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

“And, in the process, you drugged a few riders.”

“Yeah, that, too. You want the rest of my list of transgressions? I helped my grandfather fabricate the extortion scheme to throw you off track. I knew about Dr. Vista’s research. Hell, I applauded it. Why wouldn’t I, realizing how much it would benefit my future? And I left this room when you, Meredith, and your ex-wife were being held at gunpoint—although I deluded myself into believing my grandmother would let you go. So there you have it—the beginning and the end of my culpability. You can argue that any of it’s criminal. But none of it’s murder. Not even close.”

Monty didn’t comment. Instead, he asked, “What about the payments to Uruguay?”

“What about them? I assumed they all related to Vista’s research. It never occurred to me that a portion of it was payment to a hit man, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“All right. Let’s get back to Philip Rhodes.”

James blew out a breath. “After finding that spreadsheet and poring over it, Phil called my grandfather. He meant to have it out with him.”

“But your grandmother intercepted the call.”

“Right. She told Philip she’d give my grandfather the message that he’d called and urgently needed to speak with him. She never did. Instead, she went to the office, shot Rhodes, and typed up the suicide note.” James swallowed, shaking his head in appalled shock. “I’m saying all this, but I still can’t believe it. My grandmother…anyway, that’s what happened.”

Monty absorbed all that in silence, intentionally keeping the tension high.

“Now what?” James demanded.

“Now, nothing.” Monty shrugged. “As long as this is off-the-record, there’s not a damned thing I can do for you. Want my advice? Come clean. It can only help you. Your grandparents will get off easy. They’re elderly. They’ll win the sympathy vote. You won’t. If you’re implicated in these homicides—especially killing your own uncle—you’ll wind up being somebody’s bitch in jail.”

“You’re right.” James shuddered, dragging a palm over his jaw.

“The evidence will support what you and Vista each told me. Do the right thing—you’ll be doing everyone a favor.”

At that moment, there was a commotion outside the door, and Louise Chambers burst in.

“James, don’t say another word,” she ordered, staring grimly from him to Monty and back.

Monty straightened, the stare he leveled at Louise coolly detached. “Not to worry, Ms. Chambers. Your client and I are finished.” He crossed over, stopping in front of James. “Think about what I said. Any way you slice it, the good doctor won’t be winning the Nobel Prize, and you won’t be winning gold at the Beijing Olympics.”

CHAPTER 32

Devon pulled the prime rib out of the oven, took off her oven mitts, and stepped back to admire her handiwork. She might not cook often, but when she did, she did a damned fine job. Whether or not it was enough to best Blake’s salmon remained to be seen. But the ten pound beauty in front of her faced a challenge that Blake’s salmon hadn’t. It had to feed all the Montgomerys and Blake.

Terror barked, scratching eagerly at her legs to ensure that his name was added to the guest list.

“You don’t need to remind me you’re here,” Devon told him. “I know. Besides, there’s more than enough. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll put your portion aside. Okay?”

He yipped his approval

, then rushed off as the front door slammed.

“It’s me,” Lane called out, making his way to the kitchen. “I didn’t miss dinner, did I?”

“Nope,” Devon assured him as he gave an appreciative sniff. “You’re right on time.” She checked on her scalloped potatoes, added some spices, and put them back to simmer. “Are you really leaving tomorrow?” she asked her brother.

“For the fifth time, yes.” He leaned past her and swiped a slice of tomato off the salad.

Devon slapped his hand. “You could sound a little unhappy about it. You just enjoyed a three-week reunion with us. I thought you’d be a little ambivalent about flying three thousand miles away.”

Lane licked his fingers, his expression remaining nondescript. “I would be. If it wasn’t for the move.”

“What move?” Devon demanded.

“The one to New York.” He grinned as Devon’s jaw dropped. “I just finalized a book deal with Time-Life. They’re publishing a compilation of my photo essays on survivors of natural disasters. Besides, I’ve had enough sun and sand. So I’m moving back east in three weeks.”

Devon let out a shriek and threw her arms around him. “You miserable creep. Why didn’t you tell me?”