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

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.”

“She’ll come home. We can’t help that. It might be best anyway, since we now know my calls have been monitored and Mom’s safety has been compromised.”

“Yeah.” Monty headed for the staircase. “I’m leaving the Pierson file on your coffee table. Use whatever material you need to. And keep me posted.”

IT WAS COLD.