Wrong Place, Wrong Time

by Andrea Kane

  “That sounded like fun,” Meredith noted drily.

  “It was just Dad being Dad.” Devon eyed her sister. “I take it he asked to see you?”

  “Yeah, he wanted to get together. I can’t. I have a huge paper to write and three exams to study for. As it is, I’ve been ignoring my friends. They’ve been IM-ing me since I left school. I have to go online and answer them.”

  “Ah, Instant Messenger. How did Lane and I get through college without it?” Devon’s tone was teasing, but her gaze was serious. “Merry…”

  “The cable guy was here,” her sister piped up. “He came by this morning and cleared up the problem you were having with the upper channels. Apparently, it wasn’t just you. It was your whole town-house development.”

  “That’s nice.” Devon wasn’t fooled by the attempted distraction. “We have to talk about this.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  Devon sat down beside her sister. “Try to cut Monty a little slack. He screwed up. He realizes that. He didn’t mean to. He loves you.”

  Meredith sighed. “I know that, Dev. I get the whole picture—better than you and Lane think I do. I’m not a kid. I’m an adult. I understand mistakes. I also understand consequences. I’m not angry at Dad. I just don’t have the same bond with him that you and Lane do. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just the way things turned out.”

  “Mom’s forgiven him.”

  “So have I. That doesn’t erase all the years in between. Besides, don’t compare me to Mom. She’s hardly objective. She’s still crazy about him.”

  “I know.” Devon traced the geometric pattern on her comforter with one fingertip.

  “And you still think there’s a chance they’ll get back together.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Devon freely admitted. “I’ve never seen two people so much in love—even fifteen years after getting divorced.”

  “No arguments. But love doesn’t conquer all. Not in real life.”

  “You sound like Lane.”

  “Well, Lane’s right. The fact is, Mom’s an incredible woman. She deserves someone who’ll put her first. Dad never did.”

  “His life’s different now.”

  “Is it? He’s all gung ho about this case. He’s got you working it with him. Is this really about Mom and her safety? Or is this just Monty, doing his Dick Tracy thing?”

  Devon blew out a weary breath. “You really are bitter.”

  “No, I’m realistic. I see Dad for what he is.”

  “Then maybe it’s time you accepted him as he is,” Devon suggested softly. She gave Meredith’s arm a squeeze. “Grab a sandwich with him. Talk. Get to know each other. Monty missed out on your childhood. Don’t deprive him of getting to know you as an adult. You’re a terrific, sensitive young woman, Merry. Give him a chance.”

  Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

  “That’s your date.” Meredith scrambled to her feet. “I’ll let him in.”

  “Merry?”

  Her sister paused in the doorway. “I’ll think about it. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  MONTY ASSESSED THE Park Avenue penthouse, wondering if the butler who’d taken his coat earned more a year than he did. Talk about living your money. If anybody doubted how much Pierson & Company raked in in profits, one glance at Edward Pierson’s four-thousand-square-foot, floor-to-ceiling windowed palace would change their mind.

  The king himself was in the sunken living room, pacing around restlessly and glaring at the glass of ice water in his hand. On one of the antique sofas, Blake Pierson sat, engaged in quiet conversation with the regal-carriaged, elderly woman who had to be his grandmother.

  An interesting combo of personal and professional.

  “Mr. Montgomery,” the butler announced.

  Edward veered around, waving Monty in. “You made good time.”

  “I aim to please.” Monty stepped into the room and waited for Edward to set the stage.

  “You’ve met Blake.” Edward paused while the two men acknowledged each other. “And this is my wife.”

  “Mrs. Pierson,” Monty responded with a respectful nod of his head. “My condolences on your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Anne Pierson didn’t rise, but extended a polite hand to him in greeting. Her tone and expression were cool, but there was pain behind those piercing light blue eyes. “I understand you’re working for my husband.”

  Monty shot Edward a quick, questioning look.

  “I know everything,” Anne supplied before Edward could answer. “I pried it out of these two. I won’t be protected. Not when it comes to my family. Frederick was my son. You’re looking for his killer. And for whoever’s threatening James. I want to know what you’ve found out.”

  Monty wasn’t particularly surprised by her spunk. Anyone married to Edward Pierson had to be a tough broad. She’d climbed the ranks with him from paper-goods distributor to food-industry giant. You had to respect that. Sixty years ago, she’d been a salesperson at Macy’s. Now she was a matriarch.

  “Not much,” Monty answered her question. “Not yet.”

  “Nothing?” Edward snapped. “That’s no better than the cops.”

  “Murderers generally don’t want to get caught. That’s why finding them takes a while.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Montgomery,” Anne suggested, clearly trying to ease the tension. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.” Monty perched at the edge of a chair. “What did the police have to say?”

  “Very little we didn’t already know,” Blake provided. “They found a few more tire treads down by the road. Turned out to be a dead end. They belonged to Frederick’s Mercedes, just like the others. Gasoline was the killer’s accelerant of choice. He splashed the stuff around and then probably lit the drapes. The whole cabin was torched in minutes. No other clues were found in the debris.” A pause. “Of course, the hunt is still on for your ex-wife.”

  Monty got the message loud and clear. “No one knows that better than I do. My kids are a mess. But judging from what Sally said on the phone, she’s as clueless as we are. Traumatized, but clueless. And scared to death.”

  “She hasn’t called again—not even her kids?”

  “Nope. They would’ve let me know.”

  “So you check in with them often?” Blake asked carefully.

  “Every day.” Monty met Blake’s probing stare. “Sally raised them. But they’re my kids, too. Grown or not. Since this happened, I keep tabs on them, make sure they’re okay.” Putting an end to that obvious fishing expedition, Monty turned to Edward. “Any follow-up on the blackmail letter?”

  Edward shook his head and gulped down some water. “Not a word. No phone calls. No mail. Nothing.”

  Monty frowned. “Strange.”

  “Maybe they’re waiting for James to go back to Wellington. Up here, he’s no threat to his competitors.”

  “That would only make sense if the extortion was an isolated incident. But if it ties into Frederick’s murder—as we both assume it does—that theory doesn’t fly. My money’s still on a business or family vendetta. That would encompass the whole enchilada, from Pierson & Company to the show ring to your family members themselves.”

  “You’re saying we all could be in danger?” Anne demanded.

  “I’m not trying to alarm you, Mrs. Pierson. I’m just calling it as I see it.” Monty’s gaze returned to Edward. “I questioned some of your staff today. I’ll be doing more of that tomorrow. I’ve also started rundowns on your potential enemy list. So far, no red flags. But I’ll keep at it. In addition, I’ll start digging around inside Pierson & Company for a paper trail. Which reminds me, I put in a call to a forensic accountant I work with. Alfred Jenkins. He’s top-notch in his field. He knows what to look for in situations like these. He’ll leave no stone unturned. Acceptable?”

  “Yes, acceptable,” Edward agreed.

  “Good. I want to bring him on board as soon as possible. In
the meantime, I’ll need free access to correspondence, telephone and e-mail records, and financial accounts, both personal and professional. When can that be made available to me?”

  “Right away,” Blake answered for his grandfather. “I’ll log you in with my password. That’ll give you access to pretty much everything.”

  “Including the high-security stuff? Blocked personal and/or confidential material that’s protected by extra security passwords? Because I’ll need access to all that, too.”

  Blake remained silent, deferring to his grandfather.

  “Fine,” Edward replied. “Blake will give you everything.”

  “Then I’ll be in his office at eight A.M.”

  Before Blake could reply, his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the number, a pensive expression crossing his face. “Excuse me a minute.” Rising, he walked over to the panorama of windows. “Hi,” he said quietly into the phone. “Are you all right?”

  Edward eyed his grandson for an instant, then turned back to Monty. “What did you think of Philip Rhodes?”

  “I just scratched the surface.” Monty responded to the question on autopilot. He was straining to hear Blake’s conversation. “First impressions? Rhodes is dedicated to his job. He’s loyal to you. And he’s got something he doesn’t want to talk about.”

  “Now’s not a good time,” Blake was saying. His words were low, but Monty could make them out. “I’m in a meeting. I’ll check in with you later.”

  He punched off the phone, just as his grandfather reacted to what Monty had said about Rhodes.

  “What do you mean, something he doesn’t want to talk about? Something about Frederick?”

  “Don’t know. Could be something totally unrelated. But whatever it is, I intend to figure it out.” Monty studied Blake as he rejoined the group. “Woman problems?”

  Blake’s brows rose. “Pardon me?”

  “Judging from your tone, I assumed that was your girlfriend, and she was giving you a hard time.”

  “No hard time. And no girlfriend. Just a friend who happens to be female.”

  “Ah. Those can be high maintenance, too.”

  “Yup.” Blake didn’t bat an eye. “Sure can.”

  IN HER LUXURIOUS apartment on East Sixty-eighth Street, Louise Chambers hung up the phone and gritted her teeth in frustration.

  A meeting. One he wouldn’t excuse himself from. Not even to come by and offer her a shoulder to lean on. That didn’t bode well.

  Dammit. She wasn’t going to let things fall apart. Not after all her planning, all her careful orchestration and infinite patience. She hadn’t endured all she had just to lose out in the end.

  Damn Frederick. It had been first one obstacle, then another. Now he was dead.

  This was her last chance.

  And no one was robbing her of it.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Gedney Grill was a little more subdued than usual, most likely because it was a Monday night. Which was fine with Devon. The less boisterous the atmosphere, the easier it was to talk.

  She and James had been here long enough to polish off a glass of wine, eat their salads, make a dent in their entrées, and cut through the niceties. During that time, Devon had spotted a grown-up street kid whom, after careful scrutiny, she’d determined was James’s “bodyguard.” He’d been watching them nonstop from across the room. So if Edward Pierson didn’t already know about this date, he’d know by tomorrow.

  “How’s your steak?” Oblivious to his lookout, James was focused totally on Devon. He wrapped her up in his gaze, concentrating on every word she said, saturating her with attention. At the same time, he spoke freely about himself, emphasizing all the right things, downplaying all the flaws.

  The center of the universe, Monty had said. Well, he was dead-on.

  “Devon?” James repeated over the rim of his glass of Cabernet.

  “Sorry.” She put down her fork and knife. “My steak’s delicious, as always. It’s also superfilling. I can barely move. It’s breather time.”

  James chuckled. “I know what you mean. I could use a time-out, too.” He pushed his plate aside and indicated her half-filled goblet. “More Cab?”

  “No, thanks. Two’s my limit. Otherwise, I get a massive headache. But you go ahead.”

  “Uh-uh. Two’s my limit, too. I usually don’t drink at all when I’m competing. So, after this glass, it’s club soda for me.”

  “I didn’t think of that.” Devon was thrilled for the opening he’d given her. Time for equestrian chitchat. “Your abstinence, is that because of potential drug testing?”

  “Nope.” James shook his head. “When it comes to equestrian events, the Antidoping Agency doesn’t concern itself with alcohol. Booze would only retard a rider’s performance. The agency is more worried about the presence of coke or steroids, neither of which I do. As for drinking, I just choose to err on the side of caution. I plan to win. I don’t want anything, not even the slightest mental cobweb, to screw up my timing or my form.”

  “You demand a lot of yourself.”

  “That’s the only way to become number one. Anything less is unacceptable.”

  “A perfectionist. And a very competitive one.”

  “Is that bad?”

  Devon’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I’m guessing it’s necessary when you’re riding for the kind of stakes you are.” She leaned forward. “Tell me what it’s like. The people. The anticipation. Riding in a Grand Prix—I can’t even imagine—it must be an amazing adrenaline rush.”

  “It is.” James rolled his goblet between his palms. “It’s intense. It’s disciplined. And it’s consuming. The talent you’re up against is daunting. The mentality is ‘win at all costs.’ There’s big money and big egos on the line. Mine included.”

  “When you say ‘win at all costs’—I assume that some participants would cheat, bribe, or even sabotage to win.”

  “Some would kill to win.”

  Devon started. Was James trying to impress her, or was he actually stating a fact?

  “Okay, now that’s got to be an exaggeration,” she probed lightly.

  “Does it? Sometimes I’m not sure.” James’s tone and expression were hard.

  “Whew.” Devon blew out her breath. “Clearly, your show-circuit crowd’s just a little too intense for my tastes.”

  “Some of them. Not all.”

  “Is it mostly the riders or the sponsors?”

  “Both.”

  “Anyone in particular you’ve come up against?”

  James’s jaw tightened a fraction. “Over the years? More than I care to recall.”

  “This go-around, too?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Devon gave a troubled frown. “That must really mess up your concentration. How do you handle it?”

  “I block it out. And I steer clear of those types.”

  “But you’re competing in the same events. How can you—?”

  “The events are inside the ring,” he interrupted flatly. “There, I deal with whoever I have to. Outside’s another story. I pick and choose.”

  Devon couldn’t miss the note of finality. She’d pried pretty deep. If she pushed James any further, he’d get suspicious.

  “I’m glad to hear there are some normal types, too,” she tried instead. “With such a supercharged atmosphere, you’d go nuts if you didn’t have a few friends to hang out with.”

  “I get enough downtime. As for friends, I don’t know if I’d call them that. They’re more like comrades in arms.”

  “It sounds like war.”

  “At times, it is.” James’s jaw was still working. “Being the victor is everything. How you get there is secondary. It’s easy to lose all sense of perspective; to see nothing, care about nothing, but the prize.” Abruptly, he relaxed—or forced himself to. “That’s why I like my double life; part-time at Pierson, part-time on the circuit. It keeps me grounded.”

  “Your family must he
lp with that, too.”

  “Some members of it, yes.”

  Very pointed inference. Time for Devon to take a risk. “You don’t like Blake much, do you?”

  James’s brows rose. “Why? Do you?”

  She blinked. “I hardly know him.”

  “But you’re going out with him.”

  Now that caught her off guard. “He told you?”

  “He made a point of it, right before I left for the day.”

  Devon caught her lower lip between her teeth. “That’s my fault. I insisted that it be out in the open. I didn’t want to cause problems between you two.”

  James snorted. “No worries on that score. Any problems between my cousin and me started years before you came on the scene. Blake and I have been one-upping each other since we were kids. It’s partly because we’re the only two male grandchildren, partly because we’re both overachievers, and partly because we have different personalities, different goals, and different ways of going after those goals.”

  “Sounds pretty normal to me. It also sounds as if you have one goal in common: pleasing your grandfather. Which I find commendable.”

  A grin that could melt ice. “When you put it that way, I come off as noble.” His grin faded. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “About liking Blake? As I said, I hardly know him. He seems like a pleasant enough guy. And, yes, we’re having dinner tomorrow night. He brought Chomper into my clinic for obedience training. We chatted. He was very nice.”

  “‘Nice.’ That’s not a word I’d use to describe Blake. Ambitious. Deliberate. Single-minded when he wants something. Relentless when he goes after it. Those are better choices.”

  “Those same adjectives could be used to describe you.”

  James gave a thoughtful nod, his good humor restored. “Touché. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe, when it comes right down to it, Blake and I are just too damned much alike. Looks like we’re even attracted to the same women.”

  “Why, has this happened before?”

  “That we both date the same person? No. Then again, it’s not often that a woman as beautiful, intelligent, and charming as you just strolls through our front door. We’d have to be stupid not to react. And that’s one thing neither Blake nor I is—stupid.”