Wrong Place, Wrong Time (23 page)

“Did he say he killed Frederick?”

“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.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“Where do I start?” Monty scowled. “To begin with, the note was typed and unsigned — strangely impersonal for a suicide. The telephone call to Edward Pierson was vague. Not a gut-spilling confession. Just some ambiguous fragments. Not even enough to make Pierson call the cops — which he’d do in a minute if he suspected Rhodes was involved in Frederick’s murder. Then there’s the slush fund Rhodes mentioned in his note, the one he was supposedly stealing from. Jenkins, my forensic accountant, never found a trace of it. And he’s the best there is.”

Monty paused to stick a french fry in his mouth. “There were no burn marks and no gunpowder residue on Rhodes’s face. Which suggests the thirty-eight wasn’t pressed to his temple. Also, crime scene didn’t find any powder residue on his hand.”

“I didn’t think they tested for that anymore,” Devon interrupted.

“They don’t. Too many false positives. But the absence of it tells me Rhodes didn’t fire that gun.”

“His prints were on it?”

“His and only his. That’s consistent with a homicide staged to look like a suicide.”

“What about the angle of the weapon?”

“Slightly downward.”

“Upward is more consistent with a suicide,” Devon remembered aloud. “Still, none of this constitutes proof.”

“I’m a PI now. I don’t need proof. And you know my old saying….”

“If it looks like a duck, waddles like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it usually
is
a duck,” Devon recited. “And I agree with you. There are way too many discrepancies. So now what?”

“Now we figure out why Rhodes was killed and by who.”

“Probably the same person who killed Frederick.” Devon put a forkful of salad in her mouth, chewing and swallowing thoughtfully. “That lets James off the hook.”

“He never left Florida,” Monty agreed. “I already checked that out. Which doesn’t mean he’s not involved. It just means he didn’t pull the trigger.” A frown. “You’re seeing him Sunday night.”

“And Blake tomorrow night,” Devon added in reminder.

“Assuming he’s up for it. He’s the one who found Rhodes’s body. He was pretty shaken up.” Monty’s frown deepened. “I got the feeling the suicide ruling wasn’t sitting right with him, either. I’m not sure why.”

Devon put down her fork. “The other night, Blake mentioned that Chomping at the Bit needed to tap into the contacts and suppliers of the food-services division. That meant his working closely with both Frederick and Philip.” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and interlacing her fingers. “He implied that James might try to sabotage his efforts and undermine him now that Frederick’s gone. I have no idea if any of this is connected, but it does put all three people who were targeted this past week center stage.”

“True. It’s worth looking into. So are the surveillance tapes from the Pierson building — the ones taken last night. Although I’d bet my bottom dollar they won’t show anything.”

“You think the killer was already inside.”

“Yup. I think he or she works at Pierson. I think he or she framed Rhodes for Frederick’s murder, then killed him, leaving the building via the delivery entrance. I don’t know if Rhodes was squeaky-clean or not, but I’d be willing to bet he planned to tell Edward Pierson everything. The killer couldn’t have that. Which reminds me. I’m going to see if I can get someone to check out Rhodes’s hard drive. Assuming he had something incriminating, the killer might have deleted it.”

Monty paused, leveling a hard stare at his daughter. “Back to Blake Pierson. Given the rapport you two have, do you think you can get him to open up to you?”

“If you’re asking if Blake’s attraction to me is going to make him spill his guts, the answer is no.”

Another pause, this one longer and more intense. “You’re in pretty deep.”

“
I
don’t know that.” Exasperation laced Devon’s tone. “How could
you
?”

“Call it father’s intuition.”

Devon averted her gaze, fiddling with the edge of her napkin. “Let’s leave your intuition out of this, okay? In fact, let’s avoid the whole subject of my personal life — especially since I’m not sure yet if Blake Pierson factors into it. My focus right now is helping you solve this case, and getting Mom safely home. It’s possible that Blake is actively involved in keeping that from happening. Until I’m sure how deep his role in all this goes, I’m not thinking ahead.”

“In that case, you should be eager to get him to lower his guard tomorrow night. The sooner he tells you what he’s not saying, the sooner you can decide if he’s worth thinking ahead about.”

THE DRIVER OF the maroon coupe eyeballed the diner, then flipped open his cell phone and punched up a number.

“Still having dinner with Daddy,” he reported. “Probably strategizing. No problem. I’m sure they’ll have a follow-up call tomorrow. I’ll get the audio.”

The drive to Blake’s brownstone was nothing like Devon had imagined.

It wasn’t because of her nerves, although she had major butterflies in her stomach. And it wasn’t because of Blake’s mood, although he was obviously on edge, thanks to the media circus following the second violent death striking Pierson & Company this week.

No, it was because of Chomper.

Blake had picked up his pup right before swinging by Devon’s place. And between Chomper’s high energy level and his sheer delight at seeing Devon, he was a virtual jumping machine all the way from White Plains to Manhattan. So rather than tension, the silver Jag was instead filled with playful scuffling and fits of laughter.

“We’re lucky we didn’t have an accident,” Blake declared when they were finally inside his building. “Chomper’s a menace.”

“He just needs some car rules,” Devon returned, shrugging out of her coat and bending down to scratch Chomper’s ears. “And a designated area in the car that’s his — one that has a fixed perimeter. You might think of trading in your Jag for a nice SUV. Chomper will thank you for it.”

Blake hung their coats away, his lips twisting into a grin. “I have a truck up at the farm. Chomper’s partial to it. Before I enrolled him in obedience classes, he didn’t spend much time in the Jag. We usually walk here in the city. But I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”

“Do that.” Devon stepped farther into the foyer, crossing her arms and vigorously rubbing the sleeves of her angora sweater to warm herself up. “It’s freezing out tonight.”

“Easily remedied.” Blake led her into the living room, where he turned on the gas fireplace. “Sit,” he invited, gesturing toward the sofa. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine, then get dinner started.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Entertain your biggest fan.” Blake indicated Chomper, who’d followed Devon into the living room and plopped down near the sofa, gazing expectantly in her direction. “The fish is all seasoned and ready to go into the oven. And I made the dill sauce before I drove up to White Plains, secret ingredient and all. It’s in the fridge, along with the rest of dinner. I only need a few minutes to get things together. We’ll be eating in a half hour.”

Devon inclined her head, running her fingers through her hair and watching Blake with a bemused expression. “Now this is a side of you I didn’t expect,” she confessed. “The homebody and gourmet chef.”

“Don’t get carried away,” Blake retorted, going to the sideboard and opening a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. “Until I got Chomper, I was rarely home. Now that I am, takeout’s the name of the game. I cook about once a month, if that. As for the gourmet part, reserve judgment until you’ve tasted the fish.”

“Fair enough. Actually, I’m the same way. I’m home at night for my pets, and because after a day of work I’m too tired to move. Even so, I rarely cook. But when I do, I’m pretty good.”

“Great.” Blake handed her a glass of wine as she sank down on the sofa. “Next meal’s on you. We’ll see who does better.”

Devon rolled her eyes. “I knew it. Another competition. And here you’d almost convinced me that this was nothing more than a nice, quiet dinner meant to help me relax.”

“It’s both.” Blake set his glass down on the coffee table. “Be right back.” He headed off to the kitchen.

Devon leaned back, sipping her wine and scratching Chomper’s ears.

Five minutes passed, then ten.

The fire felt good, warming Devon’s skin as the wine warmed her senses. A soothing, lethargic feeling settled over her, and she yawned, wriggling more comfortably on the sofa and sinking back into the cushions. She could scarcely keep her eyes open. Obviously, she was more worn-out than she’d realized.

A faint perception drifted through her mind. A noise of some sort — an insect maybe? She frowned, swatting at her ear.

There it was again. That annoying buzz.

Chomper exploded into action — barking, leaping up from her feet, and taking off.

The buzz wasn’t an insect. It was someone at the door.

Devon jerked upright, groggy and vaguely aware that she’d fallen asleep. Chomper was nothing more than a golden streak disappearing around the corner. Blake was at his heels, striding through the hall and toward the front door.

An instant later, Devon heard it swing open.

“Hello, Blake.” A woman’s voice. “I thought you could use some company. When you left the office, you looked like death. Not that I blame you. Finding Philip the way you did…” Revulsion laced her tone. “Anyway, I thought I’d drop over and — ”

“Now’s not a good time,” Blake interrupted.

Devon was suddenly and completely awake. She recognized that voice. It belonged to Louise Chambers.

“You’re wrong,” Louise was saying. “It’s the perfect time. We’ve both had a hellish week. We’re both dodging the media. We can do that together.”

“I have company,” Blake bit out.

“Company.” Louise digested that news with more than a little irritation. “Family or friends?”