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“Already?”
“Yeah. All it took was a simple Web search.”
“So she’s in D.C.?”
“Yup. Six feet under.”
THIRTY
Barbara Stevens came into the office on Sunday specifically to meet with the private investigator Morgan had hired. She’d never met with a PI before, nor had she ever been put in the position of compromising the confidentiality she offered her clients.
But this time was different. This time it meant trying to catch a killer—Lara’s killer.
For that, she’d push her ethics to the limit. She wouldn’t blindside her client. She’d contact her, ask for her understanding—and an explanation. Then she’d act accordingly.
When Barbara had reached Morgan last night to set up this meeting, Morgan had told her about the events of the past week. So Barbara had a pretty good idea which client it was.
Consequently, she’d come in early to review the particular file she had in mind. Then she’d make the necessary phone call.
It never dawned on her that the client in question would call her first.
AN HOUR LATER, Monty bounded up the front steps to the Healthy Healing Counseling Center. He rang the bell, and Barbara Stevens let him in immediately, introducing herself and taking his coat. She seemed warm, gracious, and terribly troubled—especially when her gaze shifted to the Tyvek in his hand.
“I appreciate your seeing me on a Sunday,” Monty began. “I wouldn’t have barged in on your day off if this wasn’t so important.”
“Actually, your timing is perfect. A client of mine just arrived. She’ll be joining us for this meeting.”
“Huh?” Monty stared.
“Trust me, Detective. She’ll be able to answer your questions far better than I. Ironically, you were next on her call list. I saved her the time and trouble. She needs you as much as you need her. Come. She’s waiting in my office.”
Mystified, Monty followed Barbara through the reception area and to the adjacent office.
He walked inside and did a double take as the tall, slender woman in the chair adjacent to Barbara’s desk rose, raking a hand through her red-gold hair and regarding Monty with wide, frightened eyes.
“Hello, Detective,” Karly Fontaine said. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was about to call you when Barbara told me you two had an appointment. So I raced over. I desperately need your services. I’ll pay you whatever it takes.”
The Karly Fontaine standing in front of Monty bore little resemblance to the polished executive he’d met with at the Lairman Modeling Agency. Her face was devoid of makeup, her hair was simple rather than styled, and she wore a casual fleece sweatsuit and sheepskin boots. She looked ten years younger, and like a lost girl.
“You want to hire me,” Monty replied, purposely remaining detached until he’d assessed the situation. “That’s unexpected. But judging from what Ms. Stevens just told me, we have a common interest. Which, to me, can only mean that your sudden desperate need for my help has some connection to Monday’s hit-and-run.”
“Not just to the hit-and-run—to the entire investigation you’re conducting for Morgan Winter.”
“Very cryptic. You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me to take on your case. I’m a full-disclosure kind of guy.”
“Good. Full disclosure’s what I need, along with a private detective who’s smart enough, good enough, to offer protection and resolution.” Karly folded her arms across her breasts, rubbing her shoulders as if to bring warmth back into them. “I’ll start out by saving you the trouble of questioning Barbara about that Tyvek you’re holding. I sent it to Morgan. The business card’s Lara’s. The note, she wrote to me. And the Post-it, I wrote to Morgan
. You’re welcome to compare handwriting samples, if you don’t believe me.”
One of Monty’s brows rose. Definitely a revelation he hadn’t expected. But one look at Karly’s face was all it took to convince him. “I believe you. I have a ton of questions, but I’ll start with the simplest. If Lara’s note was meant for you, then who the hell’s J?”
“I am.”
“Janice is the name we assigned to Carol—excuse me, to Karly—when she came to Healthy Healing and to Lara’s shelter,” Barbara explained. “That’s how we protected our clients. We never used their real names in our files.” She gestured for Monty to take a seat. “Since this is obviously going to take a while, I brewed a pot of coffee. Would you like some?”
“The tallest mug you’ve got, thanks.” Monty sank down into a chair, still studying Karly. “Lara Winter helped you. How? Were you being abused?”
“All my life,” Karly replied, in the flat tone of someone who’d survived hell and been numbed by it. “Starting with a string of men who locked me in my room while they had a great time with my mother. And leading up to a sick bastard of a stepfather who sexually abused me from the day he married my mother when I was eleven, to three years later when he tied me up and raped me.”
