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That left Monty with several paths he could take.
He could interview Karly Fontaine and Rachel Ogden, assuming Rachel’s doctor would let him speak with her. He could lean on his contacts and start the ball rolling on what the real scoop was with Charlie Denton—assuming there was one. Or he could stop by and chat with Elyse Shore, see if his long-shot theory about her odd behavior had any merit.
He planned to do all three. The question was, which first. He had four hours before Morgan showed up at his office. The more information he could give her, the better. Therefore, the best use of his time would be to spend it on areas he could make rapid progress on.
Karly Fontaine and Rachel Ogden could wait. Ditto for Charlie Denton. The women were better deferred until Morgan had provided him with both their full backgrounds and profiles. And digging up dirt on Charlie Denton would require caution and stealth. It would also take a lot more time, and involve peeling back a lot more layers.
But Elyse Shore—now that was intriguing.
Agenda set, he made a few calls to start the ball rolling on Charlie Denton, then headed over to Third Avenue and Elyse Shore’s gym.
The bell over the front door tinkled when Monty stepped inside. Not that anyone heard it. There was too much noise coming from the revving Lifecycles and whirring treadmills, plus the adrenaline-pumping background music thumping out the rapid pace of an aerobic class being held in a glass-enclosed exercise room.
Monty glanced around the place and blinked. He felt like he’d stepped into a resort spa. A cluster of exercise areas—all filled with jumping, spinning, or kickboxing people—filled the back wall. There was a whirlpool center, a yoga room, a complete smoothie bar, and enough heart-rate-increasing and weight-lifting equipment to train an Olympic team. The entire gym was accented in white marble and water colors, with seashell white, aerobic-friendly carpet, sand-hued yoga mats, and soothing aqua walls.
The clientele looked like they’d been plucked out of a fashion magazine. The women were slim and toned, the men were muscled with six-pack abs, and the instructors and trainers were walking fitness advertisements.
Monty found himself thinking he was glad he’d kept in shape and that he still ran through his daily exercise regimen. A guy with a gut would probably be shot on sight.
He scanned the room, spotted Elyse Shore standing beside the sweeping curved front desk, chatting with a member. She was wearing black yoga pants and a matching Lycra bodysuit, a damp towel draped around her neck. Clearly, she’d just finished giving a class. Good. Monty’s timing was perfect.
She didn’t notice him right away, which gave him a minute or two to scrutinize her.
Jonah wasn’t wrong. She did look wired. And wrung out, too, lines of sleeplessness etched beneath her skillfully applied makeup. It wasn’t only fatigue. It was something more, even if it was well hidden. Pain. Resignation. If Monty had to guess, he’d say she’d been crying. Her eyes were a little too bright and the area around them was slightly puffy.
She must have sensed his scrutiny, because she turned her head in his direction and blinked in surprise. Instantly, the facade snapped back into place—although she still looked taut and anxious. Excusing herself, she walked over.
Her first question told Monty the cause of her anxiety.
“Detective—why are you here? Is everything all right with Morgan?”
Motherly concern. That was only natural under the circumstances.
Maybe more so, depending on how extreme the circumstances were.
“She’s fine,” he assured her. “I was just hoping to have a quick word with you. Is that possible?”
“Of course.” Elyse didn’t hesitate. She pointed toward the spacious front office—a marble-and-chrome eye-catcher, then headed toward it, gesturing for him to follow. “We can talk in my office.”
Once inside, Elyse shut the door. “Water?” she asked, opening a small fridge and pulling out two bottles.
“That would be great.” Monty took the proffered bottle, twisted off the cap, and took a gulp.
Elyse did the same, then perched at the edge of the desk. “What can I do for you?”
“You can answer a question.” Monty’s stare and delivery were direct. “Since the reopening of the Winter homicides, have you experienced anything out of the ordinary? Letters? Phone calls? Threats to your family?”
All the color drained from Elyse’s face, and Monty had his answer.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I understand you weren’t yourself yesterday afternoon. And the timing of your uncharacteristic behavior coincided with a hit-and-run accident that took place near the St. Regis. I’m sure you heard about it. The thing is, there’s a common denominator between the victim and an eyewitness of that crime: Morgan. So, if something was going on with you at the same time that Rachel Ogden was mowed down—like if you or your family were being threatened—then that ‘accident’ might not have been an accident at all.”
“Oh God.” Elyse sank down behind her desk, gulping some water as if it were a lifeline. “I kept telling myself I was being paranoid, that my nerves were shot. But based on what you’re saying, and what happened yesterday, I’m deluding myself. It’s all been planned and deliberate.”
“What has?”
Elyse ran both hands through her hair, visibly trying to calm down. “I’ve been getting telephone hang-ups. Here. Home. My cell.”
