Dark Room (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 2)

“Coincidences like that don’t happen.”

Morgan sank down into a chair. “Where are you going with this? You

think this was personal?”

“Maybe. Maybe it was a warning.”

“A warning?” Morgan was trying to assimilate what Charlie was telling her. “How would hurting one of my clients be a warning to me? Why would I even make the connection you’re alluding to?”

“Who was Rachel on her way to meet?”

A tense pause. “Me.”

“Right. Which means you’d find out about the so-called accident quickly. As for Karly being at the scene, that tells me someone went to a lot of trouble to familiarize himself with both women’s schedules. His goal was to send you a message. Twice the number of clients meant twice the likelihood you’d realize the message was for you.”

“And what was this message?”

“To back off. To have me back off. I don’t have a concrete answer for you. But the timing, the women involved, the fact that I just spent virtually back-to-back evenings with those women, and the fact that I’m poking around the D.A.’s office, asking sensitive questions, maybe getting close enough to push someone’s hot button—doesn’t that strike you as too much of a coincidence? Because it sure as hell does me. It tells me someone doesn’t like the direction we’re heading in, or what we’re on the verge of finding.”

Morgan was starting to tremble. “So you think this was planned. Someone was sitting in a van, waiting for Rachel to show up so he could hit her. If that’s the case, why choose my client? Why not go for the gold and run me down instead?”

“Because he’s smart. Smart criminals aren’t obvious. They’re subtle. They do something personal enough to make their point, not explicit enough to get the cops interested. In this case, with your parents’ case reopened, running you down would be like waving a red flag in a bull’s face.”

“You really think…?” Behind Morgan, the microwave started a rhythmic beeping, announcing it had finished cooking her Lean Cuisine. She scarcely heard it. “Charlie, you’re scaring me.”

“That wasn’t my intent. But I’m a prosecutor. Unlikely coincidences jump out at me. And if there’s a chance I’m right, if someone is trying to scare you off, I had to let you know. To make sure you were okay, and to advise you to be careful.”

“Thanks—I think.”

“Just lock your door and put on your alarm. In the meantime, I’ll keep working this angle. I’ll see what else I can find out, and call you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Charlie heard the apprehension in her tone, and responded to it. “Hey, Morgan? Hang in there.”

“I’ll try.”

FIFTEEN

Lane and Monty were in the kitchen, finishing their take-out burritos and polishing off their first giant cups of coffee, when Monty’s cell phone rang.

He glanced at his watch: 10:15. Late enough for the call to be important; not so late that it meant something was wrong.

He punched on the phone. “Montgomery.”

“Detective…hi. It’s Morgan Winter.” She sounded surprised to hear him, live and talking to her. Clearly, she’d been expecting voice mail.

She also sounded rattled.

“I hope I’m not calling too late.”

“Nope. Perfect timing,” he assured her. “For the past three hours, I’ve been sitting on my ass…sorry—my butt. It’s numb.”

“Sitting. Then you must be hanging out, relaxing with your wife. Please apologize to her for me. I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening.”

“Not to worry. I’m not home. I’m at Lane’s. He and I are going through the scans—or, rather, he is. I’m just watching from the sidelines, waiting for something that looks out of place.”

“Lane’s? Isn’t his town house near mine?”