Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3)

by Melinda Leigh

  Morgan began, “Crystal Fox was sixty-two years old. She lived at her current address for the last thirty years. She married Warren Fox in 1983. There’s no divorce on record.”

  Sharp made notes on the board. “What do we know about Mary?”

  “She was twenty-one years old when she died in 1994. She dropped out of high school at the age of seventeen. She’d been arrested once at eighteen for shoplifting, and again at twenty for solicitation of prostitution. She plead guilty to both charges, paid a fine for the shoplifting offense, and received probation for soliciting.” Morgan scrolled. “She worked as a waitress at PJ’s and supplemented her income with prostitution.”

  “We need to talk to someone who knew Crystal.” Sharp studied what was now their murder board.

  “There was one house down the road, but it would be best to wait until tomorrow to knock on the door,” Morgan said. “The sheriff has had quite enough of us tonight. We’ll be seeing him again early tomorrow morning. At that time, I’d rather be able to honestly say that we haven’t tampered with his case.”

  Sharp glanced at the clock. “After we’re done with the sheriff, then.”

  Lance set down his cup. His face was drawn, and dark circles lay like bruises under his eyes. He needed a good meal and a full night’s sleep. But he wouldn’t allow himself either. “We need to know how Mary was connected to my father.”

  “They knew each other from PJ’s,” Sharp said. “But you’re right. That isn’t enough. Your father wasn’t at PJ’s that night. Both your mother and the responding patrol officer verified that.”

  “We need to know if Mary worked that night.” Morgan tapped her pen on her blotter. In the back of her mind, a much darker possibility had formed. If Vic had had a sexual relationship with Mary, could he have killed her?

  “Putting a visit to PJ’s on the list, though I can’t imagine anyone on the current staff was working there all those years ago.” Sharp made a note on the board. He checked his laptop. “The pictures are downloaded.”

  He and Lance shifted their chairs, and he angled the computer so they could all see the screen. Morgan flinched at the images.

  “At first glance, this appears to be a suicide.” Sharp clicked through to the pictures of the knot. “The chair had been knocked over. She struggled a little, maybe her feet kicked.”

  Sharp squinted at the screen. “In the few suicide hangings I’ve seen, the knot was on the side of the neck, typically rising behind the ear due to the weight of the body in suspension. This one is at the back of the neck. It’s atypical, but doesn’t necessarily imply anything sinister.”

  “The rope looks like a common nylon type,” Morgan said. “I have some in my shed.”

  The woman wore sweatpants and a worn sweater. Her feet were bare.

  “What’s smeared around her eyes?” Lance straightened. He leaned closer to the computer. “Sharp, do we have a close-up?”

  “We do.” Sharp tapped the touch pad mouse.

  “It’s mascara. She’d been crying,” Morgan said in a soft voice. “That morning the sheriff had told her her daughter was dead. Let’s see the whole room.”

  Sharp switched pictures.

  “She went back to bed after the sheriff left. She drank, and she cried.” Morgan pointed at a box of tissues on the nightstand, next to a glass and a bottle of gin.

  There wasn’t enough alcohol to numb that level of grief. Morgan had lost both of her parents and her husband, but she couldn’t fathom the depth of pain that came from losing a child.

  “The bedding is half on the bed, half off.” Sharp leaned closer to the screen. “But the whole house was a mess, so it’s hard to say if there’s any sign of a struggle.”

  Lance said, “If she was drunk, she wouldn’t have struggled much anyway.”

  They reviewed the rest of the photos, but nothing else stood out.

  “My eyes are crossing.” Sharp stood and stretched his back. “I think we should all go home and get some sleep. Nothing is happening tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll split up to interview Crystal’s neighbors and the staff at PJ’s.”

  Morgan took her coffee mug to the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher. Then she returned to her office to collect her tote.

  Lance took his keys from his pocket. “I have to go to my mother’s house. Sharp, could you follow Morgan home?”

  “Of course. Give me five minutes.” Sharp walked into the hallway.

  Morgan followed Lance into his office. He was stashing his laptop into a computer case.

  “What about you?” She reached up and cupped his jaw. Buried under all that strength was a soul-deep vein of vulnerability.

  He covered her hand with his. “I can’t even think about me right now.”

  And she worried about that very fact. “Don’t shut me out. I’m here for you.”

  “I know. Thank you.” He pulled free of her grasp. “I’ll be at your house by nine. We can drop Sophie and Gianna on the way to the sheriff’s office.”

  “Goodnight.” She rose onto her toes and kissed him on the lips. “Call me anytime, even if you just need to talk.”

  “I will.” He walked out of his office without looking back.

  But would he?

  Morgan collected the copy of the file she’d made earlier that day. On the way out of the building, she turned to Sharp. “Something occurred to me tonight. Do you think there’s any possibility that Vic killed Mary?”

  Sharp sighed. “The same thing had occurred to me. Unfortunately, I don’t know. No one even remotely indicated that Vic had a temper or a violent side. In fact, everyone said just the opposite. Vic was a nice guy.”

  “We haven’t established any close link between Vic and Mary, other than he frequented PJ’s and she worked there.”

  Sharp stopped beside his car. “Let’s see what we can find out about Mary’s movements on the night of her death and go from there.”

  But it was a possibility. One that would devastate Lance and his mother if it were true.

  Sharp followed her back to the house. He waited at the end of the driveway until she’d unlocked the front door, opened it, and waved. Then he drove off.

  She went into the house and was bombarded with small creatures, some furry, some not. Before she could take off her coat or put down her tote, they set on her. Her evening greeting could be more accurately described as an attack.

  The dogs tangled around her legs. Ava took Morgan’s tote bag and dragged it to a nearby chair. As soon as Morgan’s hands were free, Sophie leaped into her arms. Expecting the jump, Morgan caught her. Not wanting her middle daughter to feel slighted, Morgan leaned over and kissed Mia on the head.

  “Why are you all still up?” Morgan allowed herself to be pulled into the kitchen.

  “We missed you.” Sophie smacked a kiss on Morgan’s cheek.

  All three girls wore their pajamas, and the scent of No More Tangles wafted from their still-damp heads.

  Gianna stood in the hallway, a towel tossed over her shoulder. “I hope it’s OK that they’re still awake. They wanted to see you.”

  The young woman was all smiles, and Morgan was happy to see the tired look on her face was the healthy kind brought on by an active day nannying three little girls, not the sort that came from poor nutrition. She still needed dialysis three times a week, but Gianna had come a long way since she’d moved in with them last summer.

  “It’s fine.” Morgan set Sophie down and turned to the girls. “Have you brushed your teeth?”

  Three little heads nodded.

  “Then you can each pick out a picture book.” Morgan crouched to their level. “I’ll be in to read to you in five minutes.”

  They scurried down the hall to the room they shared. At the doorway, Sophie elbowed Ava out of the way.

  Morgan went into the den. Her grandfather was in his wheelchair, his casted leg elevated on a pillow. He wore clean pajamas. His thin, white hair combed. Mac sat on the couch, the TV remote in his hand.

>   “You need help getting into bed, Art?” Mac set down the remote control and stood.

  “Hell, no,” Grandpa grumbled. “I feel like one of the children. Can’t even wash and dress myself.”

  “You’ll be rid of that cast soon,” Morgan said, then turned to hug her sister’s man. “Thank you, Mac.”

  Her sister had found a man the polar opposite of Lance. With his shaggy surfer hair and lean body, Mac always looked a little like the wild creatures he studied as a wildlife biologist.

  “Anytime. Are you sure you’re all right here alone?” he asked.

  Morgan perched on the arm of the couch, the two dogs at her feet. “We’ll be fine. Snoozer isn’t much of a watchdog, but Rocket doesn’t miss a thing.”

  And she would be keeping her gun close.

  As if she heard Morgan’s praise, Rocket cocked her head toward the front door.

  “All right, but call if you have any concerns.” Mac and Stella lived just a few minutes away. “I canceled classes for the rest of the week. I’ll be back in the morning.” Mac taught biology at the local university and used his wilderness experience to aid the local search and rescue team.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “No worries. I just assigned a boatload of reading and a research paper instead.” He grinned.

  Morgan followed him out of the den to the front door.

  “I don’t know what I would have done these last four weeks without you, Mac.”

  “In two weeks, a simple shower won’t be such a production.” Mac went outside. “I just took the dogs out ten minutes ago. They should be good for the night. Lock up. Set the alarm. Call us if you need anything.”

  Morgan turned the dead bolt, set the alarm, and returned to the den. “I’m going to read to the girls.”

  “I can’t wait to be useful again,” Grandpa said.

  “Speaking of useful.” Morgan opened her tote. She pulled out the file. “Sharp asked if you’d go through his case file on Victor Kruger.”

  “Really?” Grandpa sat up straighter.

  “Yes. Really.” She handed him the file. “And if you get through this whole file, Sharp might have some illegal crime scene photos for you to look at.”

  When she emerged from the girls’ bedroom fifteen minutes later, Grandpa had the file open in his lap, his reading glasses on his nose, and his entire demeanor had changed.

  Only a Dane perked up when confronted with murder.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lance parked in front of Morgan’s house just as the school bus pulled away from the curb. Ava and Mia waved from the bus windows. Joining Morgan on the sidewalk, he waved back.

  The bus rumbled away, and he and Morgan turned toward the house. Her breath puffed in the frosty morning air, and she rubbed her arms.

  “You need a coat,” he said.

  “We’re always in a rush. The bus comes at the same time every day. You’d think we’d be ready.”

  “At least you’re wearing shoes today.”

  In her black heels, she was only a couple of inches shorter than him. She wore a red suit and her black hair was twisted in one of the no-nonsense updos she favored for legal business.

  “The girls have missed you the last few days,” Morgan said.

  “I meant to get here earlier.” Lance glanced back at the retreating bus. He’d waited until his mother was settled in her office, with a website design to occupy her, before he’d left.

  Morgan opened the front door. Sophie leaped at Lance. As he caught her, she wrapped her skinny arms around his neck and pouted. “I haven’t seen you all week. You pwomised to take me skating.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Guilt speared him like a fork. “My mom has been . . . sick.”

  “Like Grandpa?” she asked.

  “Yes. Something like that.” Lance hugged her. When he’d first started dating Morgan, the fact that she had three small children had terrified him. Now, catching one in midair felt natural. He’d never thought he’d look forward to dealing with the sticky chaos, but their smiles and hugs—their acceptance—filled him with gratitude.

  But how could he possibly be there for Morgan and her three kids and take care of his mother? No matter how hard Mom tried to be independent, one of life’s curveballs could wipe out her efforts as fast as a rag across a whiteboard.

  “Are you driving me to school?” Sophie squirmed away from his chest.

  He set her on the floor. “Yep.”

  “Yay!” She raced for her bedroom, stopping and giving him a stern look over her shoulder. “But we hafta leave now or I’ll be late. I don’t wike to be late.”

  Lance lifted both hands. “Hey, I’m ready. Where’s your backpack?”

  She shot into her room.

  Gianna came out of the kitchen and took her coat from a peg on the wall. A bag over her arm held her dialysis supplies: a warm blanket, a thermos, and the iPad Morgan had given her for her birthday. The young woman was still sick, still dependent on her treatments, and still waiting for a kidney, but there was energy in her step and hope in her eyes. “Thanks for driving me today, Lance.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Lance said. They went outside. While Morgan locked the door, he loaded Sophie into his Jeep, double-checking the fit of her safety seat and harness.

  Gianna slid into the back next to Sophie, and Morgan fastened her seat belt in the passenger seat. He drove Sophie to preschool. She made Lance walk her in and introduced him to her teacher before allowing him to leave. Next, he dropped Gianna at dialysis, and then they headed for the sheriff’s station.

  “Sharp is meeting us there?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes,” Lance said. “He wanted to check on the dog.”

  “He’s such a softie.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that.” Lance drove out to the sheriff’s station, located near the county jail and municipal complex.

  Sharp was already parked in front of the ugly-ass brown brick building that housed the sheriff’s station. He climbed out of his car.

  “Safety in numbers?” Lance joked as they walked toward the door.

  Sharp snorted. “I wasn’t waiting for you. I was waiting for my lawyer.”

  “How’s the dog?” Morgan fell into step beside Sharp.

  “She has a broken leg that needs surgery, but she should be fine for you to take home in a day or so.”

  “Me?” Morgan laughed. “Why do I get the dog?”

  “You’re the one who collects strays.” Sharp opened the glass door and stepped aside to let Morgan enter first.

  They went inside the lobby. At the counter, they were met by the sheriff’s watchdog, a sixty-something-year-old woman with sensible shoes, a navy-blue cardigan, and a laserlike gaze that could cut a man in two.

  “Hey, Margie.” Sharp leaned on the counter.

  Margie rested both hands on her hips. “Lincoln Sharp. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  Sharp inclined his head beyond the counter. “There’s a reason for that.”

  Margie’s head shake said it all. “It isn’t personal. He doesn’t believe in the whole concept of private investigation. I’d tread extra carefully today if I were you.” Margie dropped her voice. “He just canceled his annual hunting trip because of this case. This will be the first deer season he’ll miss in fifteen years. He is not in a good mood.”

  Was he ever?

  “Thanks, Margie,” Sharp said.

  Margie continued to shake her head as she gestured over her shoulder with a thumb. “Go on back. He’s expecting you.”

  The sheriff greeted them with a nod and a grunt in the corridor. King had showered, shaved, and donned a fresh uniform, but his eyes were weary. He hadn’t slept much, if at all. He issued commands to a deputy at his side. “Put Sharp in room one, Kruger in room two, and Ms. Dane in my office.”

  Only Morgan warranted a title.

  “You realize neither Mr. Sharp nor Mr. Kruger will answer any questions outside of my presence,” Morgan
said without moving.

  The sheriff muttered something that sounded like oh, hell under his breath. “I give up with you three. Just go in there.”

  With a frustrated wave, he motioned toward an open doorway on their left. Lance led the way into a cramped conference room full of stale air and the smell of burned coffee.

  The sheriff came in behind them. The office chair squealed as he dropped his bulk into it. “No doubt you’ve had plenty of time to get your stories straight anyway.”

  “Mr. Sharp and Mr. Kruger gave full statements last night,” Morgan pointed out. “Were there any discrepancies?”

  “No,” the sheriff admitted.

  “Before we get started, I have news for you.” King nodded at Morgan. “I had a talk with Tyler Green about your stalker problem. He claimed not to know anything about it. But the most interesting takeaway from our conversation was that he has struck a deal with the prosecutor’s office.”

  “What deal?” Morgan stiffened.

  “His case was given to Esposito, who offered him reduced charges for time served.” The sheriff’s frown deepened. “I impressed upon him the importance of staying far away from you if he wanted to avoid further incarcerations. But Tyler isn’t known for his self-control or intelligence. Please be careful.”

  “Thank you,” Morgan said. “I appreciate the notice.”

  King nodded, then turned to Lance. “Now back to the case. Do you remember going to PJ’s when you were a boy?”

  “Yes,” Lance said.

  Sheriff King cocked his head. “Your dad went there a few times a week. Mary Fox worked there. Do you remember her?”

  “No.” Lance shook his head. “I was ten.

  All he remembered was that the burgers were huge and he could watch TV while he ate.

  “Your father’s friends remembered Mary. You talked to them yesterday, right? Brian and Natalie Leed and Stan Adams?” the sheriff asked. “How well do you remember them from your childhood?”

  “I have some memories.” Lance shifted his weight. The hard plastic chair dug in to his back. “But once my dad went missing, I didn’t see any of them.”

  The sheriff leaned forward. “Do you remember your mother acting strangely back then?”