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“Good.” Monty sounded pleased. “I’ll catch her before that meeting.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Devon asked.
“Later.”
Devon sighed. “Fine. Blake and I are about to pack up and head home. I’m due at the clinic at eleven. I’ll be out by six. At which time you and I are meeting, either at my place or yours. Pick.”
“Yours. I’ll cook. Tell Blake he’s welcome. So’s Chomper. See you later.”
AT NINE TWENTY that morning, Louise Chambers turned her car over to the midtown parking attendant and walked toward Pierson & Company.
She was in a foul mood. A long drive, a stressful evening, and a sleepless night. And all for what? To see Blake take off with Devon Montgomery for a romantic night alone.
Her last-ditch effort to salvage things was dead in the water before it began.
She rode up in the elevator, unbuttoning her coat and trying to figure out if there was anything she could do to keep her long-term plan from backfiring. A quick fix was out. She’d have to bide her time—again. That had been her course of action for two-plus years. It was starting to get old.
Maybe it was time to give up.
The elevator doors opened, and she headed toward her office, murmuring good mornings to people as she passed.
She paused when she reached her secretary’s station. “Hi, Diana. Anything urgent? I’ve got a ten thirty meeting to prepare for.”
“A few messages. They can wait,” her secretary said brightly.
“Good. Hold my calls.”
Walking into her office, Louise put down her briefcase, hung away her coat, and sank down in her leather desk chair. She had a slew of papers to review before the meeting with Pierson’s key suppliers. Her concentration sucked, and her head was pounding.
She poured herself a glass of water and was swallowing two Tylenol when the door opened and Pete Montgomery strode in.
“Good morning,” he greeted Louise. “Glad I caught you.”
Something about his choice of words unnerved her.
“I’ve got a meeting to prepare for, Detective,” she informed him. “I should be free late this afternoon. Please check with my secretary and make an appointment.”
“That won’t work,” Monty replied, waving away the curt brush-off. “My situation trumps yours. It’s a matter in which—what’s that phrase you attorneys use? Oh yeah. Time is of the essence. But don’t worry. I won’t be here long.”
Before Louise could respond, Diana burst into the office. “I’m sorry,” she told her boss breathlessly, glancing from Louise to Monty. “I stepped away from my desk for a minute.”
“That’s all right, Diana.” Louise interlaced her fingers on her desk and stared Monty down. “I suspect the detective waited for that opportunity and used it to his advantage.” She nodded at Diana. “You can go. This meeting will be brief.”
Her secretary left the office, shutting the door behind her.
“Okay, Detective Montgomery, what’s this about?” Louise inquired. “I assumed you’d be barking up a more fruitful tree by now.”
A corner of Monty’s mouth lifted. “That depends on which aspect of this case I’m investigating. The one I’m here about sent me barking right to your office door.”
He perched on the edge of a chair. “Here’s the scoop. I have a client. A wealthy, decent man who’s crazy about his wife. Only she’s carrying on with some young stud. He hired me to get the goods on them. So I tailed them, watched them go at it like rabbits. Something about the whole scenario struck me as weird. Talk about staged photo ops. It was like she knew her husband had hired a PI and was trying to be as obvious as possible. Which would mean she wanted to get caught. But why? She and my client had a prenup. She’d never be awarded the hefty settlement she was angling for if he could prove she was screwing around. It just didn’t make sense.”
“How fascinating.” Louise’s tone and expression remained impassive.
Monty leaned forward. “Then I met with my client, and it all suddenly clicked. The guy was a mess, thanks to his wife. Physically shot. Weak. Sickly. During our meeting, he shoved a couple of nitroglycerin tablets under his tongue. That’s when I realized he had a heart condition. A serious one. The kind that could prove fatal if he were faced with a severe shock. You know, like the shock of seeing porn shots of his wife and her boy toy.”
Louise pinned Monty with a cold stare. “That’s a shame, Detective—although not exactly a unique scenario. What does it have to do with me?”
“Quite a bit. It got me thinking about Frederick Pierson’s wife, Emily. She had a heart condition, too. A serious, debilitating heart condition—not the recently acquired one you indicated during our chat. Because of it, she was a recluse. She stayed holed up in her apartment for years. Saw no one. Oh, except you.”
