Chapter Fourteen
The Jeep pulled into her driveway. Morgan reached for the door handle.
“Morgan,” Lance said. The deep tone of his voice pulled at her. “I’d better get my good-night kiss now. Your watchdog, Sophie, will be on duty.”
She turned to face him. He leaned across the console, cradled her jaw with one big hand, and kissed her softly. Her eyes drifted closed as his lips lingered. His mouth was warm, with a hint of demand under the gentle press of his lips. She was sorry when he released her.
She caught his hand as it slipped from her face and gave it a tug. His eyes darkened, and he kissed her again. Not as gently. When his lips left hers, she was breathless and hot.
He lifted his head, and his hand slipped from hers.
“Someday, we’ll manage to spend a few hours alone.” His voice was rough. “Not that I’m complaining. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s taking care of family.”
She exhaled hard. Her girl parts were tired of being set aside for her family’s greater good. She’d spent two years with no interest in sex. Now that her hormones had finally reawakened, fate had thrown one roadblock after another in their path.
“It’ll happen,” she said. But the longer they waited, the more excitement and desire stirred in her belly. And nerves. Those were there too.
She’d slept with one man in the last ten years. One.
And the last time she’d gotten naked for the first time with a man, she’d been a lot younger. One did not have three children without those events leaving a few marks. Anticipation encouraged her insecurities.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Lance asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I was just hoping that someday would be sooner rather than later,” she said wryly, studying the brightly lit house through the windshield.
It was natural to be a little nervous at the thought of sleeping with a new man. She had never taken sex lightly. To her, physical and emotional intimacy went hand in hand. She’d never had a one-night stand. Had never wanted one. She’d slept with two men in her entire life, and she’d been married to one of them.
But she’d promised herself that she was going to lead a full life.
And a full life meant taking risks and leaving herself vulnerable.
Lance caught her chin in his hand and turned it toward him. “Are you sure?”
His touch and the connection between them zinged, strong and true as an arrow, slicing through her doubt. She wanted this man. Her emotions were too tender for any admissions of love, but her desire for him went beyond sex. She wanted him in her bed and in her heart.
She above all people should know that love was worth the risk. No matter how great the pain of losing her husband, she wouldn’t have given up one second of her time with him to avoid the grief, as soul crushing as it had been.
Meeting his gaze head-on, she kissed him again. The firm press of her lips against his grounded her. He grounded her. “I’m positive. Let’s go inside.”
Morgan barely made it through the front door before she was swamped with three small bodies and a barking dog. The girls were in their pajamas. Their damp hair smelled of detangling spray.
She heard Lance close the door behind them as she crouched to envelop the three little girls in a giant hug. “I missed you.”
Having her children in her arms made her think of Chelsea Clark. Would she ever get to hold her babies again?
Morgan released the kids and gave Snoozer, her French bulldog, a scratch behind his ears before standing.
The second she straightened, three-year-old Sophie leaped into her arms. Morgan shifted the skinny child to one hip. Sophie carried her newest favorite toy, a plush Bullseye from Disney’s Toy Story, by one leg.
“We baked cupcakes with Gianna.” Six-year-old Ava grabbed Lance by the hand and tugged him toward the kitchen. “And Aunt Stella is here.”
Lance let himself be dragged.
Morgan set Sophie down. “Mia, how was your day?”
Five-year-old Mia was the quiet child. “You didn’t come home for dinner.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Guilt flooded Morgan. “But I’m here now. Can I have a cupcake?”
Mia nodded.
They went into the kitchen. The girls’ nanny, Gianna, was loading the dishwasher. Grandpa and Stella sat at the kitchen table. In front of them sat a plate of bare cupcakes, three bowls of white icing and three butter knives.
Morgan’s grandfather wiped his mouth with a napkin. A hint of white remained at the corner of his mouth. Morgan pointed to the corresponding spot on her own face, and Grandpa licked his lips.
“Grandpa!” Ava said in a stern voice. “That’s your third! You’re not s’posed to eat them all, Right, Mommy?”
“Right.” Morgan lifted an eyebrow at her grandfather.
Grandpa laughed. “Life is short. Eat dessert.”
All three girls looked at Morgan hopefully.
Shaking her head at her grandfather, she turned back to her girls and said, “One cupcake each.”
“You were s’posed to watch him,” Ava said to Stella.
Stella laughed. “He doesn’t listen to me.”
Before moving in with her boyfriend, Mac, over the summer, Stella had lived with Grandpa too. Come to think of it, had Grandpa ever had the house to himself? Morgan’s older brother, Ian, had been in college when their father had died. Ian had been grown, but Grandpa had helped raise his three younger granddaughters. The man was a saint.
Grandpa reached for another cupcake, his hand trembling.
Stella slid the plate out of his reach. “I doubt your cardiologist would approve.”
A saint with a stubborn streak.
“You’d think, at my age, I could do what I wanted,” Grandpa grumbled.
“Think again.” Morgan kissed him on the cheek. “We love you too much for that.”
The girls went back to smearing icing on cupcakes. Ava and Mia worked with slow and deliberate strokes, but Sophie’s cupcakes looked like they had been decorated with a fire extinguisher.
Morgan sniffed. The kitchen smelled of roasted meat and vegetables. She turned to Gianna. “That smells amazing. What was for dinner?”
“Pot roast.” Gianna dried the slow cooker crock and set it on the counter. “There are leftovers if you’re hungry.”
“We ate, but I will have a cupcake.” Morgan plucked one from the plate.
Though Gianna was still too slender, the dark-haired young woman had put on at least ten pounds and lost her death’s-door pallor since Morgan insisted she move in with them four months ago. She still needed kidney dialysis, but her health and quality of life had improved, so much so that she’d insisted on being Morgan’s live-in nanny.
Ava carefully smoothed the top of a cupcake and carried it to Lance. “This one’s for you.”
“Thanks. Vanilla is my favorite.” Lance took the cupcake and ate it in three bites. “I’d better go. I’ll pick you up at eight thirty?”
They were interviewing Chelsea’s boss at nine.
“That’s fine.” Morgan said, glad she’d kissed him goodbye in the Jeep.
“Where’s Mac?” Morgan asked Stella after Lance left.
“At SAR training. Five days in the woods. He’s in heaven.” Stella often said Mac would never be fully tamed. Totally at home in the wilderness, he had joined the local search and rescue team.
“I’d better go.” Stella stood. “I have an early day tomorrow.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Morgan followed her sister to the front door.
“He’s really good with kids.” Stella donned her coat.
Morgan opened the door for her. “He seems to enjoy them.”
“You’re lucky to find a second good man.”
“I am.” Morgan pushed back at the sadness that crept up her throat at the reminder of her late husband. No more lamenting about her loss. It was time to look forward to the future. She followed her sister outside. “How was the cardiologist appointment today?”
“As far as I know, the doctor adjusted his medication. Grandpa wouldn’t let me go in with him.” Stella tugged her keys from her pocket.
“Why is he so stubborn?”
“Because he’s a Dane?” Stella paused to brush a hair off her face. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for taking him today.”
“Hey, he’s my grandpa too. Please don’t feel like you have to do it all. We’ll manage it together.” Stella got into her car and drove away.
Morgan watched her sister’s taillights disappear into the darkness. Stella was right. Morgan didn’t have to manage everything alone. Why did she always think she did? That whole bringing-home-the-bacon-and-frying-it-up-in-a-pan thing got old fast.
She turned back toward the house. The hairs on her nape rose. Was someone watching her?
She spun around, her eyes searching the darkness beyond the reach of the lights. There was no one in front of the house, and the street was empty in both directions. A gust of wind blew dead leaves along the gutter. Her imagination must be working overtime with Chelsea’s disappearance.
But her steps quickened as she hurried toward the front door. She went inside, locked the door, and set the alarm. Grandpa took home security seriously. He’d installed motion lights, surveillance cameras, and a solid alarm system.
Sophie waited in the hallway.
“If you pick a book, I’ll read to you,” Morgan said. Maybe cuddling with her girls would relax her. She obviously needed some downtime.
“Toy Story!” Sophie ran for the bedroom she shared with her sisters.
Morgan’s return to work had made them all a little clingy. Even with Gianna insisting on being her live-in nanny, Morgan preferred to handle bedtime. There was something special about putting her children to bed at night, seeing them safe and warm and content, before she settled herself for the evening.
She read a bedtime story, kissed each little girl, and tucked the covers around their tiny bodies. As always, her heart trembled when the children said good night to their daddy’s picture on the dresser in their room. But Morgan was getting better. No more tears. John had been clear about wanting her to move forward and enjoy life.
But damn, the juggling act that had become her life was hard. How would she ever make her relationship with Lance a priority?
With no solution to her predicament, it was almost a relief to turn her attention to Chelsea Clark’s disappearance.
With the girls in bed, Morgan opened her briefcase at the kitchen table and began to review the Clarks’ financial statements. Chelsea and Tim didn’t write many checks. Most of their bank transactions were direct deposits and automatic withdrawals for regular monthly bills. Tim paid the utility bills online. Chelsea and Tim had separate credit accounts. Tim’s was more active, but nothing stood out as unusual on his statements for the past three months. Most were repeat transactions. Boring purchases like coffee and sandwiches. Morgan skimmed Chelsea’s statements.
Grandpa shuffled in and poured himself a glass of milk. “What are you doing?”
“Reviewing my clients’ financials. I don’t see any red flags, but I’m going to try and trace the wife’s recent activities as best as I can. For now, I’m assuming Chelsea was kidnapped. If someone planned her abduction, he saw her somewhere.”
Grandpa nodded. “Best to start with the most dangerous hypothesis. If she abandoned her family, she’ll be alive to find later.”
So many ifs.
“Shouldn’t you be using your cane?” she asked.
“I don’t need it.” But Grandpa kept a hand on the wall or the counter as he moved around the room. “Most women are hurt by people already in their lives so it makes sense to start there. If the crime was random, then finding her will be harder.”
With one hand on the back of a chair, Grandpa drank his milk.
Morgan started a list of all the places Chelsea had frequented in the past few months. The statements showed regular activity at a local grocery store, the Walmart, and a gas station. Morgan jotted down the locations. She added less frequent stops at a café, a few small retailers, and an auto-repair shop. There was no recent charge for Chelsea’s yoga studio, but Morgan put it on the list anyway. “I’m not finding much.”
“Want to tell me about it?” Grandpa was a retired NYPD homicide detective.
“A young mother went out to meet her girlfriend for a drink.” Morgan began, then summed up the case for him.
Grandpa reached across the table, picked up Chelsea’s photo, and stared at it. “Have you considered human trafficking?”
“Isn’t she a little old? Don’t they usually abduct teenagers?”
“Yes. But this girl looks young. She also has the wholesome, blonde, all-American look that’s very popular in the trade.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Morgan turned to her laptop.
Grandpa put the picture down, went to the fridge, and poured a second glass of milk. He set it on the table in front of Morgan, then he took two cupcakes from the container on the counter and handed her one.
“You know my weakness.” Morgan bit into the cupcake. Only cop families could eat cupcakes while reviewing a missing person case.
“You were born with a sweet tooth.” Grandpa ate his cupcake, tugged a chair next to hers, and sat down, setting his milk on the table.
“Looks like my sweet tooth is genetic. Isn’t that your fourth?” She rested her head on his shoulder for a few seconds. She might have lost both her parents and her husband, but Grandpa had always been there for her. “We didn’t get a chance to talk earlier. How was your appointment with the cardiologist?”
“My heart is still beating.”
She gave his arm a playful swat. “I’m serious. You’ve been really shaky lately. That’s not like you.”
“Honey, I know you’re worried,” Grandpa said. “I’m still on this side of the grass, but someday I won’t be.”
Morgan’s next breath trembled.
“You’re stronger than you realize.” He patted her hand. “You’re going to be all right.”
Unable to respond, she nodded.
“I’m not going anywhere just yet, so enough with the long face.” He pointed to her cupcake. “Now eat so we can work on your case. I might be old, but I still know a thing or two about criminals.”
“You’re right.” Straightening, Morgan licked icing off her fingertips and turned a page in her file. “I’m going to access the state sex offender registry and see how many possible sexual offenders are in the area.”
“Too many.”
“Yep.” She already knew the number was higher than anyone wanted to think about. There were just under forty thousand sex offenders registered in the state of New York. Considering sexual assaults were severely underreported, the actual number of predators was likely much, much higher. A few keystrokes brought up a list of names. “One hundred sixty-seven convicted sex offenders currently live in Randolph County. This is going to take forever.”
“Can I help?”
“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?