“Do you want to take the bottom half of the list?” Morgan asked.
“Sure.”
“I’ll get your laptop.” She fetched his computer from his room.
In his mideighties, Grandpa might be shaky on his feet, but his brain hadn’t lost any of its sharp edge. He pulled his glasses from the chest pocket of his flannel shirt and set them on the end of his nose. “What do you want to know?”
“Name and home and employer address to start. We’ll cross-reference them with the places Chelsea frequents. Then we can get more detail on any that overlap.”
The New York State sex offender registry maintained a detailed profile on all level-two and level-three offenders. Home and work addresses, physical descriptions, convictions and sentencing information, photos, vehicle registrations, and specific legal restrictions were listed for all to see.
Morgan didn’t find any sex offenders in Chelsea’s neighborhood. Nor were there any listed in the immediate vicinity of the spot where her car had been found.
But ninety minutes later, Morgan froze. An address on the registry looked familiar. She went back to her list of Chelsea’s activities. A match!
“Chelsea took her car to Burns Auto Shop last month.” She shifted her gaze to her list of sex offenders. “The address of the auto shop matches the employer address of Harold Burns, a registered level-three sexually violent offender.” She went back to her computer. “Harold is thirty-five years old. He served seven years in state prison for the first degree rape of a twenty-three-year-old woman.”
Level-three offenders committed the most serious crimes, both violent and nonviolent crimes against minors and adults, and required lifetime registration with frequent verification of personal information.
“Was the victim a stranger or not?” Grandpa asked. Most sexual predators knew their victims.
Morgan checked the data. “Yes. Stranger. Force used is listed as coercion, threat, and a firearm.”
Grandpa’s face tightened. “Why on earth a man like this is free is beyond me.”
“Prisons are full, and the minimum sentence for first degree rape is only five years. With time off for good behavior, some don’t even serve that much time.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I know. Still. Burns was a violent man going into his sentence. I would bet that seven years in a state prison didn’t magically make him docile.”
Morgan shook her head. “No, but he’s been out for three years with no arrests, and it seems he’s in full compliance with registry requirements.”
“So far,” Grandpa grumbled. “And no arrests doesn’t mean he hasn’t committed any crimes. He just hasn’t gotten caught.”
Harold drove a red Chevy truck. Morgan copied his license plate number. “Since his name is Burns and so is the auto shop’s, I’ll assume he’s related to the owner.”
“I can keep plugging away at the surrounding counties tomorrow if you want,” Grandpa said hopefully. He missed being a detective.
“Are you sure? It’s grunt work.”
“I don’t mind. Work keeps the mind sharp.”
“There is nothing wrong with your brain.” She checked the time. Nearly midnight. Too late to call Lance’s mom. Morgan sent her an e-mail. Then she copied all of Harold Burns’s personal information down into her notes and printed his photo from her computer screen. Tomorrow, Jenny Kruger could dig up more details on him. Morgan fetched the image from the printer in the family room and stared at Harold Burns.
About six feet tall, Harold was dirty-looking. He wore his shoulder-length, gray-streaked brown hair in a ponytail, his bushy beard was unkempt, and his brown eyes were frighteningly emotionless.
Was she looking at the man who had abducted Chelsea?
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, Lance opened Morgan’s front door just as two children shot out past him.
“Hi, Lance,” Ava called, running toward the driveway.
Dragging a book bag on the pavement, Mia stopped to give him a quick hug. “Gotta go.”
The door opened wider, and Morgan flew by, a piece of paper fluttering in her hand. “Wait!”
She was dressed in gray pants and a matching suit jacket, but she wore no coat and her feet were bare. The hem of her pants was too long and she ran on her toes. The scarf around her neck was more decorative than warm, and he knew it was in place so her kids didn’t see the bruises on her neck. Her hair was down and billowed around her head in the wind. The cold reddened her fair skin almost instantly. In his eyes, Morgan was always beautiful, but usually her appearance was polished and perfect. When he caught her in a casual, carefree moment, before she assumed her professional veneer, it felt intimate, and she took his breath away.
She called out, her voice commanding, “Stop!”
Both girls slid to a quick halt.
“Ava! You forgot your permission slip.” Morgan twirled her finger in the air.
Ava turned around, and Morgan zipped the paper into the front pocket of her backpack just as a school bus turned the corner. Morgan grabbed her girls’ hands and held on until the bus came to a complete stop. Then she kissed each child as they squirmed away and climbed onto the bus.
Once the bus pulled away, she returned to Lance, her cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry. I’m running behind.”
She shoved her black mane away from her face. The sight of her smiling up at him froze his vocal cords for a second. Her bare lips looked soft and warm. He itched for their taste. Last night’s kiss had left him wanting more.
He leaned forward, but the sensation of being watched stopped him. He glanced around, his gaze catching a figure in the living room window. Sophie. Her skinny arms were crossed over her little body.
Lance straightened. “Your daughter is giving us the stink eye.”
As he watched, Sophie turned and fled the window.
Morgan sighed. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
Clearing his throat, he held the door open for her as they went inside. “Take your time. Our appointment with Curtis MacDonald isn’t until nine.”
She shivered and rubbed her arms. “Thanks.”
Lance peered into the kitchen. Art was reading the newspaper. Sophie worked on a pancake, and Gianna was loading the dishwasher. Both girls were in their pajamas. The dog begged at Sophie’s feet. The scene was warm and happy, the sink full of dirty dishes the only sign of the bedlam that likely preceded this quiet moment.
If he had told himself a year ago that he’d find this chaos warm and inviting—and that he wanted to be part of it—he wouldn’t have believed it.
“Morning,” he said.
Art looked up from his paper. “Morning.”
“Can I make you breakfast?” Gianna asked.
“No, but thanks.” Lance shook his head. “We have to go.”
“I’m ready.” In the doorway, Morgan buttoned up a black trench-type coat. She stuffed a small umbrella into her big purse.
They went out to the Jeep. Lance slid behind the wheel, started the engine, then turned to Morgan and pulled the scarf an inch away from her neck. The ring of bruises had darkened to a deep purple.
“Does it hurt?” His finger brushed her jaw as he released the fabric.
She tugged the scarf back into place. “It looks worse than it feels.”
“I hope so because it looks terrible.” Lance drove away from the house.
“Gee. Thanks.” Morgan sighed. “How was your mother last night?”
“The same. Maybe I’m just paranoid.” But his mom wasn’t herself and he needed to keep an eye on her.
“All you can do is your best,” Morgan said. “Oh. I have some news on the case. Last month, Chelsea took her car to an auto shop that employs a registered sex offender.”
Morgan filled him in on the details of her find.
“You had better luck than I did.” Lance drove toward town. The accounting firm of Skyver and MacDonald was local. “Chelsea mainly used her social media accounts to post pictures of t
he kids. She kept her accounts private and had very few connections. All her online relationships seem to be with family, friends, and coworkers. There were no changes or red flags in her recent posts or comments. There’s always the possibility of her accounts being hacked, but I didn’t find any obvious clues. Tim doesn’t have any social media accounts.”
Lance had also hacked into Chelsea’s work files, but he didn’t mention that to Morgan. He hadn’t had time to dig in to the data anyway.
“Should we go see Harold Burns or check with the sheriff first?” Morgan asked.
Lance turned left at a stop sign. “Let’s get Sharp’s opinion. He’s better with local politics than I am.”
Morgan put Sharp on speakerphone and gave him the details about Harold Burns.
“Morgan and I were debating whether we should call Sheriff King or stop in to see Harold.” Lance steered the Jeep onto the country road that led to town.
Sharp was silent for a few seconds. “Notifying King puts us at the risk of him warning us off without giving us any information. Then we couldn’t talk to Burns. Usually, I’m all for stepping carefully around law enforcement, but I think we’re better off asking for forgiveness rather than permission in this case. For all we know, King has already talked to Burns and kept it to himself.”
“So we’ll go talk to Harold after we finish with Curtis MacDonald,” Lance said.
“I’d start with a routine inquiry with the manager,” Sharp suggested. “Show Chelsea’s picture around the shop. See if anyone remembers her and what kind of reactions you get. If or when you confront Harold, do it in private. We don’t need to be charged with harassment.”
“I’d hate to ruin a sexual predator’s day,” Lance said, disgusted.
“The law is the law,” Sharp answered in a firm tone.
“Yeah. Yeah. I know.” But being nice to a predator turned Lance’s stomach. Experts could dispute the recidivism rate of sexual offenders all they wanted. Lance would never be convinced any of them could be rehabilitated. He held a grudge against anyone who hurt women or children and he always would.
“Morgan, please make sure he behaves himself,” Sharp said.
She laughed. “I’m the one who broke someone’s nose yesterday.”
“Point taken. Just try and stay out of trouble for one entire day.” Sharp chuckled. “Lance, I’ll call your mom and put Harold Burns at the top of her list. Let’s see if she can dig up more details on him. I’ll head to Tim’s neighborhood and start knocking on doors. You kids be careful.”
Sharp ended the call.
Ten minutes later, Lance parked in front of Skyver and MacDonald. The accounting firm was located in a small business complex at the edge of town. They went inside, and Morgan gave their names to the receptionist.
Curtis emerged in a few seconds. At forty-five years of age, he looked younger than Lance expected. Something about the word “accountant” made him think of old men and dusty ledgers. But Curtis’s light-brown hair was streaked with blond, not silver, and he moved like an athlete.
After brief introductions, Curtis asked, “Has there been any news?”
Lance shook his head.
“Please, come into my office.” Frowning, Curtis ushered them down a short hallway. He gestured toward a credenza that held a pod-style coffeemaker. “Do you want coffee?”
Lance and Morgan declined and took the two upholstered chairs that faced Curtis’s modern desk.
Curtis went behind the desk, but instead of sitting, he faced a window that looked out onto a small green space. “I still can’t believe she’s missing.”
Morgan began, “When was the last time you spoke with Chelsea?”
Curtis faced them, his distress plain in his eyes. “Friday morning.”
“Was there anything unusual about the conversation?” Morgan asked.
“Definitely.” Curtis rolled the chair out and dropped into it. He picked up a paper clip and twirled it between his fingertips. But he didn’t seem nervous, more like a fidgety man with too much energy for a desk job. “She was upset about something she didn’t want to tell me over the phone. She was going to come into the office Monday, but obviously that didn’t happen.”
Lance leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. “So you have no idea what she wanted to talk to you about?”
“No.” Curtis’s tanned brow furrowed. “She’d been trying to catch up with her clients, but she was having a rough time. I was prepared for her to come in on Monday and quit. I had a counteroffer prepared.”
“You didn’t want her to quit?” Morgan asked.
“No. She’s smart and reliable. I’ll admit that her extended maternity leave has put me in a bit of a bind. We have the year-end statements to prepare and tax season right on top of that.”
“Seems like it would be easier to replace her,” Lance said.
Curtis shook his head. “Turnover is expensive. I already know what I have in Chelsea. She’s good at her job. And seriously, I’d feel like a total jerk firing her over a problem with her baby. Her absence has been inconvenient, but it’s temporary. We’ll survive.”
“What has Chelsea been working on?”
“Nothing specific.” Curtis said. “Her clients have been spread out among a number of associates. I simply started copying Chelsea on all activity and correspondence so she could get back up to speed. We were both hoping she could start coming in part-time and do some work at home.”
Morgan crossed her legs. “Do you normally allow that sort of flexibility?”
Curtis shrugged. “This is the first time maternity leave has come up with anyone outside of administrative personnel. We’re not a big firm. But as I said before, turnover is expensive. It costs money to replace key staff. It disrupts client relations.”
“Is it possible Chelsea was upset about something else?” Morgan asked.
Curtis dropped the paper clip. It hit the desk with a soft thud. “Like what? She’s a good worker, but our relationship is professional. We’re friendly, but we’re not friends, if you know what I mean. I’m sure if she had a personal problem, she’d take it to a girlfriend.”
“What about problems with a client?” Lance asked.
Curtis lifted a shoulder. “Not that I know about.”
Lance couldn’t think of any further questions. “Do you mind if we talk to the rest of the staff?”
“Not at all.” Curtis stood. “Everyone here is really worried about Chelsea.”
“What about your partner?” Lance got to his feet.
Curtis shook his head. “Jim Skyver died six years ago. He was the founder of the firm. Changing the name is more effort than it’s worth.”
Lance followed Morgan out of the office.
There were six junior accountants and a handful of administrative staff. No one at the firm had anything interesting to say. Chelsea seemed genuinely well liked, and her coworkers acted concerned with her disappearance.
Lance and Morgan left the building and got into the Jeep.
“He seems like a nice guy.” Lance started the engine.
“He does. Why would Chelsea make an appointment to see her boss if she was going to run away?”
“Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly. Could be depression.”
“Maybe.” Morgan turned to the passenger window. “But I’m not convinced. She would have had to make arrangements for a car to be left in Grey’s Hollow. Where would she get the money? We haven’t found any additional friends in her life. She barely had time to see Fiona let alone plan an elaborate vanishing act.”
“Could she have had an affair?”
Morgan snorted. “With a preschooler and a baby? I doubt sex was on Chelsea’s mind often. With a four-month-old colicky baby, sleep would be a priority, not sex. Besides, no one involved in the investigation has alluded to any indication of infidelity on Chelsea’s part.”
“What if the affair happened before she got pregnant?”
“We’d have to go back a
nd look at all records from over a year ago.”
“Yes,” Lance agreed.
A thinking line formed between Morgan’s brows. “I still put Chelsea leaving on her own at the bottom of my list of theories. In my opinion, she wouldn’t voluntarily leave her children. We’d need to uncover a strong motivation.”
But was Morgan projecting her own feelings onto the missing woman?
“Like?”
“Like her presence put her family in danger.” Morgan rubbed her forehead. “But we know where she grew up, so she can’t be part of witness protection or anything like that, and we’ve seen no indication of criminal activity.”
“So what are we left with? She saw or discovered something she wasn’t supposed to?” Lance would spend the evening digging into Chelsea’s client files.
“Neither of those possibilities seem likely, but nothing about this case is normal.”
“Let’s move on to the auto shop.” Lance turned the Jeep around and left the lot.
Burns Auto Repair sat on a large piece of land on the outskirts of Scarlet Falls.
They drove out of the town proper. Lance made a left onto a rural route. Forest lined the road on both sides. A few miles later, the woods opened up on the right, and Morgan pointed to a squat, unkempt ranch-style home set back off the road. The three-bay detached garage was larger than the house. “That’s Harold’s residential address. His brother, Jerry, owns all this property. It’s been in the Burns family for years.”
The auto shop was a quarter mile down the road. Lance drove into the gravel lot and past the building. A red pickup truck was parked near a side door. Behind the shop, an auto salvage yard stretched across acres of dirt and weeds. Amid the clusters and piles of vehicle carcasses, Lance spotted a few small outbuildings. Thick woods surrounded the property.
Morgan opened Chelsea’s file. “The license plate matches. That’s Harold Burns’s truck.”
“Then he’s here.” Lance parked at the corner of the building, where the Jeep was out of the direct line of sight of the glass-doored entrance.
“Maybe you should wait outside,” Morgan suggested.
“No.”
“You’re intimidating.”
Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Page 13