Wrong Place, Wrong Time (35 page)

“What’s up, boy?” Devon turned to see what was prompting the outburst.

Terror began wildly sniffing a spot on the carpet, his barks becoming more furious.

Devon returned to the living room, squatting down and sniffing the area where Terror was rooted. “Yuck.” She wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant odor, which had been masked by the heavy scent of roses filling the air. Up close, the rug smelled like overripe citrus.

“Merry?” she called, standing up. “Did you spill orange juice on the living-room rug?”

No reply.

“Merry?” She turned, searching for a sign of her sister. That was strange. Merry had said she’d be in all day. She’d obviously been here to accept delivery of the flowers.

A quick check of the town house confirmed that she was out.

Puzzled, Devon grabbed the cordless phone and punched in her sister’s cell number.

The line rang.

So did the phone.

It trilled right there in the living room, not ten feet away from where Devon stood. She hung up, feeling more than a little unnerved. Merry never went anywhere without her cell, not even to put out the garbage. That Motorola was always glued to her side.

So why wasn’t it now?

Devon’s home phone rang.

“Hello?” She answered instantly, hoping against hope that it was Merry.

“Just checking on you,” Blake said in greeting. “I wanted to make sure you were holding it together.”

“More or less.” Devon continued scrutinizing the house for a hint of where her sister might have gone.

“You sound preoccupied.”

“I am. I can’t find Merry. She seems to have vanished while I was in the shower.” Abruptly, Devon remembered the flowers. “Oh, thanks for the roses. They’re amazing.”

“What roses?”

“You have a shorter memory than I do. The dozens of long-stemmed beauties that just arrived with the card that almost made me blush.
Those
roses.”

“I’m drawing a blank.”

“Very funny. I guess you came to your senses and realized how atypically mushy you’d been.”

“I’m not being funny. I didn’t send you any flowers.”

Blake’s tone was too solemn to be teasing, and Devon’s smile faded. “But your name is on the card. I don’t understand….” Her voice trailed off as an ugly possibility struck. “Oh God.” She dropped the phone. “Merry!” She raced through the house, calling her sister’s name. “Merry!” She ran to the front door, reaching for the handle.

The door was already ajar.

Devon shoved it open, frantically scanning the grounds around her town house.

There was a heavy set of footprints ground into the snow, leading from her front door to the parking lot.

“Oh no,” she whispered. She hurried back inside and scooped up the phone. “Blake, I have to hang up.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Merry. I think she’s been kidnapped.”

Forty minutes later, Monty burst through Devon’s front door, in a scene that was eerily reminiscent of two Saturdays earlier.

“Talk to me,” he commanded, striding into the living room without even removing his coat. “Tell me everything that happened.”

While Devon talked he squatted down, rubbing his fingers over the area of the carpet where Terror had been sniffing, and bringing his fingers to his nose.

“Chloroform,” he stated grimly. “The bastard knocked Merry out before he took her.”

“Why would he kidnap Merry?” Devon demanded. “Just to show me he means business? She’s no threat. She doesn’t know anything.”

“It could be a scare tactic.” Monty straightened, examining the vase of roses as he spoke. “On the other hand, you’re right. It’s a lame move. More likely the kidnapper thought Merry was you.”

Devon paled. “How do you figure that?”

“Whoever did this was a hired hand. He was probably given instructions to deliver the flowers and grab the woman who accepted delivery — assuming that woman would be you.”

“Instead, it was Merry. Dammit.” Devon raked a trembling hand through her hair.

“Cut out the guilt. It’s not your fault.” Monty was reaching for the envelope the card had come in. “Let’s not waste energy panicking. Let’s use it to find Merry.” He scanned the envelope. “‘Beautiful Bouquets,’” he read aloud. “Time to give them a call.” He whipped out his cell phone.

The doorbell rang.

In a dazed state, Devon went over and opened it.

Blake stalked in. “Your sister…?” He glanced from Devon to Monty, who was already grilling someone on the other end of the phone.

“There are traces of chloroform in the living room. She was definitely kidnapped. Monty’s calling the florist to see what he can find out.”

As she spoke, Monty hung up.

“The order was placed two hours ago,” he informed them. “The shop manager took the call. She said the caller was a man. She doesn’t remember his voice because it was a lousy cell-phone connection. He claimed to be Blake Pierson. He charged the flowers to the company’s FTD account. He was very specific, especially about the wording on the card. And he was insistent about the delivery time.”

“Two hours ago I was driving down from the farm with Devon,” Blake said.

“Exactly.” Monty scowled. “Whoever ordered the flowers knew that. Which means he knew when Devon would be arriving home.”

“Not based on the time we left he wouldn’t,” Devon clarified. “Blake and I hit a ton of city-bound traffic. The drive took an extra forty-five minutes.”

“Yet the kidnapper knew just when to ring your doorbell. How?”

Blake stiffened. His gaze slid to Devon, and he gave her a hard, meaningful look. “Tell him.”

Monty jumped on that. “Tell me what?”

“I meant to discuss this with you sooner.” Devon steeled herself for a blowup. “I was on the verge when that whole situation came up with my wearing a wire to trap James. At that point, it slipped my mind.”

“Stop backpedaling. Talk.”

A resigned sigh. “A bunch of times since Mom disappeared, I sensed I was being followed. Random occasions. Different places. Always when I was driving. I became superalert, watching in my rearview mirror, pulling over to scrutinize the road. I never spotted anyone. So I figured I was just being paranoid.”

Monty was every bit as livid as she’d expected. “When were you going to mention this?” He waved away her reply, his forehead creased in concern. “If someone’s following you, they’re probably watching this place. Which means they know I’ve been here almost every day since Sally disappeared. It’s possible they saw me parked outside the night I taped James’s conversation. And they definitely know when you dropped by Blake’s place and how long you stayed. Given all that, you’re an even bigger threat to them than we realized.”

Devon swallowed, hard. “Does that mean they’d hurt Merry? Especially if they think she’s me?”

A glint of pain flickered in Monty’s eyes. “They’ve killed already. So I can’t rule it out. But my gut says no. The purpose of kidnapping you would more likely be to keep you out of the way while Vista finishes up whatever the hell he’s working on. It would keep me out of the way, too, because I’d be consumed with finding you.”

Monty paused. “You said this guy tailing you showed up at random times and places. That means he wasn’t stationed outside your house. He knew in advance where you’d be and where you were headed. Which makes me suspect that…’’ Monty didn’t finish his thought. He strode out of the room and headed for the staircase leading down to the basement.

“Why the basement? What are you looking for?” Devon demanded as she and Blake followed behind.

Monty had already reached the concrete floor. “Where do your telephone lines enter the house?”

“Over there.” Devon pointed at the gray plastic box mounted on the far cinder block wall.

“That’s why.” Monty made his way over to the box. He tilted back his head to examine the ceiling, spotted the ceramic light fixture overhead. Reaching up, he yanked at the pull string.

The light came on, illuminating that section of the basement.

He removed a Leatherman Micra from his pocket, pried open the flat screwdriver blade, and turned the large captive screw securing the access cover. With the screw hanging, he opened the gray box and peered inside.

“And
this
is what I’m looking for,” he muttered.

The miniature transmitter was attached to the inside of the box with double-sided tape. Monty’s forefinger traced the wires from the transmitter to the alligator clips that were clamped to the connectors on the main phone line. “That explains how your tail knew so much.”

Devon was staring. “He tapped my phone?”

“Yup. He’s probably parked nearby, with a pocket receiver and a tape recorder, listening in to all your calls.” Monty shut the gray box and retightened the screw. “Let’s leave that in place for now, in case we need to manipulate your wiretapper with false information.”

Turning, Monty studied his daughter. “What strangers have been in the house? Deliverymen? Repair people? Utility guys to read the meters?”

“Cable.” Devon’s head came up. “The night of my first date with James, Merry said something about a cable guy being here to fix my reception. I remember being surprised because I’d never noticed a problem.”

“That’s because there wasn’t one.” Monty rubbed his face. “Your date with James was a week ago last night. That means we have to mentally retrace your phone calls over the past eight days. Who you spoke to. What you said. Fortunately, I doubt the cable guy had enough time or opportunity to plant bugs around the town house. With Merry home, he probably just went straight for the phone, then got out. But I’ll have Sherman sweep the place, just to be sure.”

Monty paused, deeply troubled. “We have to figure out how much they know. Especially where it comes to anything you and I discussed.”

Devon’s gaze met his, and she felt her stomach knot. Her mother. What details had she and Monty discussed on her home line? Did the kidnapper know that Monty had hidden his ex-wife away in a safe place? Williamstown had never been mentioned. That much Devon was certain of. But more than that, she wasn’t sure. And if, by some fluke, there were other bugs in the house, then even the calls they’d made on the Bat Phone weren’t secure.

With a sick feeling, Devon lowered her gaze and began racking her brain. She could sense that Monty was doing the same.

Blake’s stare shifted from Devon to Monty and back. “While you two think, I’ll call the police.”

“No.” Monty shot down that idea in a hurry. “There’d be too much explaining and too much red tape. If necessary, I’ll call my own people.”

Blake gave him a measured look. “There’s something you don’t want the cops to know.”

“If that’s true, be damned glad of it,” Monty retorted. “Because there’s a helluva lot more
you
don’t want them to know.”

A muscle worked in Blake’s jaw. “I’m not about to protect a murderer and a kidnapper. So if that’s what you’re implying — ”

“I’m not. I’m saying this thing has snowballed out of control. If we turn it over to the cops now, it’ll destroy your family and your company. If we go with my approach, we’ll minimize the damage and direct the brunt of the fallout to the guilty parties.”

“You’re being surprisingly fair and levelheaded under the circumstances,” Blake commented.

“No, he’s not,” Devon said quietly. “He wants to handle this himself.”

“Yeah,” her father confirmed. “I do.” His own jaw was working. “That’s my baby they grabbed. You don’t get more personal than that. I’m driving straight up to Edward’s farm and having a long talk with him.”

“Go easy, Detective,” Blake felt compelled to request. “He’s almost eighty. And his heart’s not in great shape.”

“I’ll do my best. No promises. I’m not leaving there without answers.”

“What can I do?” Devon asked. “Besides recalling the content of our phone conversations?”

“Go to Beautiful Bouquets on Main Street. Larry Aymes is the name of the delivery guy who was scheduled to deliver your roses. He’ll be in the shop until two. I’m willing to bet someone paid him off to take the delivery off his hands — to add a more personal touch. Talk to Aymes. Find out everything you can about that someone — physical description, mannerisms, anything that could help us catch the scum. Remind Aymes that, as of now, he’s an accessory to kidnapping. That should loosen his lips.”

Monty turned to Blake. “Can you come up with a plausible reason to call that horse farm in Uruguay? We’ve got to find out what their connection is to Vista and why they’re receiving payments from that offshore account.”

“The thought of doing that occurred to me last night.” Blake frowned. “The problem isn’t coming up with an excuse to call. The problem is communicating. They don’t speak a word of English. We rarely deal with them by phone. My grandmother handles all our communications, and it’s almost always by fax. She’s the only one who’s familiar enough with Spanish to get by.”

“Devon used to be pretty fluent.” Monty’s glance flickered back to his daughter. “Can you pull it off?”

“I’m a little rusty but, yes, I think so.” Her brows drew together as she speculated where her father was heading. “You want me to pretend I’m Anne Pierson?”

“Yeah. Think about it. She’s the only Pierson they’ve dealt with. And almost never by phone, so her voice is unfamiliar. She’s female. She’s American. The telephone lines in the rural areas of South America suck. So do cell phones. Let’s use that to our advantage. Make your voice a little lower and throatier, and you’ll have it. If you’re off a little bit, it won’t matter. They’ll blame the crappy phone connection. So, go for it.”

“Done.”

“Good. Before I leave, I need to talk to you alone.”

With a tight nod, Devon followed Monty a short distance away. She knew exactly what this was about. “What did you decide?” she asked without preamble.

“The Bat Phone’s with me,” he replied in a low voice. “I have to give her a heads-up. For her own safety. Just in case we’re forgetting something we let slip.”

“Or in case John Sherman finds other bugs,” Devon agreed. “And, Monty, you also have to tell her about Merry.”

“I know.” Monty looked grim. “You know what that means.”