Do everything Montgomery asks and answer his questions like a professional.
And then get the fuck out so I can go interview the other suicide’s wife.
Sounds like a plan.
I get out of the car and walk to the lobby. This time a doorman is waiting and Val is chatting with the ladies manning the phones. She smiles when she sees me.
“Oh, hi, Detective Masters!” She beams, breaking it off with her co-workers and walking over to me in her stiletto heels. This time her suit is a light pink and her shoes are taupe. She’s one of those summer people, I guess. And she does look pretty in the pastels. “Mr. Montgomery is waiting for you upstairs.” She links her arm in mine as we walk towards the elevator. I bet we are a sight. She is polished perfection and I’m back to my regular plainclothes. A white blouse, a trenchcoat, and tan wide-legged slacks that end at my favorite two-toned oxfords. It’s sort of the detective uniform, right?
She towers over me because—you’re like a little midget—
What? Where the hell did that come from?
Not now, Molly. Not now. Just ignore the weird shit. You are not crazy like your mother. You’re not hearing things, or making things up, or losing time. It was a binge, the first one in a long time, and it does not mean you’re having a relapse. You are not crazy, you are not hearing things—
“Detective?” Val stares at me. “Are you OK?”
I let out a laugh and then shake my head. “Sorry, I was wondering if I left my garage door open at home.”
“Oh, I’ll have someone go check on that for you so you can stop worrying.” I start to protest, but the elevator doors open and she waves me in. “All set! See you later.”
And before I can come up with a reason why she should not go snooping at my house, the doors begin to close.
I lean back against the far wall and watch the numbers light up above the door as I ascend. Please, dear God of circus people everywhere, let Mr. Montgomery be quick today.
The doors open and there he is in all his six-foot-something, blue-eyed, blond-haired splendor. “Good morning, Detective. Did you sleep well?”
This is probably a trick question. I’ll say yeah and he’ll snap off some snide remark about his dead employees like it’s my fault. So I say, “No, not really.”
He shoots me what might be a genuine sympathetic look. “Oh, I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do to help with that—massage, relaxation music, a soothing book—please let me know. We have a wellness center on campus and I can arrange for you to go see one of the homeopathic consultants.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure it will be better tonight when we get a handle on this case and figure out what happened.”
“You don’t think it was a suicide?”
Jesus Christ, Masters! Keep your fucking mouth shut!
“Just protocol,” I say with a smile. “We have to look at all angles.” He looks at me for a moment and then nods and turns away. I follow him down the hallway and into his office.
“I don’t have much time, so this briefing will have to be quick.”
“Perfect,” I say, taking a slurp of my now-cold coffee. I make a face and force myself to swallow.
“Oh,” he says, noticing my grimace. “But let’s have breakfast. You haven’t eaten yet?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t eat in the mornings. It makes me sick.”
“Mmm,” he mutters. He wraps my hands around his forearm like he’s my chaperone. “Humor me for a little while, will you?”
Great. I’ll probably end up here all morning. But I go along because I have no other choice. This is the real world and after a lifetime in the circus and years in the military, I’m once again a part of it.
We don’t walk back to the elevator the way we came, instead he pushes a button on his watch, and a panel slides up on the far wall revealing an elevator. “Private,” he says, like he knows the questions popping into my mind.
“You like things private, don’t you, Mr. Montgomery.”
“That I do,” he says, waving me towards the opening doors.
I enter, he follows, and we ride it up one floor. And when the doors open we find ourselves in a small dining room that has soft music playing and one table with one man sitting at it. The view is amazing—not that Atticus Montgomery’s office view wasn’t, but this view is through windows two stories tall that slant up into the pitched glass roof of the crystal spire.
“It’s amazing at night,” Montgomery says. I look over at him and his smile disarms me for a moment. “I’ll have to have you up for drinks some time so you can see it. This spire is the executive dining room. But there’s another one my father calls his office over there.”