Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)

by Melinda Leigh

  At nine in the morning, the neighborhood was quiet. Kids had gone off to school. Parents had left for work.

  But a sense of foreboding trickled down Morgan Dane’s back, along with a drop of sweat, as she compared the address with the paperwork in her lap. The numbers matched.

  She squinted at the house. The October sun peered over the roof from a cloudless blue sky. Its rays cut through the chilly autumn breeze and shone on a maple tree in the center of the front lawn. It was a beautiful autumn morning, not that anyone inside would know. Every blind in every window was closed tight.

  He was in there all right.

  “This is the house,” she said.

  Lance Kruger tapped a finger on the steering wheel of his Jeep. “I don’t like this one bit.”

  “Neither do I.” Morgan flipped down the visor and used the mirror to apply fresh lipstick.

  There was nothing fun about serving legal papers.

  He drove past the house and parked at the curb two doors down. “Maybe it would be better if I knock on the door.”

  Morgan glanced sideways at the big man in the driver’s seat.

  Lance might have left the police force and joined a private investigation firm the previous summer, but he was still all cop—from his black cargo pants to the severe cut of his short blond hair. The blue flannel shirt he wore open and untucked concealed his weapon but did nothing to hide the impressive set of muscles that filled out the gray T-shirt beneath it. Below the rolled-up cuffs of his sleeves, his forearms bulged.

  And if his physical appearance wasn’t threatening, the flat glint in his blue eyes gave him away.

  He looked dangerous, like he meant business.

  If the lowlife they were trying to serve got one look at Lance, he’d run, and the firm would have to start looking for him all over again. It had taken them three days to track the rat down.

  As a former assistant district attorney turned private attorney, Morgan owed Lance’s boss big-time. Last month, Sharp Investigations had done her a huge favor and worked a criminal defense case without compensation. And if that wasn’t enough, Sharp had offered to rent her an empty office in his duplex when she’d decided to open her own practice.

  “He will not open the door to you,” she said. “Which is why Sharp specifically asked me to help out with this case.”

  Lance frowned and turned his gaze on her. A deep sigh of resignation rolled through him. “You’re right. But I don’t like the thought of you getting within ten feet of that scumbag, not with his record.”

  Tyler Green owed his ex-wife thousands in child support. He was the deadest of deadbeat dads. He’d also been arrested multiple times for burglary and assault, though the charges had been plead down from a felony to a misdemeanor each time. To stay one step ahead of process servers and avoid paying his ex, he’d quit his job and moved out of his apartment, mooching his way through the households of family members and friends, never staying in one place long enough for the court system to catch up with him. But all good things had to come to an end. The ex had hired Sharp Investigations to find him so she could get him into court.

  Lance’s mouth flattened. “Maybe he won’t open the door for you either.”

  “There’s only one way to find out. I’m just your average suburban mom.” Morgan hoped Tyler mistook her for one of the neighbors. She was crossing her fingers that he’d open the door, she’d hand him the subpoena, and the firm would get paid.

  Lance’s gaze raked over her. “You may be a mom, but there is nothing average about you.”

  She fluffed her hair, opened the buttons of her black trench coat, and reached for the tray of brownies in the back seat. “There’s a much better chance Tyler will open the door with me standing on the doorstep.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Lance said in an unhappy tone.

  Morgan stashed her lipstick back in her tote. Her coat sleeve rode up with her movement, revealing the edge of the fresh pink scar that ran from her wrist to her elbow: an ugly reminder that working with criminals could be dangerous. The stitches had been out for several weeks, but the wound still looked raw and ugly.

  Lines deepened around Lance’s mouth as he lifted his gaze from the scar to Morgan’s face. There was more between them than a professional relationship. How much more was yet to be determined. He was the first man who had tempted her since her soldier husband had been killed in Iraq two years before. But with three young children, making time for a man was a challenge on a good day. And over the past few weeks, Morgan’s eighty-five-year-old grandfather had been increasingly unsteady. Extra doctor appointments, tests, and worry were taxing Morgan beyond the normal level of crazy that was her life.

  She touched Lance’s thick forearm. She’d meant the contact to be reassuring, but the arm under her hand was tense. Who knew a forearm could be so masculine?

  “I’ll be watching,” he said, grim-faced.

  “I didn’t doubt it for a second.” She gripped the door handle.

  “Give me a minute to get into position.” Reaching under his flannel shirt, Lance checked the weapon at the back of his hip then got out of the vehicle.

  Morgan wiped her damp palms on her jeans, took three deep breaths, and stepped out onto the pavement. Carrying the brownie tray, she walked toward number seventy-seven.

  Lance crouched behind a shrub at the house next door. Peering through the foliage, he’d have a clear view of her on the doorstep.

  She carried the brownies down the sidewalk and up the driveway. Climbing two concrete steps to the front stoop, she rang the doorbell. After a solid minute of silence, she raised the brass door knocker and rapped three times. For another thirty seconds, no one responded.

  But she could feel someone watching her.

  Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. A few more seconds passed. Morgan imagined him looking through the peephole. She held her breath while the person on the other side of the door debated. Then the dead bolt slid with the quiet snick of metal on metal, and the door cracked with a soft squeak of its hinges.

  Tyler peered through the opening. Barefoot, he wore jeans and a white undershirt very well. The photo in his file hadn’t done him justice. His six-feet-plus frame was fit and lean, and he was good-looking in a scruffy, bad-boy way. The arrogant smirk on his face said he knew it. His gaze traveled from Morgan’s face to her feet and back up again. He opened the door all the way, stepped into the doorway, and leaned lazily on the jamb.

  “Who are you?” he asked her breasts. He dragged his eyeballs back to her face.

  “I’m Morgan.” She smiled, ignoring the giant ick in her belly.

  “Hel-lo, Morgan.” Staring at her mouth, he licked his lips, slowly, deliberately.

  Slimily.

  Was that a word?

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He leered. “Whoever you want me to be.”

  What. A. Sleeze.

  She tilted her head as if she wasn’t very bright and didn’t understand.

  He grinned. “I’m Patty’s cousin, Tyler.”

  “Oh. Great. These are for Patty and the kids.” She held out the tray of brownies and smiled wider. She batted her eyelashes a few times, a clichéd but effective maneuver.

  “Oh. OK.” He took the tray in both hands.

  Morgan pulled an envelope from her coat and set it on top of the brownies. “This is for you.”

  “What the fuck?” His body tensed. The leer slid off his face, and anger twisted his features.

  Morgan stepped away, not willing to turn her back on him. But Tyler moved faster than she expected, his posture shifting from lazy to lightning in an instant.

  He tossed the brownies into a bush and lunged forward. His hand closed around her throat, the pressure on her windpipe forcing her onto her toes. Morgan grabbed his wrist with both hands to break his hold. Gasping, fighting panic, she tried to peel his fingers off her neck.

  But his grip was an iron collar.
He was taller and stronger and furious.

  “You fucking bitch. How dare you trick me.” Tyler pulled her closer. “You can tell my ex-wife if I see her again, I’ll kill her. That ungrateful slut won’t get a nickel from me.”

  Stars blinked in front of Morgan’s eyes as his grip around her neck tightened.

  Chapter Three

  Morgan!

  Lance dug his feet into the grass and sprinted toward the man who held Morgan by the neck. She twitched like a rag doll, rising onto her toes. His vision tunneled down to the two bodies on the stoop. Fury added fuel to his legs.

  If Tyler Green hurt her . . .

  He watched as Morgan raised one arm over her head and spun in a quarter turn. She windmilled her arm forward and used the inside of her shoulder to break Tyler’s grip on her neck. Then she drove the back of her elbow into his face. His head snapped back. Blood spurted. His hands went to cup his mouth and nose just as Lance hit him with a midbody tackle.

  Lance and Tyler rolled in a tangle of limbs on the front lawn, coming to a stop with Lance on top. Flat on his back on the ground, Tyler swung out with a wild and weak punch. Lance swatted the fist out of the way like he would a gnat.

  In the end, there wasn’t much of a struggle. Tyler acted tough when he was attacking women but didn’t know what to do with an opponent his own size. He was also bleeding profusely, and Lance wasn’t at all ashamed to enjoy the sight. Tyler was a bully and a coward.

  Lance rolled Tyler onto his face, pulled his arms behind him, and planted a knee in the small of his back.

  Leaning close to the deadbeat’s head, Lance said, “You wife beaters have one thing in common. You can’t fight someone who fights back.”

  “Bitches all stick together,” Tyler spat over his shoulder.

  “She kicked your ass.” Lance glanced at Morgan. “Nice shot.”

  Morgan was on her knees, one hand on her neck; the other held her cell phone. Lance assumed she was calling 911. After giving the dispatcher the address, she slid the phone back into her pocket, sat on her heels, and wheezed, “The police are on the way.”

  “Get off me,” Tyler screamed into the grass.

  Lance shook his head and shifted a little more weight onto his knee. The air—and the fight—went out of Tyler like a deflated tire.

  “You just assaulted a lawyer, dumbass,” Lance said. “She’s going to put your sorry butt in jail.”

  With Tyler immobilized, Lance turned to Morgan. “Are you all right?”

  She rubbed the base of her neck and swallowed. “Yes.”

  “You sure handled him.” Lance massaged the achy spot on his thigh where a bullet had ended his police career the year before. The wound had healed as well as it was going to, but his sudden sprint had pulled at the scar tissue.

  Morgan climbed to her feet and brushed off her knees.

  Five minutes later, a sheriff’s department cruiser arrived, and a deputy got out. Scarlet Falls was a small town. Its modest police force frequently relied on the county sheriff or state police for backup.

  She showed the deputy the legal paperwork and summarized the incident.

  The deputy handcuffed Tyler and hauled him to his feet. Blood smeared his face and soaked the front of his white T-shirt. The deputy loaded Tyler into the back of the cruiser and took brief statements from Lance and Morgan.

  “I’ll need you to sign formal statements.” He nodded at Morgan. “I’ll want pictures of those bruises too, but first I need to take him to the ER.”

  The deputy drove off.

  Lance was quiet as they went back to the Jeep, but the residue of anger and worry rolled through his body as he steered her to the vehicle and opened the passenger door.

  Turning to face him, she placed a palm in the center of his chest. “I’m all right, Lance.”

  He lifted her chin and swept her hair aside to examine her neck. “I’m sure you’re hurting worse than you’ll admit.”

  Red patches were already forming on her pale skin.

  “Bruises heal,” she said.

  “That doesn’t mean I like to see them on your lovely neck.” As long as they worked together, Lance was going to want to protect her. Though she was tall, a slim frame and delicate features made her look almost dainty. Even with her attempt to dress casually, she was perfectly feminine, with little glittery earrings and black hair that shone like a shampoo model’s.

  But he’d keep his inner guard dog on a tight leash. She was no helpless female, even if her ability to defend herself always took him by surprise.

  As did the ache in his heart every time he laid eyes on her. What he felt for her, even in this fragile, early stage of their relationship, floored him. They’d only shared a few—albeit scorching—kisses. But he couldn’t deny his attraction went far beyond the physical.

  Relief got the better of him. He moved suddenly, cupping her face in both hands and kissing her hard on the mouth. When he lifted his head, her blue eyes were dark and wide. “I know you can handle yourself. But I still wanted to rip Tyler’s head off for hurting you. It was all I could do not to strangle him.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure he appreciates your restraint.”

  “You probably broke his nose.” He grinned.

  “I didn’t mean to break anything. I practiced those self-defense drills so many times growing up that my reactions are pure muscle memory.”

  Morgan’s father and grandfather had been NYPD detectives. Her dad had been killed in the line of duty fifteen years ago, but clearly the lessons he’d taught his kids had stuck.

  She pulled a blue, flowered scarf from her massive purse, in which she seemed to keep everything but a side of beef. She tied the scarf in a fancy knot around her throat to cover the bruises. But he knew they were there.

  Her phone buzzed.

  “Is that your sister?” he asked, remembering that Morgan’s sister was taking their grandfather to the cardiologist that day. Stella was a detective with the Scarlet Falls PD.

  “No. His appointment isn’t until this afternoon.” Morgan read the display. “It’s Sharp. He says to hurry back. We have a client.”

  After the danger they’d faced in the last case they’d worked together and this morning’s incident, Lance hoped the new case would be nice and boring.

  “He says it’s a hot one,” Morgan said.

  “Of course it is.”

  Chapter Four

  Morgan led the way into Sharp Investigations. The PI firm occupied the lower half of a duplex on a quiet street a few blocks off the main drag of Scarlet Falls. Lance’s boss lived in the upstairs unit. Downstairs, the two-bedroom apartment had been converted into professional space. Morgan had taken over the spare office. Though they were separate entities, private attorneys often required the services of PI firms. Being under the same roof was convenient, and the rent was cheap. With a brand-new practice, Morgan’s cash flow was tight.

  A few sharp barks greeted them. Rocket, the white-and-tan stray dog Sharp had recently adopted, rushed them, wagging and snuffling at Morgan. A bulldog mix of some sort, her sturdy body was filling out nicely with regular meals.

  Sharp met them in the foyer. “The client’s name is Tim Clark.”

  In his midfifties, retired Scarlet Falls police detective Lincoln Sharp was fit and wiry. He wore his more-salt-than-pepper hair buzzed short. After twenty-five years on the force and another five running his own private investigation firm, Sharp sized people up with gray don’t-mess-with-me eyes that didn’t miss a thing. His lean, hawkish features looked tough, but Sharp was a total marshmallow on the inside.

  “Clark?” Morgan crouched to greet the dog. “The name sounds familiar.”

  “It should,” Sharp said. “His wife disappeared last Friday. It was on the news.”

  “Now I remember.” Morgan recalled the news report. Young mother vanishing into thin air, her car found in the middle of nowhere.

  The case had made headlines only briefly, until a police shooting over the
weekend had garnered more public attention.

  Morgan and Lance followed Sharp into his office, and he introduced them.

  In his late twenties, Tim Clark had messy brown hair that fell to his shoulders. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and his button-up shirt was as wrinkled as a sheet of aluminum foil that had been crumpled into a ball and smoothed out again.

  He stood to shake their hands. “Thanks so much for seeing me. I should have called for an appointment, but honestly, I haven’t been thinking straight.”

  Sharp took his seat behind the desk, and Lance leaned on the wall.

  Tim eased back into his seat. An infant carrier sat at his feet. From the blue blanket tucked around the baby, Morgan assumed it was a boy.

  “How old is he?” she asked.

  “Four months.” Tim’s eyes misted. “His name is William. I’m sorry I had to bring him. My daughter is with my neighbor, but Will is colicky. No one wants to watch him.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Morgan said. “I have three kids.”

  The baby stirred and made a snuffling sound, and Morgan melted a little as she settled in the chair next to Tim.

  “What can we do for you, Tim?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Tim rocked the baby seat with his foot. “My wife went out last Friday night to meet a friend for a glass of wine. She never arrived at the restaurant.” His voice faltered. “No one has seen her since.”

  Morgan leaned forward. “I’m so sorry about what happened, but why are you here?”

  His eyes went bleak, and he stared at the baby at his feet. “Because the sheriff has spent more time investigating me than trying to find my wife.”

  On the armrest, Tim’s hand curled into a tight fist. His eyes lifted, and behind his despair, a fiery hint of anger flared. “I don’t know exactly what I need, but I saw you on the news last month, in that case where the police arrested the wrong man. You proved them wrong. I need you to help me. My wife has been missing for five days, and the sheriff is never going to find her if he refuses to look beyond me for suspects. And that innocent man last month went to jail. I can’t afford to let that happen. My kids need me.”