Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3)

by Melinda Leigh

  “Mr. Kruger has been missing since August 10, 1994. He is now a person of interest in the murder of Mary Fox.” The sheriff leaned closer to the microphone. “If anyone has information as to his whereabouts, please call the sheriff’s department.”

  A phone number scrolled across the bottom of the screen. The sheriff ended the press conference and stepped away from the podium. The video froze.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t believe he made that announcement without warning us.”

  But he could. Lance had let a few instances of decent manners soften his opinion of the sheriff. King did what suited King.

  “You have nothing to apologize for.” She patted his hand. Her nails were bitten below the quick, so far down that several of them had scabs. “The sheriff is just doing his job, though he’s headed down the wrong path. Your father would never have hurt that girl.”

  But Lance couldn’t be so sure. He’d already learned that many of his childhood perceptions had been dead wrong.

  “I mean it, Lance. Your father was a good man.” His mother’s body stiffened. She looked more angry than upset. “The sheriff is way off base. He’s wasting all of our time.”

  Morgan leaned in the doorway. “Lunch is ready.”

  “You’re a dear.” His mom got up from her chair and followed Morgan into the kitchen. “I don’t know that I can eat.”

  “You should try.” Morgan wrapped an arm around his mom’s shoulders. She’d heated tomato soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches for three, one of his mother’s favorite wintertime meals. Morgan always paid attention to the little things.

  His mother sighed and sat at the table. “All right.”

  “Did I tell you what Sophie did this morning?” Morgan launched into a story of Ava tattling on Sophie for coloring on the wall, and Sophie cutting all the hair off Ava’s dolls in retribution.

  Distracted, his mom ate half her sandwich.

  “I’m almost surprised she didn’t slide a toy horse head into Ava’s bed.” Morgan chuckled.

  “That Sophie must be a handful.” His mom dipped her spoon into her soup.

  “She is.” Lance finished his grilled cheese without tasting it.

  “I’d love to meet your children,” Jenny said to Morgan.

  Lance tossed his napkin onto his empty plate. His mother depended on routine. Morgan’s oldest two girls were predictable, but Sophie was a freight train full of chaos. Could his mother handle it?

  He studied the lift of her chin and stubborn set to her jaw. Maybe. Just maybe she could. She seemed determined to improve her life.

  But it was too soon to speculate about the future. First, they had to get through the current crisis.

  “About those e-mail and phone records the sheriff wanted.” His mom got up and fetched a slip of paper and a pen from a kitchen drawer. “As you know, my phone and e-mail are both with my Internet provider. Here’s the log-in and password to my account.” She handed him the paper. “The sheriff can sift through my personal e-mails until his eyeballs cross from boredom. I did not give him access to my professional accounts. He’ll have to get a subpoena for those. I will not compromise my clients’ privacy.”

  Sometimes his mom’s intelligence got lost in all the craziness of her life. A trip to the grocery store was beyond her capabilities, but she could design and maintain websites, detect cyber security issues, and teach computer science.

  Lance took the paper, hoping the information satisfied the sheriff.

  “Don’t worry. He won’t find anything in my e-mails,” his mother said.

  Lance hoped she was right.

  He turned to Morgan. “Let’s take this information to the sheriff and get back to work.”

  They’d uncovered their first big break in the case. It was time to find Warren Fox.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Morgan sat in the passenger seat of the Jeep, talking to Sharp on the speakerphone. She kept one eye on Lance in the driver’s seat. He gripped the steering wheel like he was going to rip it out of the dashboard.

  Morgan leaned closer to the speaker. “We dropped Jenny’s e-mail and phone account information with the sheriff.”

  Which was one of the reasons Lance looked ready to snap off a head.

  “We have two possible suspects.” Morgan summed up the information Abigail Wright had given them on Crystal’s husband, Warren Fox, and Mary’s mysterious client, Mr. Joshua. “We plan on visiting Abigail at the Roadside Motel at seven. Until then, there’s Warren Fox to check out.”

  “You two go talk to Warren,” Sharp said. “I’m on my way to PJ’s now. Come to the office when you’re done with Warren, and we’ll compare notes.”

  Morgan ended the call and Lance drove to the Randolph County recycling center. An eight-foot-tall chain-link fence surrounded the property. Lance turned in at the gate. A sign posted the hours as Monday through Friday, seven a.m. to three p.m. Lance pulled up in front of a small building labeled OFFICE. Behind it was a row of dumpsters. Several other outbuildings were scattered around the property. The only vehicle in sight, a black Chevy pickup truck, sat alongside the office. Morgan made a note of the license plate.

  They got out of the car. Morgan’s heel sank into the rutted gravel, and she instantly regretted not taking the time to change from her suit to more durable clothing.

  Lance peered in the shed. “He’s not in there. I’m going to look around.”

  He turned and walked around the building.

  “I’ll be right there. I need to change my shoes before I break an ankle.” She leaned into the vehicle and brought out the pair of black flats she always carried in her tote. With one hand on the open vehicle door, she changed her shoes. Straightening, she was struck with the sense of being watched. Unease spread through her as she slowly turned in a circle.

  A man stood in the doorway to one of the nearby buildings. He wore olive-green coveralls and a leer that disgusted Morgan from ten feet away. She closed the Jeep door and faced him. “I’m looking for Warren Fox.”

  He stepped into the sunlight and crossed the gravel to stand in front of her. “I’m Warren.”

  The sour smell of alcohol emanated from his every pore, as if he’d been pickling in gin for weeks.

  “Morgan Dane.” She offered him her card.

  He inspected it, his face transforming from leer to rage.

  “Another fucking lawyer.” With one motion, he grabbed her by the bicep and dragged her closer. “You can tell my fucking bitch of a wife that she ain’t getting anything from me.”

  His finger dug in to her arm. Nerves—and anger—surged through Morgan’s veins.

  That answers my question about whether Warren would hurt a woman.

  “Take your hand off me. Now.” Morgan slid her hand inside her coat to find the handgun just behind her right hip. She’d had enough of being threatened this week. Warren would never try to manhandle Lance, but because Morgan was a woman he assumed he could intimidate her, the same way Esposito had.

  Warren’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t paying that bitch a cent.”

  Either Warren didn’t know Crystal was dead or he was one hell of an actor.

  “So you said, but I’m not here about money. Let go of me before you are very sorry.” She slid the Glock from its holster.

  “Why? Are you gonna sue me? I ain’t got squat. Fucking Crystal kicked me out of my own fucking house, then she has the nerve to ask for fucking money.” His grip on her arm tightened, his finger digging in to her flesh. “I’m not signing any fucking divorce papers, and I’m not giving her a fucking nickel.” He leaned closer, getting right into her face, his breath smelling flammable. A lit match would send him up in flames like too much lighter fluid on a charcoal grill. “You bitches all stick together.”

  Morgan turned her face away.

  “I’ll wring your pretty neck.” He released her arm and wrapped his hands around her throat. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to choke her, but the pressure of his thumbs on her
windpipe made her gag. Fear leaped in her chest, and her heart jumped.

  Enough!

  Morgan drew her handgun and pressed the muzzle into the soft flesh of his groin.

  He froze. His grip loosened, and Morgan swallowed.

  “I said let me go.” And now she needed to wash her neck. With bleach.

  The idiot appeared to consider trying to take the gun.

  “Don’t do it. My father was a cop. My grandfather was a cop. My sister is a cop. My brother is NYPD SWAT. If you move one millimeter toward my weapon, I will shoot your man bits off.”

  His fingers opened, and he raised his hands. Before he could step backward, his body went airborne. In one swift movement, Lance spun Warren away from Morgan, kicked Warren’s feet out from under him, and introduced his face to the gravel.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to ask permission before you touch a lady?” Lance twisted both of Warren’s hands behind his back. He glanced up at Morgan. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She returned her weapon to its holster and rubbed her neck. “Other than I feel like I need to shower.”

  Nerves and adrenaline tumbled through her belly, the combination making her queasy, as usual.

  “Get off me.” Warren twisted his face around, his eyes snapping and the muscles in his jaw twitching.

  “Shut up.” Lance put a knee into Warren’s lower back.

  “Crystal is dead,” Morgan said.

  “What?” Warren wheezed.

  Lance eased his weight off his back.

  “Didn’t the police notify you?” she asked. “You’re still her husband.”

  “Yes.” A flicker of something crossed Warren’s face. “There was a cop on my doorstep last night, but I don’t answer my door to cops.”

  Can’t imagine why.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Morgan said out of habit. “I thought you knew.”

  “You’re serious.” Surprise finally dawned on Warren’s face. “She’s dead?”

  “Yes.” Morgan nodded.

  “Holy shit.” He squirmed. “Am I under arrest?”

  “No.” Regret filled Lance’s answer.

  “Then let me up,” Warren whined. “You’re hurting my back.”

  Morgan rubbed her bicep.

  “Can you behave?” Lance asked.

  Warren nodded, and Lance hauled him to his feet.

  Lance jabbed a finger in his face. “If you so much as look at her with anything short of respect, I’m putting you right back down.”

  “Fucking police brutality,” Warren complained. “I should sue.”

  “Guess what, Warren?” Lance’s lip curled in a snarl. “I’m not a cop.”

  Warren swallowed. “Who are you?”

  “I work for her,” Lance said. “She’s a lawyer.”

  Confusion wrinkled Warren’s thick Neanderthal forehead. “How did Crystal die?”

  Morgan clicked her pen. “She was found hanging in her home.”

  Warren’s face went slack. “She killed herself?”

  Morgan didn’t answer. “Does that surprise you?”

  Warren snorted. “Crystal is—was—way too selfish to kill herself.”

  “Is there anyone who might want to murder her? Besides you?”

  Warren’s face paled, and he took two steps backward. “I didn’t touch her! I haven’t even seen Crystal in months.”

  Since Warren was already off balance, Morgan tossed him a curveball. “When was the last time you saw Mary?”

  “Mary?” Confusion puckered Warren’s face. “She left town more than twenty years ago.”

  “Tell us about your relationship with Mary,” Morgan said.

  Warren’s gaze flickered to the ground. “Not much to tell. She never liked me.”

  “How old was Mary when you married Crystal?” Morgan asked.

  “Ten.” Warren’s tone shifted to wary.

  Morgan made a note. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “I don’t know.” Warren avoided eye contact.

  Liar.

  “Mary is dead too.” Morgan watched his eyes. “Did you know that?”

  “No.” Warren’s gaze snapped back to hers. “I thought she’d left town.”

  Maybe the truth. Some people lied so often, they had trouble keeping their facts straight. Warren struck Morgan as one of those people. Accomplished liars knew to keep their answers short and not to embellish.

  “Mary was murdered.” Morgan said.

  Warren backed up another step. “Well, I didn’t do it.”

  But the news that his stepdaughter was dead didn’t bother him.

  Lance stepped sideways behind Warren as if he were afraid Warren would run. “Why would we think you killed your stepdaughter?”

  “Because you’re here.” Warren’s lips mashed flat. His arms folded over his chest in stubborn defiance. “I’m not answering any more questions.”

  Morgan and Lance couldn’t make him, but they could tell the sheriff what they knew about Warren.

  Warren walked away. Back in the car, Morgan watched him disappear into the shed.

  “To quote Sheriff King”—Lance dropped his voice two octaves and drawled a decent impersonation of the sheriff’s voice—“he’s guilty of something.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As they drove back to the office, Morgan added to her notes on the interview. She liked to get the details down while they were fresh in her mind.

  Sharp was in the building when they arrived. Before Morgan could get to her coffee maker, he handed her a cup of green tea. “This won’t give you a headache.”

  She sipped it on her way into her office. “All right, but no complaining if I’m slower than usual.”

  He followed her in, chuckling. “There is nothing slow about you.”

  Morgan hung up her coat and set her tote on her desk.

  Lance came in, a mug in his hand, and stared at the whiteboard. “So, where are we?”

  “We have suspects!” Sharp rubbed his hands together. “Finally.”

  “Beats the hell out of not having any,” Lance agreed.

  “Let’s have it.” Sharp curled his fingers in a bring-it-on gesture.

  Morgan consulted her notes. “Number one: Warren Fox.”

  “Who is he, and why do we think he might have killed Mary?” Sharp reached for a marker.

  “Warren is Mary’s stepfather. Abigail Wright, who owns the Roadside Motel where Crystal sometimes worked, suspected he molested Mary.” Morgan’s tone turned to disgust. “She was ten when Warren married her mother.”

  Sharp wrote child molester with a question mark under Warren’s name.

  “When we told him she was dead, he didn’t ask a single question.” Lance leaned against the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and studied the board.

  “He didn’t ask how Mary died or if her body had been found.” Morgan flipped the page in her notebook. “He wasn’t at all curious about his stepdaughter’s murder.”

  “Either he doesn’t care or he already knows,” Sharp said. “Possible motive?”

  Lance sighed. “Maybe Mary tried to blackmail him, and he killed her to keep her quiet.”

  “How did your father get involved?” Sharp asked.

  “PJ’s is the common link between my father and Mary. Maybe he saw Mary and Warren argue there?” Lance frowned. “That seems weak. Could there be some way my father saw Warren kill her or force her into his car?”

  Sharp wrote the question on the board, then turned to face them again. “Suspect number two?”

  Morgan read from her notes. “One of Mary’s customers, the mysterious Mr. Joshua.”

  “Reason?” Sharp’s marker hovered in front of the board.

  “He liked it rough,” Lance said. “Possibly too rough. Mary was strangled. That’s an intimate death. Could he have gotten carried away or perhaps Mary made him angry and he choked her?”

  Sharp nodded. “She wouldn’t be the first prostitute st
rangled by a client.”

  “Blackmail could work here as motivation as well,” Morgan added. “We don’t know Mr. Joshua’s real identity. He could have been married or there was some other reason that consorting with a prostitute would be devastating to his life or livelihood.”

  Sharp capped his marker. “I went to PJ’s this afternoon. P. J. Hoolihan still owns the place. His son tends the bar now. P. J. had a stroke and retired a couple of years ago. He bought a house and chunk of land in Grey’s Hollow. I’m driving out to talk to him tonight.”

  “Later tonight, Morgan and I are headed to the Roadside Motel to look at Abigail’s old hotel records.”

  Sharp glanced at his cell phone. “Since we have an hour or two of downtime, we should break for dinner. We can’t go full tilt 24/7. It isn’t healthy, and we have no idea how long this case will drag on.”

  “You’re right,” Morgan said. “I’m going to run home for dinner and see my girls.”

  Lance nodded. “I should stop at the ice rink and give Coach Zach a hand with the team. I’ve been neglecting the kids lately.”

  Morgan’s phone vibrated. She checked the screen. “It’s Mac. Excuse me. I have to take this.”

  She went into the hallway and accepted the call. “Mac, is everything all right?”

  “It’s nothing major,” Mac said. “Ava stayed after school to try out for the school play.” He cleared his throat. “She got into a fight. She’s in the principal’s office.”

  Shock paralyzed Morgan for a heartbeat. “Ava got into a fight?”

  “That’s what the principal said.” Mac sighed. “Do you want me to go get her or do you want to handle it?”

  “I’ll get her. Thanks, Mac.” Worried, Morgan ended the call, returned to her office, and explained the situation to Lance and Sharp. “I’m sorry. I have to pick her up, and I don’t even have my car here.”

  “I’ll take you, but this makes no sense.” Lance frowned. “Ava is the biggest Goody Two-shoes around.”

  “I know! She is the Queen of Rules.” Morgan tossed some paperwork into her tote and followed Lance out to his Jeep.

  He drove to the school. By the time he parked in the lot, Morgan’s stomach was tied in guilty knots. She’d been working long hours. Was Ava feeling neglected?