Wrong Place, Wrong Time (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 1)

“Ten after four. P.M., if you need to know.”

“I’ve been staring at the same page for the past three hours. I’m beat.” Stretching, Monty got his bearings. He planted his hip against the desk and turned his attention to the conversation. “What’s up?”

“Raymond Carlburgh wants to see you,” the other PI said. “He sounds like hell.”

Carlburgh. He was the pathetic rich guy whose wife was banging her boyfriend like there was no tomorrow.

“Why? Did he walk in on them?”

“No idea. He sounded pretty out of it. All he said was that he wanted a meeting with you ASAP, complete with report and pictures. He tried your cell. When he couldn’t get through, he called me.”

“Great.” Monty massaged the back of his neck. “The shit’s hitting the fan here. I can’t break away.”

“He’s expecting you tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Neither is he.”

Monty sighed. “Fine. Have his chauffeur drive him here.”

“No can do. He says he’s too sick to leave the house. You’ve gotta drive up to Scarsdale.”

That was odd. Being a pain in the ass was out of character for Raymond Carlburgh. He was usually dignified and patient. Something must have really freaked him out.

“Yeah, okay,” Monty agreed. “I’m heading up to my daughter’s place tomorrow. Carlburgh’s mansion isn’t too far out of my way. Do me a favor. Get his file together. I’ll swing by and pick it up first thing in the morning. And call Carlburgh back. Tell him to expect me around nine.”

“You got it.”

Monty hung up and went back to his notes. He had a half hour before Devon arrived. They had a lot to go over.

In the meantime, something was still bugging him. It had been since his meeting with Blake. Until now, he’d been too preoccupied with the file Castoro had uncovered to give it much thought. But he needed to see if his suspicions had merit.

Backtracking to his notes of a few days ago, he found the interview he was looking for and sought out the inconsistency.

It didn’t take long to find it.

THE FRONT-DOOR buzzer sounded.

Startled, Blake sat up. He’d been flopped on his living-room sofa, polishing off a second glass of bourbon and scratching Chomper’s ears. Now Chomper was scrambling up, barking excitedly and making a beeline for the door.

Blake blinked back to awareness. The living room was dim, and shadows stretched across the walls. Sometime between when he’d arrived home and now, the sun had set.

He glanced at his watch. Six thirty-five.

Again, the buzzer sounded, this time more insistently.

“I’m coming.” Blake stumbled to his feet and made his way through the foyer. He was still half out of it from his thoughts and the bourbon. He rubbed the back of his neck and opened the door.

“Hi.” Devon was standing outside, shivering, her hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket. “Bad time?”

“I…No.” Suddenly wide-awake, Blake blocked Chomper from lunging outside to greet Devon. “What are you doing here?”

“Nice greeting.” She glanced pointedly into the hall.

“Sorry.” Blake stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

“Thanks.” Devon hurried in, wrapping her arms around herself as she stomped on the mat, kicking snow off her boots. “It always feels ten degrees colder in the city than in the suburbs. Which is pretty bad, considering it was twelve degrees when I drove out of the clinic’s parking lot, and ten when I left Little Neck. Plus, now the sun’s down. So it’s like Iceland out there.” She stooped down to rub Chomper’s snout and ears. “Hey, boy. At least you’re happy to see me.”