by Janet Dailey
Compulsively, he’d reviewed the security footage in secret, over and over. It was all too easy to click it open, study it again. Looking for . . . he didn’t know what he was looking for. Last night he had been nearly hypnotized by audio of the young woman’s soft voice and Bannon’s answering drawl, and their endless back-and-forth about Ann. When they had entered his daughter’s room—and looked at her portrait—he’d wanted to smash the laptop screen. Smash them.
Ann was dead. Something inside him had died with her. And the place where his heart had been was still empty. He had given up on everything but making money long ago.
Montgomery’s abstracted gaze moved over the framed photos on the wall. The largest and most recent showed Caroline at the Hunt Ball last February, the center of all eyes, escorted by her father into a vast, chandeliered room crowded with the Virginia horses-and-hounds set, dressed to the nines. Caro was decked out in a strapless black satin evening gown and long black gloves.
A strategic choice to conceal her lack of an engagement ring.
Her slender fingers clutched her father’s sleeve. Caroline was desperate to marry and have a child. Montgomery’s child. They’d had a spectacular fight about both only an hour before the glamorous photo had been taken. Her flawless makeup covered every trace of her tears and red-faced shrieking. He’d been more than happy that night to hand her over to her father, Hamp Loudon, and let the old man do the honors. He himself was nowhere to be seen in the picture.
He should never have allowed a woman that young—thirty-two to his sixty-seven—into his life, let alone his house. She would have been a fool not to try to cement her social and financial position by marrying him, and Caro Loudon was not a fool. As she saw it, she was entitled to an answer one way or another, and soon. Montgomery had put her off too long. Even certain members of her family, stalwarts of Old Dominion society, were dropping hints and asking pointed questions about his intentions. Evidently they assumed he was rich, so rich he ought to rescue them, starting with their only daughter.
The thought made him want to laugh. He could have told them long ago that old money was just as easy to squander as the new kind. The Loudon fortune had been frittered away in one ill-advised investment after another.
At least someone else had done that. Montgomery didn’t have her family’s financial ruin on his conscience. Caro would never be upgraded from girlfriend to fiancée, but it wasn’t because she was penniless. In any case, she never admitted that. And for some reason, she seemed to think he didn’t know that old Hamp Loudon’s money was long gone. He knew.
He looked at the photo again. She was utterly beautiful, pale blond hair upswept, her slender neck encircled by diamond-clasped pearls, and her body on full display in that simple but sexy black strapless gown.
That kind of simplicity didn’t come cheap. He’d paid the couturier’s staggeringly expensive bill from one of his personal accounts. The other accounts, U.S. and offshore, were emptying faster than his best efforts to refill them.
Montgomery straightened up in his chair, shuffling through the papers in front of him in a futile way. Going through the motions. Just last night he had chatted up a few potential clients at the party after the horse auction. What a waste of time. Hedge funds were falling out of fashion, it seemed. Heirs and heiresses and even the nouveau riche kept a tight grip on their money these days.
He’d had better luck at that Hunt Ball. It was the social event of the season in this part of Virginia, and he’d had to put on a good show. Neither he nor Caro could afford to look shabby.
That was the price of success—his accountant’s turn of phrase. The words haunted him.
He frowned when he heard Caroline’s footsteps click back toward the study, louder and louder. Her voice floated his way. “Honey? Want to kiss and make up?”
Montgomery didn’t answer. He pressed a hidden spring under the desktop and the recess appeared under it. He whisked most of the paper and envelopes in, covering the laptop. A half-completed form from his bank went in last. Caroline didn’t need to know that he was removing his lost daughter as beneficiary of the trust. Or that the two million in it would automatically revert to him.
He wasn’t going to use it to pay anyone back. Or marry her. It was small change compared to what he’d had not long ago, but it was all he had left in liquid assets.
“Monty? Honey? Are you in there?” There was an anxious note in her question.
“Yes,” he answered irritably. His hands paused on the papers he’d left on the desktop. For show. Like the computer to his left. He tapped a key to bring its screen back.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” She paused in the open doorway, her striking curves silhouetted in the light from the hall beyond as she raised one slender arm to smooth her hair, the bracelet on her arm jingling faintly. Her white cashmere sweater clung to her body, rising up just a little over skintight designer jeans that looked anything but casual. “I started that fight, I guess.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s over.” He forced his voice to stay steady.
She entered the room, looking at him, then at the desk.
“What are you doing?”
“Routine paperwork. It has nothing to do with you. Not bills.”
“Oh.” A mix of relief and resentment glittered in her beautiful eyes as she tried to make out the paper under his hand. She pouted. “That looks sort of like a bill.”
“It’s part of a financial report. Go ahead and read it. I don’t care.” He turned the paper around and pushed it toward her.
She changed her mind when she glanced at it. “Never mind. It’s all numbers and percentages. I can’t make head or tail of that stuff.”
“Really? I would have thought otherwise.”
She walked into the room and flung herself down on the sofa, arranging herself as if she were modeling for Town & Country, a habit of hers that used to amuse him. Now it grated.
“You should teach me,” she said coaxingly. “Why do you keep all the desk drawers locked, anyway?”
He raised a steel gray eyebrow. “What an old-fashioned question. Suspicious women snoop online these days. Not in desks.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Monty.” Her wheedling voice went up a notch.
He got up and took a small key from a glass dish on the mantel. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know where this was.”
“I didn’t. Honestly.”
He beckoned to her and she rose from the sofa and sauntered to his side. One by one he unlocked the drawers, watching her face as she looked down at neat arrangements of pens and pencils and paper clips, legal pads and steel-engraved stationery.
Caroline stooped a little to take a monogrammed envelope from the drawer, her charm bracelet jingling again as she ran a fingertip over the engraved M on the flap. “Do you use these?”
“Not often.”
“I would. How does Caroline Montgomery sound to you?” she asked softly. “I’m ready.”
That was a sentiment he didn’t share. “You’ll have to wait,” he replied.
Her lips thinned with disappointment. “I’ve been waiting. For quite a while. Daddy says—”
“Once and for all, Caroline, I don’t care what your father thinks. You’re a big girl. Make up your own mind.”
She tossed the envelope back in the drawer. “I think I have.”
He got up, towering over her. To Caroline’s credit, she didn’t shrink back. “Are you going to leave me?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“Answer me, Caro. Yes or no.” Montgomery came around the huge desk and took her in his arms. But there was nothing affectionate in the embrace. She struggled, pushing against his chest, staring up into his cold eyes.
“What’s the matter with you?” she cried.
“Nothing,” he said calmly. “Nothing at all.”
She broke free and ran from the room.
Montgomery stayed standing until her footsteps clattered down the double st
aircase and the massive front door slammed behind her. He heard the engine of her sports car screech as she threw it into gear and backed out and away.
Then he closed the study door and slid the brass bolt through its latch, locking himself in.
He went back to his desk and took out the laptop, brushing away the papers that covered it. He opened it, mechanically going through the process of starting it up, staring unseeingly at the icons popping up on the flowing screen one by one.
A round disc appeared. Montgomery House Security. He clicked on it.
Once more Bannon and the young woman walked through the house he’d grown up in, moving in and out of rooms he could never forget. She turned and looked up at a camera she didn’t know was there and Montgomery hit Pause.
Then he zoomed in on her face. Closer and closer, until she was nothing but eyes. Blue eyes. Beautiful and vulnerable. Just like Luanne’s. But that was a coincidence.
Montgomery stared into those eyes. He clenched his fist, not really aware that he had done so until a savage spasm tightened his fingers to the point of pain. His nails sank into his palm and he felt the wet heat of welling blood. Opening his hand with a start, he looked at the scratch, small but deep. He pressed his hand down hard on a piece of paper and held it there to stop the bleeding.
The eyes on the screen looked at him reproachfully. He stared back. It couldn’t be.
A Bible phrase, half-remembered, came to him: Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. The exact words escaped him.
Was he losing his mind? He clicked out of the screen and away from the young woman’s haunting gaze.
Getting and spending had consumed him for too many years. He forced himself to return to business. Somehow, he had to repay his investors and get the hell out of this shell game. He could wangle a mega-loan, use the Montgomery stud farm and stables for collateral, and see that every damn one of them got their money, and a little extra. Maybe not at the rate of interest they’d hoped for, but they had been advised of market variability beforehand.
Numbers. Money. Move it here, hide it there. Keeping the shell game going was never easy.
Two hours later, the files Montgomery was looking at on his laptop appeared on another screen fifty miles away. Someone else’s eyes, nearly colorless, blinked behind round lenses that reflected the details of Montgomery’s business yet again.
Far away in his ornate study, the router’s tiny lights flickered, delivering stolen data to the featureless room where three men sat staring into a single screen. Distantly, new numbers were entered by Montgomery into the grid. The totals on both sides automatically adjusted.
A little bloodshot by now, the colorless eyes widened. The hacker, a slouched, scruffy-haired kid in a college sweatshirt, spoke. “This guy is bleeding money.”
Hoebel, not in uniform, growled, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Paul blinked at him. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Figure out how to siphon some off. He might run. What do you think, Cutt?”
The third man, a lanky six-five, stretched out his legs and cursed when his sneakered foot connected with a metal chair. “For sure he’s gonna run. The only question is when. I got a GPS tracker on his car. I can do an intercept before he gets to the airport.”
Hoebel turned to him. “Don’t bother. He’s going to move the money electronically.”
“He can’t do that until he has it,” the hacker reminded him. Fast fingers jabbed at his keyboard. “Right now—hello, bank bot—it’s still in the trust account.” He pulled up a screen and turned the laptop around so Hoebel could view it. “Take a look.”
“Interesting. How’d you get in there?” the chief asked.
Paul pulled the laptop back in front of him. “I had a temp job at his bank my junior year. They told me it was a golden opportunity and they were right. I picked up a bunch of passwords and codes for my collection. They come in handy.”
Hoebel snorted. “When I was your age, I collected baseball caps.”
“Uh-huh.” Paul hummed to himself as he opened electronic files at top speed. “Just so you know, bank security is lame. Once you get past their firewalls, you can find out a lot. Anything else you need to know?”
Hoebel exchanged a look with Cutt before he replied to Paul’s question. “Yeah, kid. Do you keep your money in a bank?”
“No. Dude, my clients pay cash. Unmarked bills, low denominations—works for me. The side gig with Montgomery’s accountant makes me look legit. He takes out taxes and all that.”
Hoebel scowled. “C’mon, get out of there before the bank bot or whatever you called it sets off a warning. I don’t want this hack session traced back.”
Paul smirked. “It won’t be. I know what I’m doing.” He took off his glasses after he keyed up Montgomery’s screen again, polishing them before he peered at the spreadsheet. “No change. He must be having a beer.”
Hoebel grunted. “Hugh Montgomery? A shot of sixty-year-old single malt would be more like it.”
The hacker didn’t seem impressed. “Whatever. Want a screen grab of this?”
“Yeah. Get everything. And print it out.”
“Okay, boss.” In a few minutes a new grid appeared and Paul studied it as the two older men looked on, doing a screen grab before it vanished. A form replaced it. “Got a pdf now. Looks like a bank document.”
“I told you to get out of the bank’s computers.”
“Duh. I did,” Paul answered. He scanned the form. “It’s a trust kind of thing.” He read aloud. “‘Designated beneficiary: Ann Montgomery. ’ Hey, he’s changing that line. Now it’s blank.”
Hoebel leaned over his shoulder. “His daughter. That must be the reward he had out for her. It was held in a revocable trust. He can change it whenever he wants to.”
“Hold on. He clicked Undo.” The hacker zoomed in on the upper part of the form on his screen. “She’s the beneficiary again. What’s up with that? Isn’t she dead or something?”
“She’d better be,” Hoebel said in a low voice.
CHAPTER 7
Bannon settled himself into the sofa with his morning coffee. The cat was curled up in the corner of it—Babaloo hadn’t moved a muscle since late last night.
He wished he’d slept that easy. He hadn’t wanted to leave Erin last night, though she didn’t seem to be in immediate danger. On his way to his car, after she’d gone back inside, he’d taken a quick but thorough look around the outside of her house, out of habit. He didn’t know what he was looking for. She’d been nice enough to call him a half hour ago, just to check in. He hadn’t wanted to scare her and she hadn’t seemed scared.
That kiss they’d shared had been mind-melting. He would have to get that aspect of their budding relationship under strict control until he could ensure her safety.
He’d run through everything that happened yesterday, putting it through a reality filter. They might have been followed from the restaurant. He’d been too busy looking at her to remember much about that part of their afternoon. What had happened later—that was clear in his mind. He had seen something.
The Montgomery case had been complicated to begin with, and he’d only begun to work with what little he knew so far. He’d left a couple of messages for Doris, but he knew she wasn’t likely to call him back from work and she was probably on her way there now.
First things first. Erin lived alone and she needed protection. A solution to that problem had occurred to him. His brother Linc could probably help him out.
To reach him, he punched in a set of numbers he knew by heart and put a call through systems that weren’t public.
“Bannon?” his brother asked when he heard his voice.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“Aww, you remembered my code. I’m so touched.”
“I bet.”
Linc didn’t bother with small talk. He never had. “What’s up?”
“Linc, I need a dog for a while. You know some K-9 handlers for
the feds, right?”
“Yeah, I do.” His brother chuckled. “But that cat of yours can beat up any dog on earth. I should know, I gave him to you.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for a girl.”
There was a pause. “Oh. Then you want something fluffy and yappy. You know, a Handbagese. Go to a pet store. The people I know train big dogs.”
Bannon blew out an exasperated breath. “Linc, for cryin’ out loud, knock it off. I’m looking for a big dog that’s trained. A loaner. There’s a situation developing and she’s right in the middle of it—I kind of put her there. I have an obligation to protect her.”
“Does she have a name? Is she pretty?”
“Erin. She’s beautiful. Can we stick to the subject?”
His brother pretended to think that over. “Okay. But why do you need a dog? Can’t you just follow her around with a gun like a real man? Or hide her in your bed?”
“I thought about both,” he said wryly. “I don’t know her that well.”
“Tell me more,” Linc said with a resigned sigh.
“It has to do with the Montgomery kidnapping. Erin is an artist who did some paintings of the house where it happened and she contacted me on Facebook when she saw the interview on TV. She took me there to see the inside and now I think she’s being followed. I’m sure I am.”
“Why? Isn’t it a cold case?”
“Not that cold. There’s money at stake.”
“How much?”
“A couple mil. A reward, held in a trust that’s about to be dissolved.”
“And you think someone suspects she saw something or found something while she was in the old house. Am I making myself clear?”
“No.”
“Okay, your turn.”
Bannon kept his reply to the point. “I got famous for fifteen minutes and Montgomery and his lawyer warned me to stay the hell out of the case, but not in so many words. Anyway, she lives way out near the Blue Ridge, no other house for miles. I went to her house on a second date and I got the feeling we were being watched. From a distance, but watched. I hated the idea of leaving her alone, but what could I do?”