Dark Room (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 2)

Arthur cleared his throat. “I see your point. How do you suggest I handle it, then?”

“Don’t handle it at all. I’ll tell Morgan where I’ll be, and that she’s welcome to join us if her dinner ends before sunrise. Either way, she won’t be alone.”

RACHEL OGDEN WAS propped up in her hospital bed, looking pale and definitely weary, when Monty walked in. Still, there was more than a trace of curiosity in her wide green eyes as she asked him to sit down.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Monty began. “I’m sorry about your accident.”

“I look worse than I feel,” she replied with a faint smile. “I just finished my morning physical therapy session. I’m convinced their goal is to divert my attention from my injuries to the pain they inflict.” She took a sip of water. “My doctor said you’re a PI. I don’t get meeting requests from many of those.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” Monty sized her up as he settled himself in the armchair across from her bed. Even banged up and having undergone surgery, she was clearly great-looking. Devoid of makeup, she looked young, but Monty could tell that she had a presence that would make her seem older, more sophisticated. He’d be willing to bet that when she was at her corporate best, Rachel Ogden was a ball-breaker.

“Morgan hired you to investigate the accident?” she was asking. “Why? Is there something more than the police have told me?”

It was Monty’s turn to smile. “There’s always more than what the police tell you. I should know. I was one of them for thirty years.” He flipped open his pad. “You’re aware that both you and Karly Fontaine, the woman who called in the accident, are clients of Winshore?”

She nodded. “My assistant told me. I asked her to send Karly flowers as a thank-you. We never met before, but she was apparently right behind me on that street corner.” A rueful grimace. “Two New Yorkers, rushing to their appointments with their minds rushing elsewhere. Typical.”

Monty grunted his understanding. “Let me begin with the obvious. To your knowledge, is there anyone who’d want to hurt you?”

“In business? There are a handful of people who’d do anything if it meant beating me up the corporate ladder. In reality? No one I can think of.”

“That’s pretty harsh.”

A shrug. “I’m a management consultant, Detective. The youngest in a brilliant and cutthroat company. My colleagues aren’t known for their big hearts. That doesn’t mean they’d run me down.”

“What about outside of work? People you’ve had falling-outs with? Ex-lovers?”

“Or their wives?” Rachel shot him an astute look. “I’m sure you’ve done your homework. You know I’m not a Girl Scout. That’s one of the reasons I went to Winshore, to change the profile of the guys I got involved with. As for the married men in my past, trust me, they were either estranged from their wives, or forgetful about mentioning they had one.”

“Is one of those men a major political figure?”

For a moment, Rachel looked blank. Then her brows shot up. “Are you referring to Congressman Shore?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Probably because you’d either get sued or get your ass handed to you if you did. But I’m willing to answer the question, since I’m very fond of Morgan. No, Detective, I’m not sleeping with Arthur Shore. I may be less than stellar about my choice of partners, but I’m not stupid. Why? Is one of his mistresses a suspect?”

Monty liked this girl. She told it like it was, accepted her flaws, yet made no apologies for them. “There are no suspects. As things stand, this was an accident caused by a cowardly idiot. I’m just covering all the bases.” He jotted down a few notes. “In your opinion, was the fact that you were the victim just a random event? Could it just as easily have been Karly Fontaine who was hit?”

“Sure. If she’d been in a little more of a hurry and gotten by me before I darted ahead, she’d have beaten me into the street. That’s why I doubt this was some premeditated plot. It was too iffy.”

“I see your point.” Monty wrote down a few more words, then rose. “I don’t want to overtax you. As it is, your doctor wasn’t too thrilled about my visiting so soon after your surgery.”

“I won’t lie.” She winced. “It hurts like hell. But I’m a fighter. My assistant’s on her way over here with my BlackBerry. I’ll be caught up by noon. So if you have any more questions and my doctor gives you a hard time, just e-mail me. I’ll get right back to you.”

“Thanks. You take care of yourself. The world of corporate barracudas awaits.”

TWENTY

The Manhattan branch of the Lairman Modeling Agency—a classy office suite located in a high-rise in the heart of midtown—was a tribute to its success stories. Minimally furnished, it drew a visitor’s eye right to the glossy white walls, which were covered with photos and magazine spreads of all the beautiful people it represented.

Karly Fontaine was the ideal candidate to manage the place.

In her midthirties, with red-gold hair, a willowy build, and sculpted features, she was clearly an ex-model herself, probably one of the agency’s most highly touted success stories. Model to manager. It didn’t take a brain trust to figure out why.

Monty was clued into this, not only from his first impressions, but from his research. Karly Fontaine had started out a virtual nobody, waitressing to pay for modeling school. When she’d heard that a major shampoo manufacturer was looking for a newcomer to represent the all-natural hair-care line they were rolling out, she’d walked in cold and auditioned for the job.

She got it.