Behind the Lies (Montgomery Justice #2)
Robin Perini
Prologue
The last time Sergeant Patrick Montgomery had seen his third-oldest son, Zach had been on the cover of a tabloid cavorting with five naked women.
Every twenty-seven-year-old male’s fantasy, perhaps, but between those pictures and the rumors of wild parties, alcohol, and God knew what else, even Zach’s brothers had voiced concern, not envy. Last night they’d finally revealed the location of Zach’s favorite blues bar to Patrick. A sure sign they were troubled by the daredevil brother who had scaled the imaginary mountain peak of Hollywood and now dangled on a zip line over a crevice of jagged temptation. If the rope frayed any more…no one could save him.
Patrick’s steps thudded across the cracked concrete in the war zone in downtown Denver. His hand settled over the Kimber 1911 tucked in his pants. He’d walked this beat as a street cop plenty of times, but unease tightened his trigger finger.
Could it be the sense someone was watching? Or could it be his wife’s strong grip on his arm just before he’d left home? Even though Anna had spent countless nights in silent tears over the troubling tabloid articles, she hadn’t wanted Patrick to go out tonight. One of her infamous feelings.
She was never wrong, damn the woman.
The streetlamp above him flickered, its fading light reflecting off the tequila in the liquor store in a glimmer of enticement. Sirens squealed down the block. The smell of old booze and urine permeated his nostrils.
A small grunt sounded from a darkened alley to his right. Patrick didn’t hesitate. He clasped his weapon and whirled around, ignoring the twinge in his hip where a twenty-two-year-old bullet was still lodged.
“I’ve got the time, sugar. I could rock your world.”
A hooker. Patrick’s hand released the gun as he made out the crow’s-feet around her eyes, the desperation in her gaze. A woman trying to look a decade younger than she was, and not succeeding.
She hitched her spandex-covered hip and did her best to smile. “You’re a handsome guy. I’ll do you for half price. Tonight only.”
Patrick raised his left hand and tilted the gold band at her. “Sorry, honey. I’m taken.”
“Most of my customers are,” she muttered with a drawn-out sigh. “Suit yourself.” She lifted her chin, stuck out her chest, and strutted on four-inch heels to the sidewalk’s edge with a fake smile and clenched fists.
He could’ve pulled his badge and run her in, but what would be the point?
“There’s a shelter down the block,” he called out as a Lincoln pulled up next to her.
She flipped him a third-finger salute and slid into the vehicle. The luxury car sloshed through a puddle, spraying oil-laced water on Patrick’s boots, then passed by. She stared out the window at him, her expression sad and haunted.
Nothing he could do. She’d made her choice.
Just like Zach. His son had come to town for his latest B-movie publicity junket. He hadn’t taken the time to see the family—whether he was embarrassed or just didn’t care, Patrick didn’t know. He feared he may have waited too long for this conversation.
His son had run away. From home, from his family, from his faith, from his soul. Only one thing to do when a black sheep lost its way—and it wasn’t throwing a welcome-home party.
Call it an intervention, call it a kick in the pants.
Which was why he was heading toward a bar he had no business being near instead of cuddling with his wife in front of a roaring fire, enjoying a shot of whisky, and maybe even getting lucky. Not that Anna would have needed much persuading. Even after nearly thirty years of marriage, his blood ran hot for his wife whenever he saw her pretty ginger hair and piercing green eyes. She felt the same. His heart warmed at the certainty. They’d had their rough patches over the years, but these days…no man could ask for a better life. A fulfilling job as a cop, the love of a woman, and six strong sons.
Most of whom were on the right track.
Patrick crossed the street and settled in just outside a small convenience store. Zach would show up at the blues bar eventually. From what Patrick had seen in the tabloids, his wayward son couldn’t resist booze, smoke, and sex.
“Hey, Pops. You Sergeant Montgomery?”
Patrick turned and studied the teen who stood in an open stance at the corner of the building. A large birthmark stained his face. Thatch of black hair. Tattoo on his arm. A pretender’s Special Forces tattoo. Nothing like the one Patrick had had removed. He labeled him quickly. Punk.
Make that…scared punk.
The kid’s hands shook.
He held a gun.
Patrick grabbed for his 1911.
A hot blast from behind pelted his back. Where the hell had that come from? He sank to his knees. The .45 caliber slipped from his hand.
His head dropped and he stared down at his front. Blood pooled over his chest, soaking his shirt.
The kid ran, but he’d been a distraction. Who…?
Patrick keeled over on his side, his forehead slapping the concrete sidewalk. The sounds of the city muted. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
He tilted his head and blinked. White spots circled his vision.
A cold but familiar face stared down at him, a gun in hand. He’d seen the man once. That last confrontation. Damn it. He hadn’t believed they’d go this far.