlessness gets the best of her and puts her directly in the line of fire.”