by Andrea Kane
“You’re right.” Devon dragged both hands through her hair. “I was so relieved when I heard Mom’s voice, realized she was really okay, that I pushed the rest out of my mind. But Williamstown’s just a Band-Aid. The wound’s still there. And you’re the only one who can make it go away fast enough to keep Mom safe. This meeting with Edward Pierson could be a huge step in that direction. It’ll get you in the door.”
“Get us in the door,” Monty corrected. “Me in the back, and you in the front.”
“How will I get in the front…?”
“By introducing yourself as Sally’s daughter. By thinking of yourself as Sally’s daughter. Drive that bond home, and distance yourself from me. Your mother raised you. You and I are on civil enough terms for you to give me a ride up to the Pierson farm. We talk occasionally, see each other less. I care a lot. You harbor resentment. Let Meredith give you lessons. She has it down pat.”
“Monty…”
“I don’t blame her. She’s right. But that’s my problem. It has nothing to do with what we’re facing now. All you have to worry about is connecting with the Piersons through your relationship with Sally. My name doesn’t need to come up, except in passing.”
“But Edward Pierson knows you’re driving up with me.”
“His grandchildren don’t. As for Edward, I’ll tell him that as far as you’re concerned, I’m driving up to fill him in on what I saw at the crime scene. Simple and accurate, even if it is just the tip of the iceberg. And I’ll assure him I never discuss my cases. Not with anyone. Enough said—for you and for me.”
Enough said. Simple and accurate.
Monty’s mantra—the one Devon had heard him repeat so many times—sprang to mind, and she uttered it aloud. “Say as little as possible. When you have to talk, stick as close to the truth as possible. You’ll have less to remember. And it’ll wind up saving your ass.”
“I couldn’t have said it better.”
Devon inclined her head, met her father’s gaze. “You really think I can pull this off without losing it, and screwing things up?”
“There’s not a doubt in my mind.”
It was all she needed to hear. “Then I’m in.”
CHAPTER 6
Edward Pierson looked pretty much like his photos. Tough. Lines etched on his face. Like an age-old rock that had been exposed to the elements and endured. Been-there-done-that-and-won kind of demeanor. Also, pretty damned steady on his feet for a guy nearing eighty who’d recently suffered a heart attack.
Monty averted his gaze long enough to take in the dark wood and expensive leather of the gentleman’s-club-style office he’d been ushered into by the patriarch himself. He waited while Edward shut the door and turned the lock with a firm click.
“Have a seat,” Edward instructed, gesturing at the wing-back chair across from his desk.
With a tight nod, Monty complied, studying Pierson’s demeanor as he walked around and lowered himself into his matching desk chair. He was a hard man to read. He was obviously thrown by his son’s death—which had been confirmed earlier that day by the coroner. His complexion was a little ashen, his breathing a little shallow. Yet, at the same time, he was brusque, all business—ready to take on and combat the world.
“I’m here as requested,” Monty began, draping his arm over the chair and lounging back in a deceptively casual pose. “Although I feel like something out of Mission: Impossible. My daughter drops me off at the back gate. You sneak me through the house and lock me in your office. All that’s missing is the catchy music. Why the drama?”
“No drama.” Edward poured himself a glass of water. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Scotch?”
“Water’s fine.” Monty watched as Edward raised the pitcher again, filling a second glass and handing it over. He noticed the older man’s hand was a trifle unsteady.
Grief, stress—or something more?
“Fine. You don’t like the word drama,” Monty conceded with a shrug. “Secrecy, then. Why?”
“Because my entire family’s in shock. Because I don’t want them upset any more than they need to be. And because they’re only going to be told fragments of what you and I are about to discuss, and why I’m hiring you.”
“And why are you hiring me?” Monty returned Edward’s curt delivery with his own. “I don’t have any more information than you have. The sheriff’s office is doing their thing—and they’re not interested in my help. As for Sally, we’re divorced. I’m not her confidant.”
“And yet she called you when she was in trouble.”
“I was a cop for thirty years. She knew I could get the details she provided to the right people faster than anyone else. We also share three kids. She wanted them to know she was alive.”
“Alive and on the run.”
“Unfortunately, yes. I’d rather have her under police protection. But she didn’t give me that option.”
Edward shoved aside his water glass, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Cards on the table. I’m hiring you for several reasons. The obvious ones you know. Your credentials are impressive. So’s your client list. That list is also diverse. You’ve worked for both individuals and companies. Plus, you have a vested interest in finding whoever torched that cabin, killed Frederick, and tried to kill your ex-wife. I think you can resolve this faster than any official investigation. You can also give it your undivided attention, which the police can’t.”
“For the right price, you mean.”
“For your kids. For your ex-wife. And, yes, for the right price. But before I name that price or go any further, I want your word that nothing we say leaves this room. Because this whole nightmare runs even deeper than you think—and with more potential for tragedy.”
Monty’s brows rose a fraction. “Sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
“I’m not cheap. Then again, I’m sure you already know that. Just like you know I don’t discuss my cases. That’s part of what you’re paying for. So let’s skip the confidentiality speech.”
Edward opened his drawer and pulled out an envelope, sliding it across the desk. “There’s fifty thousand dollars in there. Cash. Consider it a retainer. Plus I’ll double your usual rates for as long as it takes to solve this case. But I want all your time and resources. Is that acceptable?”
“That depends on what you’re asking me to do,” Monty replied without touching the money. “Also, I won’t blow off my current clients. I’ll need a chunk of time to work on their cases.”
“You can have late nights and weekends.”
“Fair enough. I have associates who can do the additional fieldwork. Now, how about some details.”
A tight nod. “You asked what I want you to do. I want you to act as Pierson & Company’s head of security. I want you to go to the office every single day, figure out what’s going on, and protect my company and my family.”
Monty’s gaze narrowed. “Does that mean you think whoever killed Frederick is after more of your family members?”
“Maybe. I don’t believe in coincidences.” Edward broke off, visibly agitated. “Look, Montgomery,” he continued before Monty could probe into what coincidences Edward was referring to. “You don’t get as rich and successful as I am without making enemies. And you don’t always know who those enemies are.”
“But you think they’re company insiders?”
“It’s possible. Either way, I’ll make sure all business is conducted inside company walls. That’ll keep this assignment manageable for you. You’ll get a chance to check out visitors and employees alike.”
“You’re hedging. Who at Pierson & Company is on your suspect list?”
Edward took a gulp of water. He clearly did not like what he was about to say. “There’s no list. It’s just that Frederick and I had a different take on Philip Rhodes.”
“Philip Rhodes. Your senior VP of sales.”
A flicker of surprise registered on Edward’s face. “You did your homework. Yes. Phili
p’s been with us for years and years. He’s a real rainmaker. And, yeah, he’s bent some rules. So have James and I. That’s how successful companies are built.” Edward leveled a probing stare at Monty. “I’m sure I don’t need to fill you in on who James is. If you’ve figured out Philip’s role from our org chart, I’m sure you’ve done the same for other key players at Pierson, especially my family.”
“Sure have.” Monty didn’t even glance at his notes. “James is your oldest grandchild; Niles’s son. He’s also VP of sales, reporting directly to Philip.”
“And he’s a champion show jumper,” Edward added proudly. “He and my stallion Stolen Thunder are a one-of-a-kind team. Real Olympic material.”
“So I hear. The reports from Wellington are impressive.” A corner of Monty’s mouth lifted at Edward’s startled expression. “I don’t just do homework; I do lots of homework.”
“Obviously.”
“You said you bent some rules. Elaborate.”
“The usual.” Edward gave a dismissive wave. “A few political contributions to local politicians who wield power in communities where we wanted contracts for our food-service business. Some gifts to their family members. A few golf trips, here and there. Just some perks.”
“I think they call that white-collar crime.”
“No, they call that networking. The point is, Frederick thought Philip was going one step further—bribing officials, paying them off in cash to get what we wanted. He was pretty upset about it.”
“I can understand why. Did he have proof?”
“Nothing I saw. And my gut tells me that Philip’s too smart to channel company funds into something illegal.”
“But if your gut is wrong, and if some proof actually existed, then Philip Rhodes would have a motive for murdering Frederick.”
Edward’s jaw began working. “I won’t believe that.”
“But you can’t afford to dismiss it, either.”
“I’m not dismissing anything. But, like I said, there’s more to this nightmare—more that makes me believe it’s someone on the outside who’s trying to bring us down.” He unlocked his center drawer, extracting an envelope.
“Will this explain your comment about not believing in coincidence?” Monty demanded.
“Two attacks on my family in one weekend? That’s no fluke.” Edward thrust the envelope across the desk. “Take a look at this. I got it on Thursday. It was mailed to me at the office.”
Monty eyed the envelope without taking it. It was laser-printed, and addressed to Edward Pierson at Pierson & Company. “Extortion,” he surmised aloud. “Which kind, blackmail or ransom?”
“Blackmail.”
“Why didn’t you call the cops?”
“Because I thought the letter was a hoax until Frederick was killed. Then I called you.”
Nodding, Monty reached into his parka pockets. He groped around, whipping out his ski gloves. “No point in contaminating the evidence any more than it already has been,” he said, yanking on the gloves. “I doubt we’ll find any distinguishable fingerprints. But, just in case, let’s not taint them.” He leaned forward and took the envelope, eyeing it again. “No return address,” he noted. “And a Manhattan postmark.”
He slid out two folded sheets. The first was clearly a letter. The other was a computer printout of an article from Horse Daily News. He scanned that first.
ANTIDOPING AGENCY DISQUALIFIES TWO MORE HIGH-PROFILE RIDERS FOLLOWING POSITIVE DRUG TESTING, the headline read. The story, dated the previous October during Manhattan’s National Metropolitan Horse Show, went on to describe the growing problem of drug use among equestrian riders, both at competitions and at random out-of-competition testing.
Monty skimmed the article just enough to get the gist of it. Then he turned his attention to the letter. Identical laser printing. Double-spaced. Nondescript in format.
Not so in content.
Sometimes disqualified riders aren’t responsible for what shows up in their urine. Or their horse’s urine. It could happen to anybody. Like James. Or Stolen Thunder. It could happen at an Olympic qualifying event. Like the US Open Jumper Championship CSIO in March. That would ruin everything. Lives. Reputations. All gone up in smoke.
Two million would keep them out of trouble. And safe, in and out of the show ring. Otherwise, who knows what might happen?
Consider the offer. I’ll be in touch.
“No salutation. No signature,” Monty muttered.
“And no follow-up.” Edward took another shaky gulp of water. “I haven’t heard word one from the scum who wrote that. At first, I thought it was some kind of sick gag. Then Frederick was killed.”
“There’s no mention of Frederick in the letter.”
“What about the part about going up in smoke?”
Monty pursed his lips. “Yeah. There’s that. It could be a reference to Friday’s fire. But it still doesn’t make sense. If the blackmailer wanted his cash, why kill Frederick before giving you a chance to come up with it?”
“An incentive, maybe.” Tension creased Edward’s forehead. “An act to show he means business.”
“That’s one hell of an incentive. Arson and murder. And why Frederick? Were he and James particularly close?”
“Our whole family’s close. We fight. We make up. But family’s family.”
That wasn’t an answer, but Monty left it alone. “We could be looking at payback of some kind. I’ll need the names of anyone who might have a grudge against the Piersons. I’ll also need to talk to your other family members. Not today, obviously. Over the next few days. I’ll speak to them one at a time.”
“I don’t want them knowing about the blackmail letter. Especially James. He’s high-strung enough. I don’t want him to panic.”
“I understand that. But he should be on the lookout for anything suspicious.”
“He doesn’t need to be. I’ve arranged for twenty-four-hour security around him, in New York and in Wellington. No one will get near him.”
“He doesn’t know about this?”
“It’s not necessary. My people are discreet.”
“I’ll bet,” Monty returned drily. “When is he going back to Wellington?”
“After the funeral.”
“Make sure he comes into the office before that. I’ll talk to him there. It’ll seem less official, and he won’t get as spooked. Don’t worry—I’ll only go at it from the angle of Frederick’s murder. I won’t mention the letter.”
Edward gave a tight nod. “Fine.”
“What else should I know?”
“My grandson Blake will be your alternate contact. If I’m not around, go to him. He’ll be the only person I fill in on all the facets of your investigation.”
“Including the blackmail letter?”
“Yes. Blake’s the future of my company. He’s smart. He’s tough. And he’s my sounding board. I’ll pull him aside later and tell him about the letter.”
“Good.” Monty pushed back his chair and rose, pausing to scoop up his fifty-thousand-dollar retainer and tuck it in his pants pocket. “I’ll need a list of your employees, and background information to go with it.”
“No problem. When you get to the office tomorrow, stop at human resources. My granddaughter Cassidy can give you whatever you need.”
“I’ll be in around nine. Let her know to expect me.”
Relief flashed across Edward’s face as he rose. “I will.”
Monty refolded the article and the letter and slipped them back into the envelope. “Can I keep these? I want to look them over more thoroughly.”
“Go ahead.” Edward was back to being the tough businessman. “Just figure out who sent them.”
“I will.” Monty stared him down. “Count on it.”
CHAPTER 7
Devon stood on the Piersons’ front doorstep, hands shoved in the pockets of her camel-hair overcoat, staring at the formidable double doors.
It was showtime.
She sucked
in her breath, wishing her talk with Roberto, the Piersons’ groom, had yielded something of substance. No such luck. Striking up a conversation with the guy had been easy. They’d talked horses, riding competitions, and proper care of warmbloods. As for a lowdown on the Piersons, she’d learned nothing she hadn’t already read in Monty’s notes, other than how profound a role James’s equestrian triumphs played in his grandfather’s life. It seemed that James’s accomplishments in the show ring had been a lifeline for Edward after his heart attack. According to Roberto, James’s growth toward Olympic potential had given Edward the will to live.
The groom was clearly proud. Devon heard all about James’s extraordinary form, his unique affinity with Stolen Thunder, his drive to win. Roberto’s reports were glowing. Unfortunately, they were totally unrelated to yesterday’s tragedy.
So now it was time to execute step two of her plan—befriending the Piersons.
She hoped she could pull it off.
She had to pull it off. Monty was counting on her.
More important, her mother was counting on her.
Blowing out her breath, Devon rang the bell.
A somber-looking butler opened the door. With his wrinkled face, sucked-in stance and sallow complexion, he looked like a sour pickle with hair. “Yes?”
“I’m Devon Montgomery, Sally Montgomery’s daughter,” she introduced herself. “I drove up this afternoon to check on my mother’s house. When I passed your farm, I noticed all the cars in the driveway. I wonder if I might pay my respects to the Piersons?”
The pickle frowned, obviously unsure if he should allow her to enter.
“Please tell them I’m here,” Devon suggested quickly. “They’ll know who I am. If they’d prefer not to see me, I’ll leave.”
“Very well.” He disappeared.
A murmur of voices followed, after which Devon heard the click-click of high heels approaching. A minute later, a striking young woman of about Devon’s age appeared at the door. She was wearing a black Donna Karan suit, and her dark hair feathered the sides of her face, complementing her high cheekbones and fair complexion, before brushing the top of her shoulders in a blunt, silky cut.