Chapter Nine
The sheriff’s office was located near the county jail and municipal complex. After verifying that the sheriff’s car was parked behind the building, Morgan opened the glass door and stepped into the lobby. Inside, the ugly brown brick building was old, worn, and thoroughly unattractive, from the scraped linoleum floor to the stained dropped ceiling tiles. The sheriff didn’t waste money on decor.
She went to the reception counter. At a desk a few feet away, a woman glanced up from a computer. She looked like a grandma, about sixty years old, soft all over, with dark-brown dyed hair.
But when she crossed the floor to address Morgan, Grandma’s voice was sugarcoated steel. “Can I help you?”
Morgan’s smile didn’t earn her one in return. “I’m Morgan Dane. I’m here to see Sheriff King.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No.” Considering their last phone interaction hadn’t been entirely pleasant, Morgan had opted not to warn him. Showing up unannounced seemed like her best option. It was harder to ignore someone in person. “But he knows who I am.”
Behind her reading glasses, Grandma raised her penciled-on eyebrows. “I’ll need to see some ID.”
Morgan fished her wallet out of the depths of her tote bag.
Grandma considered Morgan’s driver’s license for a few seconds before handing it back. “Wait here.”
She turned away and disappeared down a hallway. Two additional administrative employees bustled behind the counter, answering phones and working on computers. The sheriff’s office of a rural county was always busy.
In addition to regular policing, the sheriff was responsible for the county jail, prisoner transport, and serving warrants. As an elected official, he was also forced to be part politician or face not being reelected.
At least most sheriffs did. King seemed immune to bad press. Last year, his office had been accused of roughing up a prisoner. The sheriff’s popularity had soared.
Grandma’s soft but firm voice floated back to the lobby. “I will not tell her you left. Your car is parked out back, and she can probably hear your voice.”
Morgan couldn’t make out the sheriff’s words, but the deep grumble that answered didn’t sound promising. It sounded more like profanity.
“I know you’re busy, but you have an election coming up in a few weeks,” Grandma said.
More grumbling followed.
But Grandma wasn’t fazed. “I’m bringing her back. Be nice.”
She returned. “You can go on in.” She gestured toward the hallway.
Morgan rounded the counter and went through the doorway. A short corridor opened into a larger room filled with desks and computers. A deputy fielded a phone call and typed on his keyboard.
On the other side of the room, a door opened and a uniformed deputy marched a handcuffed man through a side entrance. The front of his worn jeans and white undershirt were stained with dried blood.
Of all the luck . . .
She had to run into Tyler Green.
His previously handsome face had been transformed by her elbow. Both eyes were blackening. Cotton rolls protruded from his nostrils, and a bandage was taped over the bridge of his swollen nose.
He spied Morgan across the room. A nasty gleam lit his eyes. Morgan’s pulse spiked, and her empty stomach cartwheeled as adrenaline flooded her system.
I’m going to get you, he mouthed, his gaze locked on hers. The deputy gave him a not-so-gentle push into a chair.
A tall, broad-shouldered man tossed a file onto the deputy’s desk.
Sheriff King.
He was at least six feet three inches tall and could have stepped out of an old Western. He wore jeans, a tan uniform shirt, and cowboy boots. Though she knew he was only in his midfifties, he looked older, his skin as weathered and worn as an unpainted fence.
“Hey, Green,” the sheriff said in a curt tone. “Shut it.” His scowl landed on Morgan, and he gestured toward an open door on the other side of the room. “Come this way.”
As they entered his office, she caught sight of a uniform Stetson-style hat hanging on a coat-tree in the corner. Seriously, all the man needed was a horse.
He motioned to a guest chair and left the room.
Morgan slipped out of her trench coat, folded it over the adjacent chair, and smoothed her skirt, grateful that she’d started leaving several changes of clothes and shoes in her office closet. These days, she never knew if she’d have to interview a witness or traipse through a muddy field.
The sheriff returned a minute later with two bottles of water. He perched on the edge of his desk, offered her a bottle, and stared down at her. “So, you’re Morgan Dane?”
“Yes.” Morgan accepted the water. “Thank you.”
She’d seen the sheriff on television, and his reputation had preceded him. He was a hard man, and he looked the part. The tanned skin around his eyes and mouth was deeply lined, as if he squinted and frowned most of the time. His nose was crooked, and a scar bisected one eyebrow. She wasn’t surprised at his rough appearance, but his eyes flickered with surprise as they swept over her from head to foot and back again, which was odd. She’d conducted several press conferences during her last case and had no doubt he would have watched them.
“Your appearance is deceiving.” He looked at her as if he didn’t know quite what to do with her. “Tyler Green obviously underestimated you as well.”
Remembering the morning’s incident, Morgan flushed.
“Green’s nose is broken. He’s complaining about headaches and back pain. My deputy was tied up all morning at the ER, and I’ve been fielding calls from Green’s lawyer.” King’s mouth twisted as he said lawyer. “What a pain in my ass.”
Me or Tyler?
King’s jaw tightened. His tone was all you-don’t-belong-here. “You got lucky this morning. He could have hurt you.”
Morgan swallowed the retorts on her lips about him being sexist and minding his own business. She needed his cooperation. Butting heads with him wouldn’t get it. “I wasn’t alone.”
“I should hope not.”
“And I assure you, my breaking Green’s nose wasn’t an accident.”
Another quick flash of surprise flickered in his eyes, then resignation, and just a little respect. He pushed off the desk and moved behind it. His chair squeaked as he settled his heavy body into it. “So, I hear you officially hung out your shingle. Did you decide criminal defense was more lucrative than working for the prosecutor’s office?”
“It isn’t about money.” Morgan paused. “I come from a family of cops. My brother is NYPD SWAT. My sister is a detective with the SFPD. My grandfather is a retired homicide detective, and my father died in the line of duty. I believe in justice, and I’ll fight for it. But I’m afraid my chance to work for the DA has passed.”
The sheriff coughed. Was that a grin he was trying to hide with his hand? “Sweetheart, you blew by that chance like Richard Petty.”
Morgan’s brain stuttered. Did he just call her sweetheart?
“So why are you here today?” he asked.
“I’m representing Tim Clark.”
The sheriff shifted his weight forward. His forearms landed on his desk. “Tim hasn’t been charged with a crime. Why does he need a lawyer?”
“After the publicity of last month’s false arrest, he’s concerned with your focus on him as a suspect in his wife’s disappearance.”
King scraped a hand down his battered face. “I assume Sharp and Kruger are on board?”
Morgan nodded. “Yes. Tim wants his wife found.”
“We’re doing everything we can to find his wife. Since you’re from a family of cops, you know I can’t talk about an active case.” King could share information. He was choosing not to.
“We’re both on the same side,” Morgan said. “All we want to do is find Chelsea Clark and bring her back to her family.”
And protect Tim’s legal interests.
“And we are in the middle of our official investigation into her disappearance,” King said in an end-of-discussion tone.
“Anything you can tell me would help. I know you’re swamped here. You can’t possibly give Chelsea’s case a hundred percent of your attention. Sharp and Kruger are experienced investigators who can focus solely on finding Chelsea. You don’t have the manpower or the budget.”
King studied her without responding. Despite his reputation as a good lawman, he was also stubborn and arrogant. Morgan could not force him to cooperate. She needed a new approach, but King wouldn’t fall for any bullshit. Her argument would have to be sincere, and something he couldn’t argue with. And something that had nothing to do with his department’s ability. She needed to throw him off balance, to appeal to him in a human way.
She chose the one thing many men, particularly manly men, weren’t comfortable handling: emotion.
“My youngest was an infant when my husband was killed in Iraq.”
King blinked. “I’m sorry.”
Morgan let her true emotions show on her face. “I know what it’s like to be left alone to raise young children. I know what it’s like to wish your kids remembered their father. I know what it’s like to have to explain, over and over, why Daddy won’t ever be coming home. Unless someone finds his wife, Tim Clark won’t even have an explanation for his children. Grief is hard enough to survive. I don’t want them to have to live with not knowing what happened to their mother.”
She had lived under a dark cloud for two long, exhausting years. She was just recently emerging from her depression, blinking at the sunlight, almost as if she’d just discovered that she deserved to have a life. She still missed and loved John but knew that he would have been angry if she wasted the rest of her life being sad.
That she shouldn’t feel guilty for allowing herself to be happy.
King glanced away, his expression conflicted, his movements awkward. He got up abruptly and paced the floor behind his desk. His long legs ate up the space with two strides in each direction. He looked like a frustrated predator trapped in a too-small cage. “I don’t want to jeopardize our investigation.”
“How many leads has your department turned up?”
He stopped. His face hardened. “We both know that most missing adults leave because they want to, and they eventually turn up on their own.”
“And you have limited resources. I understand.” Morgan used his argument against him.
“I assure you that Chelsea Clark’s case is a priority for this department.”
“Look, Sheriff, I don’t want to step on any toes.” But she would if she had to. “I understand your position completely.” She shifted her weight, as if ready to leave. “I can always put Tim Clark and his two babies on the news and appeal to the public for help. I’ll leave it up to you to explain where you are in your investigation to the press.”
Which would publicly highlight his department’s lack of progress on a case he’d managed to keep relatively low-key up until this point.
He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and sighed. “We have found no sign of foul play at this time.”
“Fingerprints in the car?” Morgan settled back into the chair.
“Sure. Mrs. Clark’s and others, but no criminal matches yet.”
“You’re submitting the prints to local, state, and federal databases?” she asked. In addition to the FBI’s national IAFIS system, state and local agencies kept their own records. Typically, it was most efficient to begin with a local search and expand geographically.
“Of course.” The sheriff turned to face Morgan head-on. “And the seat was in an expected position for a woman of Chelsea’s height.”
“Do you really think she was taken or she went willingly?”
“We don’t know for certain. There was no blood in the vehicle, and her purse was gone.”
“So no sign of a struggle,” Morgan said. “What did you find out about the husband?”
“We found nothing suspicious in his background, and his cell phone records indicate his phone was where he said he was last Friday night.” King eased a hip onto the side of his desk. “We checked out the friend Chelsea was supposed to meet, and Chelsea’s boss. They both have clean records as well. Both seemed upset by Chelsea’s disappearance.”
“What about the area around her car?”
“We walked a grid. Came up empty. My deputies knocked on doors down the road. Nobody saw anything. According to the surveillance video at the train station, only two people got on the train at the station that night. Neither of them was a young blonde woman.”
“Could we have a copy?”
“No.”
Morgan opened her mouth to protest, but the sheriff raised a hand to silence her.
“But I will let you view it here,” he said.
“Thank you,” Morgan said.
If Tim had been arrested and charged in the disappearance of his wife, Morgan would have been entitled to all the sheriff’s evidence via the discovery process. But without any formal charges, Morgan would have to accept whatever crumbs the sheriff was willing to toss her way.
“I assume you entered Chelsea in the NCIC?” Morgan asked.
The National Crime Information Center was an FBI database of criminal justice information that included details on everything from fugitives to stolen property to missing persons. If a body or incapacitated person meeting Chelsea’s description turned up anywhere in the country, law enforcement would be aware that she was missing.
“I did.”
“Did you run a check on similar crimes?”
The sheriff held up a hand. “Of course I did, but there weren’t many details to enter. We have no proof a crime was even committed.”
“Tim said you brought in a dog.”
“Yes. But the dog didn’t pick up a scent either, so if she was at the scene, we assume she left by vehicle.”
“But you don’t know that she was ever there. If someone abducted her, he could have taken her somewhere else and then dumped the car near the train station.”
“Or Chelsea had someone pick her up,” King added. “It isn’t a crime to walk away from your family.”
“Why would you think Chelsea walked away from her family? She has two children.” Even as Morgan said the words, she knew the weakness in her argument. People did unexpected things all the time.
Terrible, cruel things a normal person couldn’t fathom.
“The husband admitted his wife was having a rough time with the second baby, and that he didn’t give her much help. I spoke with her parents out in Colorado. Both said how tired their daughter has been, how often she cried over the phone. And her best friend, Fiona West, painted a less rosy picture of Tim and Chelsea’s marriage than Tim did.”
Morgan put Fiona at the top of her interview list, and doubts about Tim’s innocence nagged at her.
“I know it must be hard for you as a devoted mother to think about a woman abandoning her children.” The sheriff’s tone softened. “But it happens.”
Morgan had no difficulty imagining women doing far worse things to their children. She’d prosecuted enough monster mothers. A shudder rippled through her as she remembered a few horrific cases. “You’re right. Not all women were born with maternal instincts.”
King continued. “Chelsea was feeling neglected and exhausted. Maybe she needed a break and wanted to teach Tim a lesson.”
“Let’s hope that’s the case.” Morgan finished the water, tossed the empty bottle in the trash, and stood. “Because I’d like nothing more than to have her show up safe and sound.”
“I’ll have someone pull up the train station surveillance video so you can watch it before you leave. It won’t take long. There’s so little activity, you can fast-forward through most of it.” Leaning forward, the sheriff tugged the scarf away from Morgan’s neck. His eyebrows shot up as the corners of his mouth went down. “Are those from this morning?”
“They look worse than they feel.” Morgan turned toward the door. “Thank you for your help. I’ll call you if we learn anything.”
“Same here.” King nodded. “You should be more careful. It would be a damned shame if someone wrung that pretty neck.”