Wrong Place, Wrong Time

by Andrea Kane

  MONTY MUNCHED ON his double-burger platter while Devon picked at her chef salad.

  They didn’t waste time with small talk, but got right into the back-and-forth case analysis they’d perfected when Devon was in her teens.

  “Okay, so we have a thirty-eight revolver, registered to Rhodes, a typed suicide note, and no witnesses—except Edward Pierson, who spoke to Rhodes by phone a half hour before he died.” Devon summarized the basics Monty had provided. “What about the autopsy report?”

  “Officially, it’s being released tomorrow. But I spoke to the M.E. who performed the autopsy. The ruling’s going to stand. There’s no solid evidence this is anything but a suicide.”

  “But there are inconsistencies.”

  “A truckload.”

  “Let’s hear them.”

  “Where do I start?” Monty scowled. “To begin with, the note was typed and unsigned—strangely impersonal for a suicide. The telephone call to Edward Pierson was vague. Not a gut-spilling confession. Just some ambiguous fragments. Not even enough to make Pierson call the cops—which he’d do in a minute if he suspected Rhodes was involved in Frederick’s murder. Then there’s the slush fund Rhodes mentioned in his note, the one he was supposedly stealing from. Jenkins, my forensic accountant, never found a trace of it. And he’s the best there is.”

  Monty paused to stick a french fry in his mouth. “There were no burn marks and no gunpowder residue on Rhodes’s face. Which suggests the thirty-eight wasn’t pressed to his temple. Also, crime scene didn’t find any powder residue on his hand.”

  “I didn’t think they tested for that anymore,” Devon interrupted.

  “They don’t. Too many false positives. But the absence of it tells me Rhodes didn’t fire that gun.”

  “His prints were on it?”

  “His and only his. That’s consistent with a homicide staged to look like a suicide.”

  “What about the angle of the weapon?”

  “Slightly downward.”

  “Upward is more consistent with a suicide,” Devon remembered aloud. “Still, none of this constitutes proof.”

  “I’m a PI now. I don’t need proof. And you know my old saying….”

  “If it looks like a duck, waddles like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it usually is a duck,” Devon recited. “And I agree with you. There are way too many discrepancies. So now what?”

  “Now we figure out why Rhodes was killed and by who.”

  “Probably the same person who killed Frederick.” Devon put a forkful of salad in her mouth, chewing and swallowing thoughtfully. “That lets James off the hook.”

  “He never left Florida,” Monty agreed. “I already checked that out. Which doesn’t mean he’s not involved. It just means he didn’t pull the trigger.” A frown. “You’re seeing him Sunday night.”

  “And Blake tomorrow night,” Devon added in reminder.

  “Assuming he’s up for it. He’s the one who found Rhodes’s body. He was pretty shaken up.” Monty’s frown deepened. “I got the feeling the suicide ruling wasn’t sitting right with him, either. I’m not sure why.”

  Devon put down her fork. “The other night, Blake mentioned that Chomping at the Bit needed to tap into the contacts and suppliers of the food-services division. That meant his working closely with both Frederick and Philip.” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and interlacing her fingers. “He implied that James might try to sabotage his efforts and undermine him now that Frederick’s gone. I have no idea if any of this is connected, but it does put all three people who were targeted this past week center stage.”

  “True. It’s worth looking into. So are the surveillance tapes from the Pierson building—the ones taken last night. Although I’d bet my bottom dollar they won’t show anything.”

  “You think the killer was already inside.”

  “Yup. I think he or she works at Pierson. I think he or she framed Rhodes for Frederick’s murder, then killed him, leaving the building via the delivery entrance. I don’t know if Rhodes was squeaky-clean or not, but I’d be willing to bet he planned to tell Edward Pierson everything. The killer couldn’t have that. Which reminds me. I’m going to see if I can get someone to check out Rhodes’s hard drive. Assuming he had something incriminating, the killer might have deleted it.”

  Monty paused, leveling a hard stare at his daughter. “Back to Blake Pierson. Given the rapport you two have, do you think you can get him to open up to you?”

  “If you’re asking if Blake’s attraction to me is going to make him spill his guts, the answer is no.”

  Another pause, this one longer and more intense. “You’re in pretty deep.”

  “I don’t know that.” Exasperation laced Devon’s tone. “How could you?”

  “Call it father’s intuition.”

  Devon averted her gaze, fiddling with the edge of her napkin. “Let’s leave your intuition out of this, okay? In fact, let’s avoid the whole subject of my personal life—especially since I’m not sure yet if Blake Pierson factors into it. My focus right now is helping you solve this case, and getting Mom safely home. It’s possible that Blake is actively involved in keeping that from happening. Until I’m sure how deep his role in all this goes, I’m not thinking ahead.”

  “In that case, you should be eager to get him to lower his guard tomorrow night. The sooner he tells you what he’s not saying, the sooner you can decide if he’s worth thinking ahead about.”

  THE DRIVER OF the maroon coupe eyeballed the diner, then flipped open his cell phone and punched up a number.

  “Still having dinner with Daddy,” he reported. “Probably strategizing. No problem. I’m sure they’ll have a follow-up call tomorrow. I’ll get the audio.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The drive to Blake’s brownstone was nothing like Devon had imagined.

  It wasn’t because of her nerves, although she had major butterflies in her stomach. And it wasn’t because of Blake’s mood, although he was obviously on edge, thanks to the media circus following the second violent death striking Pierson & Company this week.

  No, it was because of Chomper.

  Blake had picked up his pup right before swinging by Devon’s place. And between Chomper’s high energy level and his sheer delight at seeing Devon, he was a virtual jumping machine all the way from White Plains to Manhattan. So rather than tension, the silver Jag was instead filled with playful scuffling and fits of laughter.

  “We’re lucky we didn’t have an accident,” Blake declared when they were finally inside his building. “Chomper’s a menace.”

  “He just needs some car rules,” Devon returned, shrugging out of her coat and bending down to scratch Chomper’s ears. “And a designated area in the car that’s his—one that has a fixed perimeter. You might think of trading in your Jag for a nice SUV. Chomper will thank you for it.”

  Blake hung their coats away, his lips twisting into a grin. “I have a truck up at the farm. Chomper’s partial to it. Before I enrolled him in obedience classes, he didn’t spend much time in the Jag. We usually walk here in the city. But I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”

  “Do that.” Devon stepped farther into the foyer, crossing her arms and vigorously rubbing the sleeves of her angora sweater to warm herself up. “It’s freezing out tonight.”

  “Easily remedied.” Blake led her into the living room, where he turned on the gas fireplace. “Sit,” he invited, gesturing toward the sofa. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine, then get dinner started.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Entertain your biggest fan.” Blake indicated Chomper, who’d followed Devon into the living room and plopped down near the sofa, gazing expectantly in her direction. “The fish is all seasoned and ready to go into the oven. And I made the dill sauce before I drove up to White Plains, secret ingredient and all. It’s in the fridge, along with the rest of dinner. I only need a few minutes to get things together. We’ll be eating in a half h
our.”

  Devon inclined her head, running her fingers through her hair and watching Blake with a bemused expression. “Now this is a side of you I didn’t expect,” she confessed. “The homebody and gourmet chef.”

  “Don’t get carried away,” Blake retorted, going to the sideboard and opening a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. “Until I got Chomper, I was rarely home. Now that I am, takeout’s the name of the game. I cook about once a month, if that. As for the gourmet part, reserve judgment until you’ve tasted the fish.”

  “Fair enough. Actually, I’m the same way. I’m home at night for my pets, and because after a day of work I’m too tired to move. Even so, I rarely cook. But when I do, I’m pretty good.”

  “Great.” Blake handed her a glass of wine as she sank down on the sofa. “Next meal’s on you. We’ll see who does better.”

  Devon rolled her eyes. “I knew it. Another competition. And here you’d almost convinced me that this was nothing more than a nice, quiet dinner meant to help me relax.”

  “It’s both.” Blake set his glass down on the coffee table. “Be right back.” He headed off to the kitchen.

  Devon leaned back, sipping her wine and scratching Chomper’s ears.

  Five minutes passed, then ten.

  The fire felt good, warming Devon’s skin as the wine warmed her senses. A soothing, lethargic feeling settled over her, and she yawned, wriggling more comfortably on the sofa and sinking back into the cushions. She could scarcely keep her eyes open. Obviously, she was more worn-out than she’d realized.

  A faint perception drifted through her mind. A noise of some sort—an insect maybe? She frowned, swatting at her ear.

  There it was again. That annoying buzz.

  Chomper exploded into action—barking, leaping up from her feet, and taking off.

  The buzz wasn’t an insect. It was someone at the door.

  Devon jerked upright, groggy and vaguely aware that she’d fallen asleep. Chomper was nothing more than a golden streak disappearing around the corner. Blake was at his heels, striding through the hall and toward the front door.

  An instant later, Devon heard it swing open.

  “Hello, Blake.” A woman’s voice. “I thought you could use some company. When you left the office, you looked like death. Not that I blame you. Finding Philip the way you did…” Revulsion laced her tone. “Anyway, I thought I’d drop over and—”

  “Now’s not a good time,” Blake interrupted.

  Devon was suddenly and completely awake. She recognized that voice. It belonged to Louise Chambers.

  “You’re wrong,” Louise was saying. “It’s the perfect time. We’ve both had a hellish week. We’re both dodging the media. We can do that together.”

  “I have company,” Blake bit out.

  “Company.” Louise digested that news with more than a little irritation. “Family or friends?”

  This was too good to pass up.

  Devon rose, combing her hair with her fingers and marching to the foyer. “Blake?” she called as she rounded the bend and Louise came into view. “I think I smell something burning. Should I check on the—oh, excuse me.” She came to a halt, her expression rife with fabricated surprise. “I didn’t realize anyone was here. Ms. Chambers, isn’t it?” She gave Louise a bright smile. “We met the other day.”

  “Yes, we did.” Louise was clearly choking on her words and on her smile. “Dr. Montgomery. Nice to see you.”

  “Please—it’s Devon.” Devon shifted her innocent gaze to Blake. “I didn’t realize Ms. Chambers would be joining us for dinner.”

  “She’s not.” Blake’s lids were hooded, his jaw set. He was pissed off. Whether it was because Louise had intruded or because her unwelcome timing was a glaring proclamation that there really was something going on between them and he’d lied through his teeth—that remained to be seen.

  “I appreciate your concern, Louise.” There was a definite note of finality in his tone. “But I’m hanging in. We all are.”

  Enough time had passed for Louise to regain her composure. “Of course we are. There’s no other choice.” She flashed another, equally plastic smile at Devon. “I’m sorry I intruded—Devon. Enjoy your dinner.”

  “Thank you—Louise. And you enjoy your evening.”

  Blake shut the door and turned around, arms folded across his chest. “What was that?”

  “You tell me,” Devon shot back. “I think it was the woman you’re not seeing and not friends with, dropping by to offer you comfort in bed.”

  “I know what that was. What was your little one-woman show? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were staking your claim, and warning Louise to back off.”

  Devon bristled. “That goes to show how arrogant you are. This has nothing to do with staking a claim. It’s exposing a lie. Being cryptic is one thing. Lying is another.”

  Blake glared back. “I wasn’t lying. Louise and I are colleagues. Before last week, we never spoke outside the office. But she was pretty freaked out by Frederick’s death. So she’s called a couple of times. We’ve talked. Period.”

  “And this impromptu visit?”

  “Her first. She’s never been here. I’ve never been to her place. And, for the record, I resent like hell being interrogated. If I didn’t want to get past these ridiculous misconceptions of yours, I’d be ripping mad. So, for the last time, I’m not sleeping with Louise, seeing Louise, or palling around with Louise.”

  “She’d obviously love to change that.”

  “I’m not responsible for Louise’s agenda, only my own. Now, do I go back to the kitchen and make dinner, or do I take you to bed the way I’ve wanted to since last Sunday?”

  Devon’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. “What?”

  “You heard me. Which is it?”

  “Bed.” The word was out before Devon could censor it. Not that she would have. She wanted Blake as much as he wanted her.

  His gaze darkened at her reply, and he leaned forward, yanking her against him. He tilted up her chin and covered her mouth with his in a kiss that blew their last one out of the water.

  Sensation roared to life, and Devon gave a soft, shaky moan, wrapping her arms around Blake and throwing herself into the moment. She pressed closer, slanting her lips against his and deepening the kiss.

  Blake’s mouth ate at hers, and his hands slid under her bottom, lifting her and fitting the contours of her body to his. She wriggled against him, raising her legs to hug his flanks, whimpering at the friction of his erection rubbing against the sensitive skin between her thighs. Even through their layers of clothes, the sensation was exquisite.

  Muttering something hot and unintelligible, Blake backed Devon to the staircase, half walking, half carrying her up to the second floor and around the bend to the master bedroom. She was tugging at his sweater as he crossed the threshold, and he set her on her feet beside the bed, dragging the sweater over his head and flinging it aside. They stared at each other for one burning moment, their breath coming in short, hard pants.

  “You’re sure?” he managed in a gravelly tone.

  “Very.” Devon tugged off her own sweater, dropping it onto the carpet.

  “Let me.” Blake moved closer, unhooking her bra and gliding the straps down her shoulders. Sparks glinted in his eyes, and his hands followed his gaze, molding her breasts in a lingering caress that sent lightning bolts of heat shooting through her.

  Devon’s eyes slid shut, and a hard shudder ran through her as his thumbs grazed her nipples. She reached for his slacks, fumbling with the zipper as he pulled her against him, rubbing her naked breasts across his bare chest.

  “Blake—don’t,” she choked out. “This is torture.”

  His response was to lower her onto the bed, breaking away long enough to shed the rest of his clothes. He chucked them aside, then turned his attention to Devon, who’d just squirmed out of her slacks. He made quick work of her thong, then lowered himself onto her, pressing her into the mattress and to
uching every inch of her body with his.

  She arched to increase the sensations, biting her lip at the enormity of the physical pleasure. It was almost painful in its intensity. Blake muttered her name, his mouth hot against her skin, kissing her neck, her throat, her breasts. He went very still, then abruptly pushed up on his forearms, staring down at her with a burning amber gaze.

  “I have to get inside you.” Sweat beaded his forehead, and his thighs were already wedging hers apart.

  She nodded fervently, too aroused to speak. She was as wild for this as he was, her lower body lifting for his, her legs shifting to accommodate him.

  His penis probed at the entrance to her body—once, twice—then pushed inexorably inside. He didn’t go slow. She wouldn’t let him. Her hands balled into fists, pushing at the base of his spine, urging him into her. He didn’t pause until he was all the way there, and even then, he pushed deeper.

  Devon would have screamed if she hadn’t been so focused on the exquisite point of pleasure coiling tight inside her. It was just out of reach, and she’d die if she didn’t get there.

  “Blake…” She heard the frantic plea in her own voice, felt the helpless arching of her body.

  So did he.

  With a muffled groan, Blake withdrew, then pushed back into her, gripping her bottom as he deepened his presence inside her, going that infinitesimal distance farther, closer to where she needed him to be.

  Abruptly, he swore, muscles tensing as he went deadly still. “Dammit…” His teeth were clenched against a peak that was roaring down on them with the force and speed of a tidal wave. “Not yet…Not…yet…”

  “Yes…now.” Devon negated his intentions, her head tossing back and forth on the pillow. She was frantic, so desperate for release she was shaking with it. “Now, now, now.”

  The first tiny spasms began deep inside her, and Blake lost the battle in a rush. He withdrew a fraction, only to thrust all the way back in and then some. Devon cried out, her climax slamming through her with dizzying force. She convulsed again and again, her body shuddering helplessly as the pinnacle spun out in hot rings of sensation, draining her, milking him.