Chapter Fifty-Three

Margo Angelhart

Logan's house was quiet. He'd told Brittney that he would be home to pack, but she wasn't here. Odd.

According to his lawyer, she hadn't been served yet. The process server had the paperwork as of ten minutes ago, but it could take a few hours—or a few days, if she decided to hide.

Logan was more than generous in giving her the house. I wouldn't have given her the time of day.

Over the last two weeks, since I first took the case, I had learned a lot about Logan. I'd gone from thinking him a cheater (every adultery case I have taken in the eight years since I've been a PI resulted in a cheating spouse, so believing it wasn't difficult) to being innocent but with secrets.

But the more I learned about him, the more I thought that he was the real deal—a smart, slightly awkward introvert known for being honest and respected in his circles. He donated to charities—not obscene sums of money, but generous enough to be recognized. His preferred charity was Phoenix Children's Hospital, which received half his charitable contributions, and I'll admit that endeared him to me. Not just because my dad had been a doctor, but because Nico had spent many nights there as a kid when they were trying to figure out what was wrong with him.

I had also dug into Monroe's past—he'd grown up in a typical middle-class family in a farming community outside San Antonio, Texas. He had a brother and a sister and his parents were married until his dad died, and his brother ran the family ranch. He'd dropped out of college when he and Gavin O'Keefe sold a video game they had designed to a major gaming company. O'Keefe moved to Phoenix with his long-time girlfriend, now wife, and Monroe founded a small gaming company with a group of investors. It grew, and he lived in Austin running it and other ventures during the time Jennifer interned for him six years ago.

Honestly, Logan didn't seem to have much time for an affair with anyone, but I'd caught more than one cheating spouse screwing a colleague. At the beginning, I'd considered he had a mistress in another city, but to date haven't found any evidence of an out-of-state lover.

I didn't believe Brittney intentionally lied until Sunday, and now? I thought she set this entire thing in motion. Because of Brad and his embezzlement? Did she want the money because he was on the hotseat?

I couldn't figure out what her endgame was—other than getting more money out of her husband. Maybe that was all she needed. Maybe she didn't know about Brad's embezzlement and wanted to bring money to their relationship. Or, she knew about the embezzlement and wanted more. Yeah, that was probably closer to the truth. After all, greed breeds greed.

Though there were cacti everywhere, most of the properties had paloverde and sycamore trees for shade. I parked under a grouping on the north side of the property and turned off the ignition. I rolled down all my windows to let the light wind push the warm air around. Logan said he'd be about thirty minutes.

When my phone chirped, I glanced at the caller ID. Miriam Endicott?

"Miriam, this is a surprise," I answered.

"We need to talk."

"So talk."

"Face-to-face."

"About?"

"Not over the phone."

"Then goodbye."

"Stop—dammit, Margo, this is a serious and delicate situation."

"What situation would that be?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"You must have started the conversation without me."

Miriam didn't say anything for a long ten seconds. I could picture her sitting rigid at her desk, hand grasping her phone, mouth tight and angry. Wanting to hang up but not able to because score one for me—she needed something and only I could get it for her.

"Margo," Miriam said, attempting to keep her voice calm and collected, though I heard anger vibrating underneath the cool shield, "I would like to facilitate a meeting between Jennifer White and her father."

"Why call me?"

The feeling of being watched at the golf course... Had Miriam been following me? No, not me—Logan. I would have known if I had a tail.

"I know you have her."

"Have her? Like, holding her against her will?"

"Don't be cute."

"I wouldn't think of it."

What was Miriam's game? Jennifer didn't want anything to do with her father—yet she hadn't been terrified, just worried, concerned, and feeling serious guilt for putting her father and brother through the grief of her death.

"Neutral territory. I thought you might agree to Ava's office."

That surprised me. Miriam detested my mother, and that she would even suggest meeting there told me either she was up to something or she really was in a bind.

I tried to weigh what Miriam really wanted, and I suppose I took too long to respond, because Miriam continued.

"Vincent Bonetti arrived in Arizona yesterday morning. I had hoped to make contact with Jennifer and arrange a meeting, but you found her first."

"What do I win?"

"Dammit, Margo! This is serious."

"I don't know what you want from me, Miriam."

"I want you to bring Jennifer to talk with her father. Just a conversation."

Right. Just a conversation."And I have some prime Scottsdale oceanfront property you might be interested in."

"I don't know what she told you—"

"Okay, you want serious? I know who Jennifer is, I know what she did, and she is scared. Meeting with her daddy? Not going to happen."

"You talk to him," Miriam said quickly. "Listen to him. Then you'll understand he means her no harm."

"I'll think about it."

A car came up the road. It slowed and turned into Logan's driveway. Brittney's Range Rover, but she was in the passenger seat. I couldn't see who was driving. The garage door started to rise.

"He knows she's here," Miriam said, "and I know she doesn't have the money to disappear again. Does she want to be on the run for the rest of her life, especially when there is no need to be running? Her father is no threat to her. He just wants to see her."

Interesting. I wanted to know more, because I agreed with Miriam that running should be the last option. But I didn't have time to discuss as the car pulled into Brittney's slot in the four-car garage, next to Logan's Tesla.

"I'll call you back," I said, then hung up over her objections and silenced my phone.

The garage door was closing before I could see who was driving, and the garage was on the opposite side of the house from where I was sitting under the tree. I didn't like the situation, and immediately called Logan.

He didn't answer. I tried again. Again, no answer.

Dammit. Who had Brittney brought home? Would she have the audacity to bring Brad Parsons?

Yes, I thought, yes she would.

I jumped out of the Jeep and ran across the large cobblestone driveway. Dismissing the idea of knocking on the door—if they were up to something, I doubted Brittney would answer it—I ran to the garage door and waited a beat, to make sure they'd entered the house.

I used Logan's code for the garage and the door silently rolled open. I skirted past the cars and to the door that led inside the house.

Maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe Brittney wasn't up to something.

I didn't buy it. Why bring a third party to the house? Knowing that her husband was coming home to ostensibly pack for a business trip, she brings a friend by?

It just wasn't adding up for me.

I opened the door that led into the house. I hadn't been inside before, though I'd looked up the floor plans during my research phase. The garage opened into a small mud room that led to a laundry room bigger than my bedroom. Stop, listen. I didn't hear anything. Yeah, I knew the house was big, but shouldn't I hear voices? Conversation?

Cautious, I ventured out of the laundry room. Logan should be packing, so I imagined he'd be in his bedroom. The master suite was to the left. I went down the hall to double doors that were open.

The king-sized bed hadn't been made, the comforter on the floor, the sheet and blanket tangled at the bottom. Either Brittney was a restless sleeper, or two people had been here last night.

There was a sitting area and a small office off the bedroom, plus a giant—and I mean humongous—closet. Inside the closet two suitcases were open on luggage racks, both half-filled with men's clothes. The larger side of the closet was packed with more clothes than I had owned in my lifetime; Logan's side was also full, but appeared to have twenty or thirty button-down shirts all the same style with slightly different patterns. Half long-sleeved, half short. Slacks hanging on pant-hangers. Polo shirts pressed and hung in a rainbow of colors. A tuxedo and five suits in clear protective bags. In the two weeks I'd been tracking Logan, he'd worn a suit once.

The larger suitcase had shirts and pants neatly folded; the smaller one had shorts, boxers, socks, and two pairs of shoes.

But Logan wasn't here. A pile of workout clothes were on the table in the center of the closet, next to the bags, as if he'd been sorting through them when he left.

Where was he? Where was Brittney?

I stood just inside the bedroom door and listened for anything to tell me where they were. The house had good bones, good soundproofing, and there were no creaks or echoes, even with the tile floors. Nearly six thousand square feet on one story—except for a family room and Logan's office upstairs.

I suspected that's where they were, but then I heard Brittney in the kitchen.

"No, Logan, you can't!"

It was a wail, and I imagined that Logan had told her he was leaving her.

Logan said something too quiet for me to hear, but I wondered where Brittney's driver was. He hadn't stayed in the car. It had to be Parsons—who else?

"We're going to fix this!" Brittney said, her voice more angry than upset. "Dammit, Logan, please just listen to me!"

Where the hell was Parsons? In the kitchen witnessing this conversation between his lover and her husband? Doubtful.

Hiding? Had Brittney not told him that Logan was coming home? Was Parsons sneaking around, waiting for Logan to leave so he could take over the house? Wow—sleep with the wife of a wealthy man and get a two-million-dollar house free and clear.

Nice gig, if you had no class or morals.

Still, it bugged me. I didn't like unknown variables, and not knowing exactly what was going on made my instincts twitch.

I shouldn't have let Logan go inside alone. I should have argued with him, insisted I stick to him like glue. So what that Brittney hadn't been served yet? She had been cheating on her husband for years with a man who had embezzled money and set fire to his place of employment. Brad Parsons was unstable and desperate—he had to know he couldn't get away with his crimes.

Damn. I sent Jack a quick message.

Parsons is at Logan's. I'm going in silent.

I didn't want him to worry when I silenced my phone and he couldn't immediately reach me.

Jack was at least twenty minutes away, but I was pretty certain he'd send the police if he didn't hear back from me quickly. Scottsdale PD had a damn good response time because—unlike Phoenix, they weren't severely understaffed.

I didn't think that Brittney was a danger to Logan, but I didn't like the idea of leaving him alone with her. I liked even less Parsons being able to get the drop on me.

Slowly, I peered into bedrooms and didn't see anyone. I headed to the staircase, which fortunately couldn't be seen from the kitchen.

Creeping up the wide steps, I kept my back against the wall because I didn't know for certain that Parsons was upstairs, and I wanted to keep the downstairs as well as the upper landing in my field of vision.

The kitchen was to my left—a large room that opened into the downstairs family room and the informal dining. From the landing, I'd be able to see into all three rooms. But Brittney might be able to see me as well.

I was torn. I was here to protect Logan, but how could I protect him when I didn't have the two potential threats in line of sight?

Even if Brittney wasn't armed, there were a lot of weapons readily available in a kitchen.

I made my decision and went back downstairs. Get Logan to safety, then worry about Parsons.

I walked across the huge foyer, past the formal dining room that had likely never been used for meals, and stepped into the kitchen.

In two seconds I had assessed the situation. Brittney and Logan stood at opposite ends of the counter. Parsons wasn't in the room. No visible weapons.

"Logan, we need to go," I said.

Brittney stared at me, eyes wide. "What the hell are you doing here? Logan, you can't listen to anything this woman says. I hired her and she lied to me, lied about me. She's crazy."

I would have laughed if her comments weren't so pathetic.

"Where's Brad Parsons?" I asked Brittney.

"What are you talking about?"

She sounded believable; Logan looked confused. I wasn't buying her act.

"Who drove your car, Brittney?"

"Me. Of course. Logan, she's literally insane."

"Logan, come with me," I ordered, using my tough MP voice.

Brittney's voice had escalated, and there was no doubt that it was because she wanted Parsons to hear the conversation.

I had to get Logan out of here.

Fortunately, Logan trusted me. He walked over even as Brittney told him to come back.

"What happened?" he asked me.

"I'm getting you out of here."

"I need to get my bags."

"We'll come back. I'm serious, something is weird." I steered him with my left hand down the back hall toward the garage because it was closer than the front door, leaving my right hand free to draw my gun if necessary. At every opening, I glanced to assess if there was a threat.

"Is Brad really here?" he asked.

"Someone was driving her car, my guess her boyfriend."

Brittney ran down the hall after us. As she reached for Logan, I put my arm out so she couldn't touch him. "Back off," I ordered.

"How dare you! This is my house."

Brittney looked panicked. She glanced upstairs and Logan knew exactly what I knew.

"What is he doing in my office?"

"No one is here, baby!"

Logan made a move away from me, toward the staircase.

I grabbed him. "Don't be stupid," I told him. "Your life is more valuable than anything you have in there."

I hadn't seen Logan angry until that moment. His eyes darkened, a vein in his neck throbbed.

Movement directly above me, at the top of the staircase, had me pushing Logan toward the hall.

"Go!"

A gunshot hit the wall inches above my head. Either Parsons was a bad shot or hadn't intended to hit me. I pulled my gun at the same time as I pushed Logan to go.

Brittney screamed. "Stop it! Stop it!"

She ran toward me and as I sidestepped I hit the wall, but stayed upright. I stuck my leg out to trip her and she fell forward, hitting her head on the wall. She lay there stunned.

I couldn't take the time to check her. There wasn't any blood and she wasn't dead. Logan turned and looked. "What? Britt—"

"Go!" I said.

Parsons was running down the stairs.

"I will kill you Monroe!" He fired another shot. Glass broke.

We weren't going to make it to the garage. The hall was too long, and we'd be sitting ducks. I pushed Logan into the first door on the left. It was a theater. Well, shit. The one room without windows to escape.

I locked the door. "The police are on their way."

To make sure of it, I dialed 9-1-1, put my phone on speaker while trying to assess the room for cover.

It was a sloped room with three tiers of four leather recliners each, all facing a large screen. I ran over to one and started to push it over. Logan came to help me.

The door rattled violently as Parsons tried to get in. He fired a bullet into the lock just as we pushed the chair against the door. The lock didn't give, but it wouldn't take much more to break it.

I pointed to an open door that led to a bathroom. "Go in there now. Lock the door."

From my phone, I heard, "9-1-1 operator, what is your emergency?"

"Shots fired at my location, suspect on premises."

Another gunshot and the door budged. Parsons pushed and the chair gave a half inch.

"What about you?" Logan asked, talking over the operator as the woman asked for more information. She had to have heard the gunshots.

"I have an idea."

Only part of an idea, but Logan couldn't be caught in the crossfire.

"Go," I ordered him. "Lock the door and don't stand next to it."

The door started to give under Parsons's weight.

"Parsons," I shouted as Logan did as I told him, "the police are on their way. Leave the premises."

He was ranting about Logan—everything Logan had done to him, taken from him. I hadn't met the man, but clearly he'd snapped. Maybe around the time of the arson fire? Had the police talked to him a second time? Did he know he was a suspect?

He'd come from upstairs. Maybe he'd come here to steal directly from Logan, then learned that Logan had changed all his passwords.

Dim, recessed lighting along the corners of the room provided basic illumination. A long narrow bar was built against the back wall with a refrigerator, popcorn machine, and ten different kinds of whiskey.

The operator kept talking and I slid my phone toward the front of the room. It stopped about two-thirds of the way down. Then I ran behind the bar and crouched. The bathroom door was on the right; Logan had thankfully closed it behind him.

I had one chance.

Parsons finally pushed the door open. I could hear Brittney sobbing in the background, begging Parsons to leave with her now. I blocked her out. Parsons stormed in, looked around.

"Where the fuck are you, Monroe? You ruined my life! You took everything from me. Everything! Now the police are looking for me, all because of you."

Parsons was clearly rewriting reality in his head as he somehow blamed Logan for his embezzlement and general life failures.

The operator said something indistinct, and Parsons rushed to the front of the theater, raised his gun, and fired multiple times into the backs of the leather chairs.

I flipped on the lights and said to Parsons who stood twenty feet away, his back to me, "Drop your weapon! Hands up or I will shoot!"

I wouldn't hesitate to fire if he turned his gun toward me, but I didn't want to kill him.

The next ten seconds moved excruciatingly slow.

Parsons didn't move. He didn't drop his gun, but he didn't turn to face me. He stood as if frozen, staring at the blank screen. Was he thinking if he could turn and get a shot off before I did? Considering if he should drop his gun and surrender? If he could stand there and wait me out?

Then Brittney ran into the room and made a beeline toward Parsons. "Brad, let's go, please."

"Get out of the way," I shouted as Brittney put herself between me and Parsons.

"You've ruined everything," Brittney screamed. "Everything! Just leave us alone. Come on, baby," she said to Parsons. "Let's go."

She put her arm around him and steered him toward the door. I kept the bar between me and them as a shield, my gun still focused on Parsons, watching his hands for any movement that he was going to shoot.

He let Brittney steer him out, his expression full of loss and defeat. But the gun remained tight in his grip. They walked out of the theater and I lost sight of them.

I went to the door, cautiously looked both ways, didn't see them. I considered going after them—Parsons definitely had a screw loose and he had a gun—but I'd committed to protecting Logan, so that meant sticking to him until Parsons was apprehended.

I knocked on the bathroom door. "Logan, you good?"

"What happened?"

"Brad had a temper tantrum then left with Brittney. Stay put."

"Come in here with me," he said through the door. "They could return."

"I'm fine. Just hold tight until the police get here."

I heard sirens. Because the house was set back from the road, they were probably closer than they sounded. Brittney and Parsons didn't have enough time to get out of the garage, let alone out of the neighborhood. They could easily return and create a hostage situation. I hoped they didn't do something stupid.

I ran to the front of the theater and retrieved my phone, then posted myself in the doorway, my back against the broken door frame, where I could see the hall to the left that led to the laundry room and garage, and the wider hall to the right where parts of the kitchen and family room were visible.

"Dispatch, you still there?" I asked.

"Police have arrived at the residence. Are there any injuries? Can you give me a status?"

She sounded a bit stressed, and I supposed when I didn't immediately come on the line after multiple gunshots, she may have thought I was dead.

"My name is Margo Angelhart. I'm a licensed private investigator. I'm partly secure in a downstairs room on the north side of the house with the homeowner, Logan Monroe. A man named Brad Parsons fired multiple rounds into the room, then left with Brittney Monroe. He has at least one weapon. I do not know if they are still in the house."

"Is Mrs. Monroe a hostage?"

"She left with him willingly." I didn't know what Parsons was thinking and I hoped Brittney knew what she was doing. "I am armed and protecting Mr. Monroe. Mr. Parsons threatened to kill him."

"I've let the responding officers know your status. Please stay on the line."

I put the phone down on the bar but left dispatch on speaker. The entire call would be recorded, including the gunshots and Parsons's rants about Monroe. Evidence for the prosecution.

How did it come down to this? How had Parsons gone from a nonviolent crime of embezzlement to assault to arson, and now to attempted murder? He spiraled quickly. Pressure from the police investigation into the arson? Pressure from Desert West and the exposure? That Jennifer had disappeared with evidence of his crime?

Whatever the reason, the man was unstable, and Brittney, somehow, had contributed to it.

What a waste.

The dispatcher said, "Ms. Angelhart?"

"Right here," I answered.

"I'm patching you through to Sergeant Ryan Daza who is outside the residence. One moment."

A second later, a male voice said, "Ms. Angelhart?"

"Yep."

"An officer has been outside for the last four minutes and no one has exited. How long since you last saw the suspects?"

I glanced at my watch. "Six minutes. There were two vehicles in the garage when I entered the house—a white Tesla registered to Logan Monroe, and a gray-blue Range Rover registered to Brittney Monroe. When they left the theater—the room I'm in with Mr. Monroe—they turned down the hall toward the garage. The garage code is pound 4512."

"The garage is open and there is only a Tesla inside. Do you have the plates for the Range Rover?"

I rattled them off from memory.

"Hold tight."

Two minutes later, Daza got back on the line. "We're coming in through the garage and the front door. Are you armed?"

"Yes."

"Please holster your weapon."

"Roger that."

I did as he instructed and less than ten seconds later I heard multiple people enter the house from both sides, then calls of "clear" as they moved through the house. A female officer stopped by the theater door, gun drawn, barrel angled down. "Angelhart?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Where's Mr. Monroe?"

I gestured to the bathroom door on the far side of the room. "Secure."

"Okay, I'll stay here with you." She looked at the shot-up leather chairs and the destroyed door. "Anyone injured?"

"No."

She gestured to the gun on my hip. "Did you discharge your weapon?"

"No." I'm glad I hadn't. I loved my SIG and didn't want to have to surrender it for days or weeks or even years if there was a trial. I asked, "What's your name?"

"Liv Branson."

We chatted for a few minutes as Branson stayed on the door, then five minutes later she got the all-clear.

I walked over to the bathroom and knocked. "You can come out, Logan."

He opened the door looking both mildly irritated and very concerned. "What happened?"

"I don't know," I admitted, "but the house and grounds are clear."

He looked around the room and saw the destruction. "Brad did that?"

"Yep."

"I didn't realize how much he hated me."

"I don't think he was thinking with all brain cells."

"I need to check my office, see what he took."

"My guess—he couldn't get what he wanted, which is why he lost it," I said.

"Hold off on that, Mr. Monroe," Branson said. "My sergeant needs to get your statement first."

"Did you find them?"

She didn't respond. She was listening to her radio, then she said, "Please come with me."

Logan and I followed her to the kitchen. Several cops were still outside looking around, and Sergeant Ryan Daza approached. I knew it was him because of his stripes. Six feet tall, fit, mid-thirties.

"We've detained Mrs. Monroe and Mr. Parsons at the guard house," Daza said. "The first responding officer saw the Range Rover on the road, ran the plates, found it was registered to this house and since we didn't quite know what was going on, we instructed the guard house to lock the gate until an officer arrived."

"And?" I asked. "You detained, didn't arrest?"

"Mr. Monroe," Daza said, "can you please go with Officer Branson and give her your statement? I need to talk to Ms. Angelhart."

"Of course," Logan said. "I also need to check my office and computer to make sure nothing was stolen."

"Go ahead, but take Officer Branson with you."

Logan squeezed my arm. "Thank you, Margo. I mean it."

Logan led the officers upstairs to his office, and Daza turned to me.

"Why didn't you arrest them? You have the 9-1-1 call, so the dispatcher can confirm shots were fired. My statement—Parsons tried to kill Logan Monroe."

"Why don't you tell me exactly what happened, starting with when you arrived here?"

So I did, from the time I followed Logan to the house and waited outside, until Branson arrived in the doorway of the theater.

"Are you retained by Mr. Monroe? Personal security?"

"No. He hired me for another matter, but I was helping him today out of the kindness of my heart."

"Are you friends?"

"We just met on Sunday, but we've been working together this week."

"Are you sleeping with him?"

That irritated me. "No. Why the fuck do you ask?" I couldn't refrain from the anger. "I just told you we're working together, not screwing around."

"Mrs. Monroe claims that she informed her husband she was leaving him and asked Mr. Parsons to escort her so she could pick up some of her belongings. Then she claims that Mr. Monroe threatened them both so they left."

I stared at Daza, then burst out laughing. I couldn't help it.

Daza wasn't laughing.

"She claimed that you, Ms. Angelhart, were having an affair with her husband and that's why she was leaving him."

I tried to stop laughing, but I couldn't. Maybe it was the crash after the adrenaline rush, or maybe it was the absurdity of the situation, but I needed to laugh.

When I managed to stop, tears still in my eyes, I said, "Brittney Monroe hired me two weeks ago to prove her husband was having an affair. He wasn't. When I informed her of that fact, she asked me to follow him one more night. She hired a friend to drug him and attempt to seduce him. My brother partnered with me that night, we witnessed the crime, took Logan to safety, and I tracked down the woman the next day, who admitted that Brittney hired her. Logan didn't want to press charges, but decided to file for divorce. Brittney hasn't been served yet, but he started the process yesterday."

"Do you know Brad Parsons?"

"Never met him until today."

"Why did Mr. Monroe hire you?"

"That's confidential. He can tell you if he wants."

"But your work for his wife wasn't confidential?"

"Our NDA became null and void when she both lied to me and committed a crime. I have no professional or moral obligation to keep her confidence. I can prove she paid me."

"And Mr. Monroe can back up your statement?"

"I have not lied. I told the dispatcher and you that Parsons had a gun."

"It's not on him."

"Search the car, the garage, and every place in between. I didn't discharge my weapon."

"Okay. Sit tight, I need to make some calls."

"So do I."

He stepped out and I called Jack.

"I'm almost there, what happened? You okay?"

"Fine." I gave him a brief recap. "Where's Jennifer?"

"Back at Mom's. Tess is with her."

"I got a very interesting call before all this other shit went down. Vincent Bonetti is in Phoenix, and Miriam Endicott wants to arrange a meeting between him and Jennifer. And before you say no, I have an idea."