Chapter Thirteen
“Should I call Stan and Brian?” Morgan asked, checking the time on the dashboard. “It’s only three o’clock. They might be at work.”
“No.” Lance shook his head. “Let’s surprise them. If they’re not home, we’ll come back. We can start with Stan. His house is the closest.”
As he drove, Morgan read from her copy of Sharp’s original interview notes and gave Lance the highlights. “Stanley Adams is fifty-eight years old. He’s a founder of the accounting firm of Adams & Booker and a Scarlet Falls native. Ten years ago, he married Abigail Snyder. She is thirty-six years old. They don’t have any children.”
Lance turned into a new development and parked in front of a McMansion. “Looks like Stan has done well for himself.”
A late-model black Mercedes occupied the driveway. They got out and walked up to the front door. Black iron railings flanked red paver steps. Ornamental plants and precisely trimmed shrubs screamed professional landscaper.
Morgan reached for the doorbell, but the high-pitched yapping of small dogs announced their arrival before she pressed the button.
The front door opened. A slim, fit man in his late fifties scooped up a tiny mop of a dog. “Quiet, Ginger.” He raised his eyes. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Lance Kruger,” Lance said.
“Oh.” Stan’s eyes widened. He swept a hand into the house. “Please come in.”
A second dog darted from behind his legs and snapped at Lance’s pant leg. Stan blocked it with his foot, then picked it up with his other hand. He stepped back and gestured with his head for them to come in. “I’m sorry about that. Let me put them in the other room. Go on into the den and have a seat.” He waved a dog toward an open archway and then disappeared down the hall. They heard a door shut.
Morgan went through the arch into a formal sitting room. On top of a thick white area rug, two white couches faced each other over a glass coffee table. Delicate glass sculptures filled wall niches. Everything in the room was lovely—and expensive. Stan definitely didn’t have small children.
Morgan settled on one of the sofas and took her small notebook and a pen from her tote. Lance circled the room, impatient.
Stan returned in a minute. “My wife loves those dogs.” His frown said that he did not. He offered his hand to Lance. “So you’re a private investigator now.”
“Yes.” Lance shook his hand. “This is my associate, Morgan Dane.”
“Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?” Stan asked.
“No, thank you.” Lance joined Morgan on the sofa. “Thanks for seeing us. We didn’t know if you’d even be home.”
“I try to take time off when I can.” Stan sat on the couch across from them. “Once tax season starts, I’ll be too busy.” He smiled at Lance. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to ask you some questions about my dad,” Lance said.
Stan leaned back, crossing one ankle on top of the opposite knee. His posture was relaxed and open. “I wish I could help, but as I told Detective Sharp multiple times over the years, I don’t know what happened to Vic. I wish I did.”
“There’s some new information that wasn’t available back then,” Lance said.
Stan tensed. “Really?”
“Did you see the news yesterday?” Morgan asked.
“No.” Stan shook his head.
“They pulled my father’s car out of Grey Lake,” Lance said.
“What?” Stan straightened. His foot hit the floor with a thud and his mouth gaped for a few seconds, as if he didn’t know what to say.
Lance shifted forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “Apparently, that’s where the car has been all these years.”
“Oh, my God.” Stan brushed a hand over his receding hairline. Then his hand froze and his eyes snapped to Lance’s, as if something just occurred to him. “Was Vic inside?”
Morgan had interviewed hundreds of witnesses in her career. Her internal lie detector was well honed, but she couldn’t read Stan. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about him didn’t feel genuine.
“No.” Lance shook his head. “But someone was. Do you remember Mary Fox?”
Stan frowned. His gaze dropped to the wood floor for a few seconds. Was he thinking or hiding his eyes? “I don’t think so.”
“She worked at PJ’s,” Morgan prompted.
“Oh.” Stan’s gaze snapped to Lance’s. “There was a waitress at PJ’s named Mary. Was that her?”
Lance dropped his joined hands between his knees. “Now do you remember her?”
“Yes,” Stan said. He held eye contact for a couple of seconds, then looked away. “I didn’t know her last name. Mary was memorable, all right. Vic and Brian and I used to meet for a beer at PJ’s. Sometimes she waited on us.”
“Why was she memorable?” Morgan asked. Until Mary’s name had entered the conversation, Stan’s responses had almost felt rehearsed. Now he seemed far less comfortable.
“Um.” Stan glanced from Morgan to Lance. His hands went in front of his chest, and he made a cupping gesture. “Frankly, she was stacked, and she wasn’t shy about it.”
“In what way?” Morgan pressed.
“She used to lean way over when she put a drink down on the table. It was impossible not to notice. They were in your face.” A flush brightened Stan’s face. “She had a reputation for being friendly, if you know what I mean.”
Morgan had a vague idea. “Could you be more specific?”
The red of Stan’s cheeks deepened. “She slept around. Once I saw her giving a guy a blow job in the parking lot. Rumor had it, if she was in the right mood and the electric bill was late, she’d do anything to anybody for fifty bucks.”
Sadness filled Morgan, thinking of a twenty-one-year-old waitress trading sex to ward off the power company.
“She was a prostitute?” Lance asked.
“I don’t know.” Stan waved away the question, then his hand froze in midair. “I guess she kind of was. I didn’t really think about it like that. You think hooker, you have a certain image in your head of a woman out walking the streets in spandex and high heels.”
Lance shifted his weight. “Did you ever . . . ?”
“No.” Stan shook his head. “I was never into sloppy seconds.” He winced and shot Morgan an apologetic smile. “But some guys don’t care.”
Morgan asked the hard question. “Did Vic ever hook up with Mary?”
“No,” Stan said, relaxing again. “I can’t picture Vic ever doing anything like that.”
“Did you see anyone taking particular interest in Mary in those days before Vic disappeared?” Lance’s face remained impassive, and Morgan wondered how he was keeping it all in. She wouldn’t want to have this type of conversation about her late father.
“Plenty of guys took her up on her offers.” Stan shrugged. “I don’t remember any specific names.”
Don’t know or won’t say?
“Did you know anything about Mary’s personal life?” Morgan asked.
Stan shook his head. “No. I’m ashamed to say, we thought of her as Slutty Mary. But looking back, I see her now as a sad case. She had no self-esteem.” Stan examined his fingernails for a few seconds. “It’s funny how age and life changes your perspective.”
“It is,” Morgan agreed. “What about Vic? Was anything going on with him in the weeks that preceded his disappearance?”
Stan’s gaze flickered to Lance. “You dad was worried about your mom. Her behavior was becoming more and more erratic. She was missing work and spending money like crazy. Vic spent a lot of time managing her. We used to play in a men’s baseball league. Vic quit the team a few weeks before. He said he couldn’t be away from home. He told me he felt like he was treading water twenty miles out to sea. If he stopped, he’d drown.”
“In your opinion, is there any chance my father left?” Lance’s mouth pressed flat. “Maybe he just couldn’t take the stress anymore.”
Stan considered the question. “No. I don’t think he would have walked away from you.”
For once, Stan’s statement rang with truth.
“Was he suicidal?” Lance’s voice dropped, as if he didn’t want to ask the question.
“I have no doubt that Vic was depressed, but again, you kept him going. He once told me that if it hadn’t been for you”—Stan nodded at Lance—“he would have let himself go under.”
Lance’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and sadness clouded his blue eyes. He cleared his throat. “Do you remember where you were the night my dad disappeared?”
Stan nodded and looked away. “I can’t count the number of times that Detective Sharp asked me this question over the years.” Stan’s voice shifted from conversational to mechanical. “Brian and I were at the baseball field. We hit a few balls, practiced some fielding, but mostly we were there to drink beer and blow off some steam. We called your dad, but he said he couldn’t come.”
“What time did you leave the field?” Lance asked.
Stan lifted his hands. “Around eleven. Your mother had left a message while I was out. She was looking for Vic. I called her back, but she wasn’t home.”
Jenny had been driving around looking for her husband at that time.
“Thank you for your time, Stan.” Lance stood. “Can we call you if we have more questions?”
“Of course.” Stan shook their hands. “I wish I could tell you what happened to your dad.”
“Thanks.” Lance led the way out of the house and back to the Jeep. “Is it my imagination or did Stan’s statement about his whereabouts sound rehearsed?”
“It did, but remember he’s answered those questions many times.”
“You’re right. Sharp kept poking at the case.”
“Are you all right?” Morgan asked after they climbed into the vehicle and fastened their seat belts.
“Yes.” Lance stared through the windshield. “I put my dad on a pedestal. I always thought of my life as two distinct time periods: before and after. Before was perfect, and my father’s disappearance was an independent event that made it all go to hell. But that wasn’t true. My parents had their share of problems before he went missing. Now I have to determine if those problems had anything to do with his disappearance.” Lance paused. “Or Mary’s murder. We can’t forget that a young woman died that night, and her death is somehow connected to my dad.”