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“You’re worried about Lane—because he’s seeing me?”
“Nope. It’s the other way around. Lane’s not the one I’m worried about. You are. I don’t want you getting hurt. I told that to Lane, too—in no uncertain terms.” A wry grin. “I told you the situation was ironic.”
Morgan felt oddly touched. She and Detective Montgomery had just grazed each other’s lives—once, seventeen years ago, and again now—and yet there’d been a paternal quality to his behavior toward her from day one. And the funny thing was, she not only understood it, she reciprocated in kind. The bond they’d forged the night her parents had been killed, the way she trusted and respected him, the way she turned to him when she needed help—Pete Montgomery was definitely a father figure to her. Not in the same way as Arthur was; he’d raised her since she was ten. But in a distinct and different way that was hard to describe.
“I understand,” she said simply. Contemplating the rest of what he’d said, she asked, “So did you manage to scare Lane off?”
One dark brow lifted in pointed response. “You talked to him—did it sound to you like I did?”
“I guess not.”
“And I guess you’re glad.” Monty went on, evidently deciding a reply wasn’t necessary. “Okay, I get it. I’m relieved to know that whatever vibes I’m picking up on are mutual. So, I’m out of this.” A pause. “Almost. First some advice. Stay grounded. You’ve got a good, level head. You’ve also got a quick mind and a sharp tongue. They’ll keep my son in his place.”
“Check,” Morgan quipped. “Anything else?”
“No, that about covers it.”
“Then you’re safe. I’m not the type to be swept off my feet. Not even by a charmer like your son.” Morgan sobered. “To be honest, I think Wednesday night will be good for me. Lane has a way of distracting me, keeping me from obsessing over my darkest moments. And given the afternoon you and I have planned for tomorrow, what we’ll be delving into, a distraction won’t be just welcome. It’ll be crucial.”
Lines creased Monty’s forehead. “You can still change your mind about going through the crime-scene photos.”
“No.” An adamant shake of her head. “We both know that without digging into the past, we won’t get the answers we need. And that thought is more terrifying to me than anything I’ll have to face tomorrow.”
“I can’t argue that point.” Monty polished off his coffee and rose. “I have to get back to Lane’s. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
“Detective…” She stopped him from leaving without some tangible reassurance. “You’ll call me if you find anything significant?”
“Yes, but don’t expect any overnight miracles. Lane’s lectured me repeatedly that what he does is a precise, detailed, and lengthy process. So you and I are going to have to conjure up some patience. If anything does turn up sooner rather than later, you’ll hear from me. Also, I’ll call you in the morning if I learn something about the hit-and-run.” He turned, gave her a questioning look. “As for our afternoon get-together, do you want to meet here? Or would it be easier to do this on more neutral turf?”
“More neutral and less harried,” Morgan murmured, folding her arms across her breasts. “Why don’t I come to your office?”
“If you can break away, that would make more sense.”
“I’ll be there.”
Nodding, Monty headed for the staircase. “Get some sleep,” he instructed over his shoulder. “And start eating, or I’ll rat you out to Lenny. In which case, he and Rhoda will send over a U-Haul of cold cuts and noodle pudding.”
“Too late.” Morgan followed him downstairs, plucking his parka off the coatrack and handing it to him. “Arthur already blabbed. My fridge is so full, it groans when I open it.”
“Then empty it by eating.” Monty gave her a long, stern look. “You’ve got to stay strong. Not just emotionally, but physically.”
“I realize that, Detective. I promise to do my best.”
“Do that. By the way, now that I’ve stuck my nose in your personal life and nagged you about your health, can we cut the formalities? Call me Monty.”
She shifted a bit. “That’s going to be hard. You’re a police detective. I met you as a child. You were bigger than life. You still are.”
“Interesting. You were raised by a famous politician. Do you call him Congressman Shore?”
Morgan’s lips twitched. “I see your point. Okay, you win. I’ll try—Monty.”
“See how easy that was?” Monty shrugged into his parka. “Now lock up behind me. Read a book. Put on a CD. Or go upstairs and join Jill. Get into frog position, or whatever the hell it’s called. See you tomorrow.”
OUTSIDE THE BROWNSTONE, Monty didn’t waste a minute. He punched up Lane’s number as he started on the brisk walk back.
“Hey,” his son greeted him. “Are you on your way?”
“As we speak. Tell me about that extra negative.”
