Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3)

by Melinda Leigh

  Adjusting his baseball cap, he dropped his chin and walked down the hall. He’d have to come back later.

  He left the ICU wing the same way he’d come in. In room three, a nurse pulled a sheet over the patient’s face. The sense of letdown and failure was palpable in the people slowly trickling from the room. A few had tears in their eyes and on their faces. They consoled each other with hugs and shoulder pats.

  They’d cared. They’d tried. The patient had still died.

  Maybe he’d get lucky and the same would happen to Jenny.

  He pressed the silver square on the wall. The automatic double doors opened with a dramatic swoosh. He’d be back. He had no choice. He had to think of some way to make sure that Jenny Kruger never woke up.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Morgan borrowed a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and wandered into the kitchen. Lance stood at the counter, cracking eggs into a bowl. He picked up a whisk and began to beat the eggs.

  She walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I can’t believe you let Sharp throw away your coffee machine.”

  “He says coffee strains your adrenal glands. Green tea is healthier.”

  “I’m sure he’s right, but green tea does not give my brain the swift kick in the pants that it needs.”

  Lance had embraced Sharp’s crunchy, organic lifestyle. Morgan had not.

  He nodded toward the cabinet. “I bought you a surprise.”

  She opened the cabinet. A single-serve Keurig machine sat on the shelf. Craving caffeine, she imagined a beam of sunlight and a chorus of angels.

  “In case I didn’t say it enough last night, I love you.” She lifted the machine from the shelf.

  He leaned over and kissed her. “I love you too. You have no idea how much.”

  “You showed me with coffee.” She put the machine on the counter, set it up, and pressed start. “Way better than diamonds.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Lance poured the eggs into the pan.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it.” Morgan went to the foyer and peeked through the narrow window next to the door. She called over her shoulder as she opened the door, “It’s Sharp.”

  Sharp breezed in the door. “How is he?”

  “Hanging in.” Morgan led the way back to the kitchen. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m all right.” But Sharp moved stiffly and held his arm close to his body.

  “Hungry?” Lance asked Sharp. “The eggs are organic.”

  “No, thanks.” Sharp shook his head. “I have good news for you.”

  Frowning, Lance stirred the eggs. “About what?”

  “I asked Stella and Brody to look over your mother’s house last night,” Sharp said.

  “Why?” Lance transferred the eggs to two plates. He handed one to Morgan and picked up a fork.

  Sharp leaned on the counter. Dark circles underscored his eyes. He’d clearly been up all night. “Because I don’t think she tried to kill herself.”

  Lance paused, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. “I’m almost afraid to ask why you think that.”

  Sharp explained what he and Stella and Brody had found the night before. “Someone was in your mother’s house yesterday.”

  Morgan didn’t know whether she should be relieved. Was it better if someone had tried to kill Jenny or if she’d done it herself?

  “She would never let a stranger in.” Lance set down his fork, his food untouched.

  “I know,” Sharp said. “Brody said he’d try to have the tests expedited. He’ll also ask the doctors to run a full drug panel on your mom. How soon did they say until you can talk to her?”

  “The critical care doctor estimates about forty-eight hours,” Lance said. “I spoke to the nurse earlier this morning. There’s been no change in her condition.”

  “I’m glad she’s in ICU,” Sharp said. “The regular floors are too accessible.”

  A chill zipped across Morgan’s skin. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I have to stay with her.” Lance dumped his plate on the counter and moved toward the kitchen doorway. “If someone tried to kill her, there must be a reason, which means they’ll try again when they learn they weren’t successful.”

  Sharp raised a stop hand and stepped in front of Lance, blocking his path. “I’ve already got your mom covered. Brody’s girl, Hannah, is already in the ICU, sitting by your mom’s bed.”

  “Hannah Barrett?” Lance tried to get around him.

  “That’s Mac’s sister,” Morgan said. “I would trust her.”

  “Yes. Brody says Hannah can handle it.” Sharp put a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “We need to find out who did this. That’s the only way your mom is ever going to be safe.”

  “You’re right, but where do we go from here?” Lance rubbed his eyes. “Nothing makes sense.”

  “But we’re clearly making someone nervous,” Sharp pointed out. “Let’s see if we can poke a few more badgers. I’d like to look at your mother’s recent e-mail and phone activity. I can’t imagine her just opening the door to a stranger.”

  “Unless they called her first,” Lance finished the thought. “I just gave that information to the sheriff. I’ll write her account log-ins down for you.”

  “I have to get dressed.” Morgan turned toward the bedroom. “I wish we could confirm Crystal’s death wasn’t a suicide. I’d like more evidence than our gut feelings.”

  “This is when not being a cop makes the job tough.” Sharp pushed off the counter and paced in a circle. “The official autopsy results might not be issued for months.”

  “We need to go through the pictures again and see if anything jumps out at us,” Morgan said.

  “We’ve already looked at them.” Sharp shook his head. “What we really need is someone who has seen more homicide scenes than the three of us. My experience is more all-purpose detective. I’ve only seen a few hangings. But who can we trust with pictures we shouldn’t have? Do you think your grandfather would be willing to help?”

  “I’m sure he would,” Morgan said. “He has much more experience working homicides than all of us put together. I’ll call him.”

  “Call him from the Jeep,” Lance said.

  “Give me two minutes.” Morgan hurried to the bedroom and dressed in the old jeans and T-shirt she’d been wearing the night before. She used the second minute to brush her teeth.

  She walked out of the bedroom, and Lance grabbed his keys from the counter. “Let’s go.”

  “I’ll meet you at the office,” Sharp said. “Your grandfather and I can review the photos.”

  “I’ll call Abigail and see if we can get into the Roadside Motel this morning,” Morgan said. “I don’t want to wait until tonight.”

  They drove back to Morgan’s house. Grandpa agreed, just as Morgan expected. She changed her clothes while Lance got him ready. Muscling her grandfather in and out of the Jeep was a production, but an hour later, Sharp and Lance maneuvered his wheelchair over the threshold of Sharp Investigations.

  “You called Abigail Wright?” Sharp asked.

  “Yes,” Morgan said. “She said to go ahead to the motel. She called the manager and told him to let us into the storage room. She’ll meet us there as soon as she’s done with her garden club meeting.”

  Leaving Grandpa and Sharp at the office, Lance and Morgan headed to the Roadside Motel.

  “I expected the place to be sleazy,” he said. “But this just doesn’t fit the image of a motel owned by a little old lady who plays the organ for her church and runs the local garden club.”

  The motel was a dirty-looking strip of rooms on a rural stretch of highway. There were no other buildings in sight. No doubt the location afforded privacy for guests who didn’t want their patronage made public. The sign at the edge of the parking lot read VACANCY. The office was located on the left end.

  “They rent rooms by the hour. We’re going to need a shower after this,” Morgan said. “A
t least I’m dressed down.”

  “I wish we had PPEs to zip into,” Lance agreed. “I don’t even want to think about what a spray of luminol and a black light would show in any of these rooms.”

  They went into the office. A young man with a puffy neck beard sat on a high stool behind a counter watching a small TV. He slid off his stool as they walked in. “You need a room?”

  “No.” Morgan shook her head. “Abigail said we could look in the storage room. She was going to call ahead.”

  “Cool.” He led them through the office into a back room and unlocked a door into a small windowless chamber. He flipped a wall switch. Overhead lights illuminated a dusty space that smelled of mold. Filing cabinets lined one entire wall. A desk was pushed up against the other.

  Morgan pressed a finger under her nose and stifled a sneeze.

  “The old records are in the filing cabinets. They aren’t organized very well, so good luck.” The clerk left them to it.

  “I’ll start on the left.” Morgan tossed her coat over the desk and rolled up the sleeves of her sweater.

  Lance pulled on gloves and handed her a pair. Then he started with the cabinet on the right. He slid a file out and opened it, then checked another. He moved through two cabinets, randomly reading dates.

  For the next half hour, Morgan worked her way through several drawers. “I found 1994.”

  She dug through the row of files and came up with a yellowed book. “Here is August.”

  Lance went to her side and peered over her shoulder as she flipped through the book, only touching the edges of the paper. Depending on conditions, fingerprints could be developed on porous surfaces like paper many years after the prints were deposited. She stopped on August tenth. The entries were written in blue pen.

  She hovered her finger over the page. “Here it is.”

  Lance read the entry. “Mr. Joshua.”

  “He checked in at seven p.m. Paid for an hour.” Morgan slid the registry into a large envelope. She labeled the envelope with her name, the date, and location found, then turned back to the filing cabinet. “Let’s see if we can find his registration form.”

  Thirty minutes later, Lance pulled it from another filing cabinet. “Got it.”

  They looked at it together. “There’s no personal information. No car license plate. He listed his home address as 123 Main Street, Anytown, NY. The phone number is 123-4567.”

  “But we know he was here.”

  Morgan went to the window and scanned the parking lot. A red sedan was parked in front of the office. “Abigail is here.”

  “Then let’s go talk to her.” Lance closed the file cabinet drawer. “You have the photo of my father to show Abigail?”

  “I do. Are you all right?” Morgan asked. He was about to find out if his father had been a prostitute’s client.

  “Yes.” Lance opened the door for her. “Look. I’ve spent a lifetime putting my dad on a pedestal. He was just a man. What if he wasn’t perfect? He did his best to take care of me and my mother. I have to open my eyes if I want to learn the truth.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze before they went into the main office.

  Abigail was on the computer behind the desk. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I think so.” Morgan pulled the photo of Vic she’d taken from the whiteboard out of her tote.

  Next to her, Lance tensed and stepped away to look out the window at the parking lot.

  Morgan pointed to Vic. “Do you recognize this man as one of Mary’s clients?”

  Abigail squinted at the photo. She lifted her reading glasses from the chain around her neck and set them on her nose. “He doesn’t look familiar at all.”

  Morgan could sense Lance’s relief from six feet away.

  “But I know this man. He was one of Mary’s regulars.” Abigail leaned closer and tapped the photograph. “This is Mr. Joshua.”

  Her fingertip landed on Brian Leed’s face.

  Stunned, Morgan stared at the photo.

  Lance crossed the room in two long strides. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” Abigail said. “He drove a black Pontiac Trans Am. He’d try to hide it behind the building, but the engine was loud. When he’d leave the parking lot, gravel would shoot all over.”

  Morgan caught Lance’s eye. He looked as shocked as she felt.

  Brian Leed was Mr. Joshua.

  “Thank you.” Morgan lifted the envelope that held the register. “Is it all right if we take the register with us? We’ll bring it back.”

  Given that the killer was snapping at their heels on this investigation, Morgan didn’t want to leave the register behind. She’d rather personally deliver it to the sheriff.

  Abigail nodded. “Sure.”

  Morgan pivoted toward the door, then turned back. The revelation about Brian had almost made her forget about Crystal’s ex. “When was the last time you saw Warren Fox?”

  Abigail took off her glasses. “He was slinking around here about two weeks ago, bugging Crystal. He wanted to move back in with her.”

  So much for his statement that he hadn’t seen Crystal in months. Was anyone in this case telling the truth?

  “Please be careful, Abigail,” Morgan said. “Having information regarding this case has proven to be unhealthy for others.”

  Abigail reached under the counter and brought up a shotgun. “Thank you for your concern, dear. I’ll be sure to take extra care.”

  Morgan followed Lance outside, and they climbed into the Jeep.

  Lance tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Seems like everyone is lying. Didn’t Brian Leed have some kind of sports car under a tarp in his garage?”

  “He did,” Morgan said. “Brian Leed is Mr. Joshua. He was a regular client of Mary’s. He was with her the night your dad disappeared.”

  Lance put the Jeep into gear. “Which was also the night Mary was probably killed. Time to pay Brian another visit.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Trying to keep his temper in check, Lance parked in front of Brian Leed’s house. The garage door was up. In the driveway, Brian was rubbing a chamois over the shining fender of a sleek black Porsche 911.

  Lance and Morgan walked up the sidewalk to stand next to the car.

  “Hey, Brian.” Lance scanned the car. “What year is that?”

  “She’s a 2007.” Brian inspected his work.

  “Low miles?” Lance asked.

  “Eighty thousand.” Brian shook his head. “Cars like this are made to be driven. It’s a sin to let them sit in a garage.”

  Brian knows all about sin . . .

  Anger simmered low in Lance’s chest. He lifted his gaze to the sky for a few seconds to get himself back under control.

  “What brings you back here?” Brian buffed a spot on the side mirror.

  “A few follow-up questions,” Lance said. “You’ve always had a black sports car, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve had a few, sure.” Brian wiped a bead of water from the hood.

  “What did you drive back in the day?” Lance asked. “All I can remember is that it was loud.”

  “That would have been the Trans Am.” Brian whistled. “That was a sweet car. I couldn’t afford a Porsche back then, not with kids to raise. And you’re right.” He grinned. “That engine didn’t purr. It roared.”

  Lance bent over and looked inside the car. “Money was tight?”

  “Kids are expensive.” Brian turned away from his car, his grin fading and his eyes narrowing as if he just realized Lance’s tone wasn’t casual. His eyes darted back and forth between Morgan and Lance. Suspicion lit his gaze. “You know what? I have an appointment. Is there a specific reason you’re here?”

  Your alibi is circling the drain.

  “There is.” Lance moved forward, resentment curling his hand into a fist. All these years, Brian had been lying.

  Morgan put a hand on Lance’s arm, as if she could restrain him. “You might not want your neigh
bors to overhear the questions we’re going to ask you.”

  Brian rocked back on his heels, assessing them. “You’re not the police.” His tone turned smug. “I don’t have to talk to you at all.”

  “If you’d rather talk to the sheriff, that can be arranged.” Lance took his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call him right now.”

  Brian’s throat undulated. Muscles on the sides of his jaw shifted, as if he was clenching his jaw. He glanced up the street, then shifted back to his toes and turned toward the open garage. “All right, but I don’t have much time.”

  They followed him into the house. He didn’t offer them coffee or a chair. He spun around. “What’s this about?”

  Lance stopped in the middle of the kitchen. “How much did Mary charge you for sex?”

  Brian’s face went whiter than the quartz countertop. He backed up a step. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Does the name Mr. Joshua ring a bell?” Morgan asked.

  “No.” Brian took another step, stopping when his back hit the wall.

  “You were my father’s friend.” The words scratched Lance’s throat on the way out. “And you lied to the police about the night he went missing. What else did you lie about?”

  Did Brian kill Mary? What about Crystal? Lance couldn’t even process the thought that Brian had tried to kill Jenny.

  Brian glared back, and his chest puffed out. “You need to leave.”

  “It must have been hard to squeeze money for a prostitute into the family budget.” Rage crawled around inside Lance’s chest, making itself comfortable, as if it was in for the long haul.

  “You paid Mary Fox for sex on a regular basis.” Morgan stepped closer, her shoulder edging in front of Lance’s, clearly concerned he was going to throttle Brian. “The owner of the Roadside Motel identified you as one of Mary’s clients. You used the alias Mr. Joshua, and you were with her at the motel the night Vic went missing. I think we can reasonably hypothesize that was the same night Mary was killed.”

  “Get out.” Brian’s face reddened.

  Lance pressed closer, edging Morgan aside. He wanted to grab Brian by the neck and shake the information out of him. “What else do you know about the night my father disappeared?”