Chapter Five

Margo Angelhart

Irecognized the house as soon as I saw it. Logan Monroe had lived here before he married Brittney, then converted it to an exclusive short-term rental.

A perfect place to have an affair. No one would question why he was here—not even his wife.

I accessed my file on Monroe and flipped through the photos on this property. The best access point was in the rear—the west-facing front had small covered windows that would be difficult to open and also make it easy for a passerby to see me, but the rear had large picture windows with the mountain as the primary view. Plus, the master bedroom was in the rear.

Maybe Monroe and his lover would be having sex in the pool. That would make my job a lot easier.

Stepping out of my Jeep, I headed toward the property with unwavering determination. Despite the isolated spread of the houses, I kept a careful eye out for any nosy neighbors. A black truck was parked up the road. Short-term rentals in the area meant an influx of unfamiliar faces, making my presence seem like nothing out of the ordinary. But best to be cautious.

I halted at a locked side gate. Dammit. Irritation simmered as I weighed my options. As easy as it was to scale the fence, I hesitated. But it wasn't the first time I'd trespassed, and I doubted it would be my last.

With a deep breath, I hoisted myself up, bending my knees to absorb the impact of my landing. Muscle memory from basic training kicked in, making the jump effortless.

The house was cloaked in secrecy, every window covered. Breaking in was not an option, not when the occupants could be armed. Brittney had warned me about Monroe's 9mm, and I couldn't afford to take that risk. All I needed was a small opening, and the bedroom was the perfect target. A gap in the blinds, a quick snapshot, and I'd be out of here before anyone noticed.

I carefully navigated around the rocky terrain, avoiding the ankle-biting cacti. The only sound was the constant hum of the AC unit. I eyed the sparkling pool. It hadn't topped one hundred degrees yet, but I was hot and that water looked so inviting. Instead, I focused on my job.

Off the master suite was a semi-private patio. The blinds were drawn, so I braved the enclosed space and tried to see around the edge. No luck. Even with my ear to the glass, I heard nothing. No voices, no sounds of passionate sex, no shower. Maybe they were having foreplay in the kitchen with chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne...

Where the hell had that thought come from?

It had been far too long since I'd had a regular guy to enjoy sex with, no wonder I embellished adultery with sexy, fun romantic gestures.

Sometimes, adultery wasn't solely about the sex. Sometimes, it was about the personal connection, talking to a person who understood you better than your spouse. Rarely ended well, but people lied to each other all the time.

Stealth wasn't going to cut it. Time to be bold.

The covered back patio, which ran almost the entire length of the house, was complete with fans and misters, both turned off. Classy but functional outdoor furniture filled the space. The patio alone was twice the size of my house.

There was no place to hide, so I assessed the area quickly. The blinds were drawn across the large picture windows. The kitchen had two sets of French doors with sheer blinds, easy to see through. The primary kitchen window, however, was bare. If I approached it at the right angle, I should be able to see inside without anyone seeing me.

I squatted and awkwardly waddled to the window in case someone was standing at the sink doing dishes—or having sex on the counter. Then slowly I stood next to the window, back to the wall, and peered inside.

It took a second or two for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer indoors. A laptop was open on the long counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area, but I couldn't read the tiny spreadsheet that covered the screen.

Who brought a laptop for sex games?

Next to the laptop was a messenger bag, flap open. A couple water bottles. Water—not wine, not champagne, and no chocolate-covered strawberries.

Plus, no people.

Where was Logan Monroe? Was he here alone? Had he spotted me lurking around? Damn, I felt like a Peeping Tom.

I headed to the French doors. Curtains blocked the window squares, but they were pinched in the middle, enabling me to see part of the interior. This would give me a clearer view, but it would be easy for someone to spot me.

Prepared to bolt, I looked inside.

Logan Monroe and a brunette woman were lying on the floor, unmoving. I stared for a good five seconds, wondering if this was a game, if they were looking for a lost contact lens, anything but what I immediately thought.

They didn't move.

"Shit!" I tried the door. Locked. I could break a window, but that seemed like overkill. Maybe Monroe hadn't locked the front door when he entered.

I dropped my small Canon EOS into the carrying case on my left hip, pulled out my cell phone and called 9-1-1 while running around to the front of the house.

"9-1-1 what is your name and your emergency?"

"Margo Angelhart. I'm a licensed private investigator currently at 9980 Thorny Rose Lane in Paradise Valley. Two individuals are unconscious inside the house. I'm trying to find a way inside."

"Are they injured? Bleeding?"

"Don't know, trying to get in. I saw them through the window in the kitchen." That sounded stalker-ish, and these calls were recorded. Maybe no one would notice.

"I'm sending Police and Fire. Stay on the line."

I tried the front door. Locked. Reminding myself that it was only breaking and entering if you were caught, I pulled my lockpick set from my pocket and went to work, grateful this wasn't an electronic lock. There was a keypad on the garage, but not on the door. With locks, I performed magic. Electronics? Not so much.

Twenty seconds later, voila. I had no one to impress but myself.

I was duly impressed.

Only after I stepped into the house did I consider that maybe walking into a building where the occupants were unconscious wasn't the smartest move. But I had 9-1-1 on the line, and Police and Fire should have a quick response time at five on a Sunday afternoon.

"I'm in the house," I told the operator. "I'm going to check their vitals."

"Can you describe the individuals?"

"Male, Caucasian, mid-thirties, six foot one, one hundred and eighty pounds. Female, early to mid-twenties, Caucasian or Hispanic. Hold on."

I pressed speaker and put the phone down so I could kneel and check each pulse.

"Both individuals are unconscious but each has a strong pulse. I'm going to open the doors and windows in case there's a gas leak. I don't think I should move them unless you think I should."

"Do you smell gas?"

"No."

But many gases had no odor, and I didn't want to pass out.

Thanks to Uncle Sam, I had advanced first-aid skills, but unfortunately let my EMT certification expire years ago after I left the Army. Still, I wasn't going to let anyone die if I could stop it.

I opened both sets of French doors, then spent too long searching for the panel that would open the family room blinds. Finally found it—a remote on the table. The doors were glass and they, too, slid open via the remote. Sweet.

The AC was on, but I switched the fan to high, which would help (I hoped) clear out any gas from the house.

I took a peek in the master bedroom—no sign that the bed was used. No luggage, no discarded clothing, no sexy lingerie, and no champagne on the nightstand.

By the time I returned to the kitchen, Logan was stirring. He groaned and struggled to get up.

"Don't move, help is on the way."

"Wha—?" he asked, groggy, as if he'd been woken from a deep sleep. "My head."

"Stay still."

The woman was smaller, maybe she absorbed more of the drug or poison or gas or whatever it was that had knocked out two healthy people in less than thirty minutes.

To the dispatcher on the phone I said, "The male is waking up, complaining of a headache. The woman is still unconscious. She's approximately five foot three, maybe one hundred and ten, twenty pounds, tops."

Now that I knew Logan Monroe wasn't dying, I breathed deeply, trying to figure out what might have incapacitated these two. No smell, no physical reaction, no cough, nothing to suggest I had inhaled a toxic substance.

"Did you drink anything?" I asked Logan.

He stared blankly, as if trying to figure out what was going on. He leaned against the counter, still too weak to stand.

"Just...water."

"Bottled? Did you open it yourself?"

He shrugged. Okay, he was still kind of out of it, but doing better than the woman.

"What's her name?" When he didn't immediately respond, I snapped my fingers in his face and repeated slowly, "Logan, what is her name?"

"Jennifer. Jennifer White."

I tapped Jennifer lightly on the cheek. "Jennifer. Wake up. Time to wake up."

The woman groaned, but didn't open her eyes or move. I heard the dispatcher in the distance asking questions I couldn't hear, so picked up the phone again. "Repeat, I didn't catch that."

The dispatcher asked, "Did they take drugs? If so, what kind? Any alcohol?"

I asked Logan, "Are you on any drugs?"

"That's ridiculous. I don't do drugs."

"Drinking? Beer, wine, vodka?"

"Just water."

He stared at Jennifer and frowned, confused. Then he looked at the laptop on the counter.

The dispatcher said, "The fire department and ambulance are at the location. Please let them inside."

Outside, I heard the distinct whoosh of fire truck brakes.

"The door's open," I said.

Laptop, messenger bag. If they weren't having an affair, what the heck were they doing?

Because I already had my cell phone in my hand, I used that instead of my Canon to take pictures of the counter and everything on it.

"What are you doing?" Logan asked.

"Evidence. You were poisoned."

Evidence, I thought, to figure out what you're up to.

"Poisoned?" Logan questioned.

I had some ideas, but none that fit perfectly. The gas had to act quickly, then disperse—or it was in the water, but what poison had no taste? Assholes roofied women with alcohol or soda to mask the taste of the drugs. My brother Nico, the forensic scientist, would probably know; I'd call him later. Forensics was far outside my wheelhouse.

I heard the clomp of soft-soled boots on the tile floor.

"Back here," I called, "in the kitchen."

Two paramedics came in with their gear. Jennifer finally began to stir, but didn't open her eyes. Logan was fully alert; I avoided his suspicious gaze.

"What happened?" a paramedic asked, kneeling to check Jennifer's vitals.

I gave the basics, leaving out that I had (technically) broken in. Before anyone could ask why I was there, I stepped into the backyard, hoping I could slip away before the police arrived. There would be a broader investigation, the gas company would be called, toxicology screens at the hospital, testing the water.

I had no reason to believe they'd been drugged on purpose, it could have been an accident, yet the whole situation felt like a setup. I glanced into the house, saw the paramedics were doing their job, and both Jennifer and Logan appeared to be okay. I turned away, stared at the pool, and thought about what might have happened.

Could Brittney Monroe have already known where her husband was meeting the woman? She would have access to the house, could have planted a poison or sabotaged the gas line and sent me here. Why? To save her husband?

My head hurt thinking about every wild theory, though I couldn't stop working through the problem. Logan Monroe owned this house, but I'd been tracking him for ten days now and he hadn't come here. The rentals were handled by a management company, but he'd have a key and would know when it was unoccupied, so he could easily use the place whenever it was free. Perfect love nest.

It didn't feel like a love nest.

A flash above caught my attention—in the boulders, above the house. A reflection?

I slid on my sunglasses, grateful that the sun was behind me, and scanned the mountain.

Movement. Two men were scurrying out from the boulders, both in black—in black when it was nearly a hundred degrees!

No, not suspicious at all.

I ran across the yard, climbed the pool's waterfall, hopped the fence, and pursued them.