“The pride on your face meant more to me than I can say.”
Mo
nty blew out his breath. “Devon, your instincts are dead-on. Your mind’s like a steel trap. Think about how many pet owners you’ve helped, not in the clinic, but in the field. You’ve managed to locate dozens of missing animals. Pets who were lost for weeks and no one could find—not even with flyers plastered everywhere and big rewards offered.”
“Just call me Ace Ventura.” Devon squeezed Monty’s arm. “Seriously, that’s not because I’ve got a cop’s mind. It’s because I understand animals. I know their habits. I know their minds. And I know what questions to ask to zero in on their idiosyncrasies. Then I look for clues. And, hopefully, I turn up something.”
“What the hell do you think a cop does?”
Devon sighed. “Monty, you know how much I love and respect you, and what you do. And, yes, every once in a while I’d love to play Nancy Drew. But there’s no brutality in her cases—not like the kind you deal with.”
“Things are different than they were before. I’m a PI now. Not every case I take on has—”
He was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone.
“It’s my office line,” he observed. “I call-forwarded everything to my cell while I was here.” He glanced down at the caller ID and frowned. “Private. Well, that really narrows down the prospects.” He punched the phone on. “Montgomery.”
His brows lifted slightly, and he glanced over at Devon. “Yes, Mr. Pierson, I know who you are. My condolences on the loss of your son.”
Edward Pierson? Now, that was a surprise.
Devon leaned forward to listen.
“Care to tell me why? I’m sure the sheriff gave you the exact same story he gave me.” Monty paused. “Yes, I heard from my ex-wife. She’s terrified and on the run. Whoever killed your son tried to kill her, too. She’s afraid he’ll try again. The only reason she contacted me is so I could bring the cops up to speed on what actually happened in that cabin, and so I could let our children know she was alive. She hung up without saying where she was or where she was going. Nope, she never saw the guy. So there’s not a lot more I can tell you. Certainly not enough to warrant your sending down a limo to drive me up to your farm for a meeting.”
Another pause, as Monty absorbed whatever Edward was saying. “That’s very flattering, and very intriguing. But I can’t imagine where you’re going with this. Care to elaborate? Right. In person. Okay, I’ll bite. Sure, late afternoon’s fine. Four o’clock works. My office is in Little Neck—a semiattached house. One side’s my home, the other’s my office.” Abruptly, Monty broke off, and he snapped around to face Devon.
Uh-oh, Devon thought, recognizing only too well that gleam in her father’s eyes. He had a plan. And whatever it was, she wasn’t going to like it.
Sure enough, Monty gave a hard shake of his head, as if negating the last part of what he’d just said. “I have a better idea, Mr. Pierson. I want to check in on my kids anyway, make sure they’re holding up. They’re in bad shape, as you can imagine. They’re all staying at my daughter Devon’s place. It’s in northern White Plains. That’s a good half hour closer to Millbrook than Queens is. It’ll take just an hour plus to get to you. Devon’s driving up to Sally’s place tomorrow anyway. She wants to check on the house and the animals. I’ll just grab a ride. I’m sure she could use the company.” He ignored his daughter’s glare. “I should be there around six. We’ll continue this discussion then.”
He punched end and turned to Devon. “Well, what do you know. Edward Pierson wants to hire me. He seems to think I can do a better job of finding whoever killed his son than the Warren County sheriff can.”
“Yeah, what do you know.” Devon folded her arms across her breasts. “And you seem to think I’m partnering up with you.”
“You are.”
“No, Monty, I’m not.”
His hands balled into fists, made deep indentations in the sofa. “Devon, this time’s different. It’s your mother’s life at stake.”
“Dammit, Monty, that’s emotional blackmail.”
“Is it working?”
“You know it is. You know I’d do anything for Mom. But this is a mistake. I don’t have your nerves of steel or your ability to stay objective. I’m emotionally involved. That’s a detriment, not an asset. How can I possibly help you?”
“I’m not sure. But my gut tells me you can.”
“How?” Devon could feel her resolve weaken.
Worse, so could Monty. He jumped all over her ambivalence, firing out suggestions as if he’d been cogitating for days, rather than devising them on the fly. “The groom who’s been caring for Sally’s horses. Talk to him. Maybe he can give you a feel for the players. The grandchildren. Pierson just mentioned that they’re all flying in or driving up tomorrow. They’re congregating at the farm to make funeral arrangements—and probably to avoid the press. They’re all around your age or a little older. Strike up conversations. See what dirt you can dig up.”
“In other words, be the mole,” Devon responded, summing up Monty’s thought process. “The innocuous veterinarian who blends in with the crowd and empathizes with their loss. My mother was seeing their uncle. She was nearly killed at his murder scene. That’s our common ground.”
“And your fear that Sally’s still in danger—that’s your jumping-off point. From there on, the conversation will take on a life of its own.”
“So, while you’re closeted in some private office with the family patriarch, I’ll be hanging out with the yuppies, getting to know them.” Devon gave a tentative nod. “It could work.”