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“I don’t think so. Not that I saw. He referred to Frederick’s suspicions about his activities and how cornered he felt. He might have said more. I just don’t remember. I guess I was in shock.”
“Probably,” Monty agreed. “It’s not every day you find a dead body at your workplace. Even rarer that it’s the body of a valued employee and longtime friend—and one who died a violent, if conveniently timed, death. Don’t bother with your water. I’d advise having a stiff drink.”
Blake’s gaze narrowed. “Is that some kind of cryptic accusation?”
“No accusation. Just thirty years of experience. I’m still on the fence as to whether or not this was a suicide. I’ll reserve judgement until I’ve talked to the crime-scene investigators, the M.E., and Midtown North.”
“What are you saying?” Edward demanded. “You think this was murder?”
“I’m saying I’m a tough sell.” Monty shrugged. “Especially with everything that’s gone down this week.” He turned and walked to the door. “I’m heading over to the precinct to have a word with the detective assigned to this case. Hopefully, he’s someone I know, and he’ll share a few of the facts. If nothing else, I’ll get a glimpse of the alleged suicide note.” He paused in the doorway, looked at Edward. “No other phone calls last night?”
“Hmm—what?” Edward’s blank expression transformed to hollow awareness. “You mean the extortionist? No. He never called. Does that mean he
is—was—Rhodes? That Philip was our blackmailer?”
Monty shrugged again. “Maybe. Or maybe our blackmailer framed and killed Rhodes. We’ll see.” He reached for the doorknob. “I’m out of here. You follow your doctor’s instructions. Try to take it easy. I’ll be in touch.”
DEVON STEPPED OUT of surgery at one thirty-five to find a healthy pile of morning lab reports to review and the usual number of pink message slips.
She wasn’t expecting three of those to be from Monty. She certainly wasn’t expecting them to say things like sooner than ASAP and urgent.
She darted into her office and punched up his cell.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Devon. Good.”
The instant she heard his voice, she knew something was very wrong. “What is it?” she asked. “Is it Mom?”
“No. No news about your mother.” Monty was responding to her question and subtly reminding her that they weren’t on the Bat Phone. “It’s Philip Rhodes. He’s dead. Gunshot to the head. It happened in the office. The media’s swarming all over the place. I didn’t want you to hear the news and freak out. I’m fine.”
“Another death linked to the Piersons?” Devon sank into her chair, her mind quickly processing this. “Was it murder or suicide?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. I’m outside Midtown North now, swallowing a hot dog. I’ll know more later. Can you grab dinner with me tonight?”
“Just us?”
“Yeah.”
Devon understood. Monty wanted to bounce the situation around with her. And he didn’t want to do it in front of Merry, who’d always been too sensitive to sit in on these crime-solving brainstorming sessions.
“I can grab a train to the city as soon as I finish here,” Devon said. “That should be around six, unless we have an emergency.”
“No. I’ll drive up to you. It’ll save time. I’ll pick you up at the clinic. We can eat at the diner on Main Street.”
“Done.” Devon paused. “You don’t think it’s suicide, do you?”
“Nope. See you later.”
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.”
