Chapter Eighteen
Lance parked in front of Morgan’s house just as the school bus pulled away from the curb. Ava and Mia waved from the bus windows. Joining Morgan on the sidewalk, he waved back.
The bus rumbled away, and he and Morgan turned toward the house. Her breath puffed in the frosty morning air, and she rubbed her arms.
“You need a coat,” he said.
“We’re always in a rush. The bus comes at the same time every day. You’d think we’d be ready.”
“At least you’re wearing shoes today.”
In her black heels, she was only a couple of inches shorter than him. She wore a red suit and her black hair was twisted in one of the no-nonsense updos she favored for legal business.
“The girls have missed you the last few days,” Morgan said.
“I meant to get here earlier.” Lance glanced back at the retreating bus. He’d waited until his mother was settled in her office, with a website design to occupy her, before he’d left.
Morgan opened the front door. Sophie leaped at Lance. As he caught her, she wrapped her skinny arms around his neck and pouted. “I haven’t seen you all week. You pwomised to take me skating.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Guilt speared him like a fork. “My mom has been . . . sick.”
“Like Grandpa?” she asked.
“Yes. Something like that.” Lance hugged her. When he’d first started dating Morgan, the fact that she had three small children had terrified him. Now, catching one in midair felt natural. He’d never thought he’d look forward to dealing with the sticky chaos, but their smiles and hugs—their acceptance—filled him with gratitude.
But how could he possibly be there for Morgan and her three kids and take care of his mother? No matter how hard Mom tried to be independent, one of life’s curveballs could wipe out her efforts as fast as a rag across a whiteboard.
“Are you driving me to school?” Sophie squirmed away from his chest.
He set her on the floor. “Yep.”
“Yay!” She raced for her bedroom, stopping and giving him a stern look over her shoulder. “But we hafta leave now or I’ll be late. I don’t wike to be late.”
Lance lifted both hands. “Hey, I’m ready. Where’s your backpack?”
She shot into her room.
Gianna came out of the kitchen and took her coat from a peg on the wall. A bag over her arm held her dialysis supplies: a warm blanket, a thermos, and the iPad Morgan had given her for her birthday. The young woman was still sick, still dependent on her treatments, and still waiting for a kidney, but there was energy in her step and hope in her eyes. “Thanks for driving me today, Lance.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Lance said. They went outside. While Morgan locked the door, he loaded Sophie into his Jeep, double-checking the fit of her safety seat and harness.
Gianna slid into the back next to Sophie, and Morgan fastened her seat belt in the passenger seat. He drove Sophie to preschool. She made Lance walk her in and introduced him to her teacher before allowing him to leave. Next, he dropped Gianna at dialysis, and then they headed for the sheriff’s station.
“Sharp is meeting us there?” Morgan asked.
“Yes,” Lance said. “He wanted to check on the dog.”
“He’s such a softie.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that.” Lance drove out to the sheriff’s station, located near the county jail and municipal complex.
Sharp was already parked in front of the ugly-ass brown brick building that housed the sheriff’s station. He climbed out of his car.
“Safety in numbers?” Lance joked as they walked toward the door.
Sharp snorted. “I wasn’t waiting for you. I was waiting for my lawyer.”
“How’s the dog?” Morgan fell into step beside Sharp.
“She has a broken leg that needs surgery, but she should be fine for you to take home in a day or so.”
“Me?” Morgan laughed. “Why do I get the dog?”
“You’re the one who collects strays.” Sharp opened the glass door and stepped aside to let Morgan enter first.
They went inside the lobby. At the counter, they were met by the sheriff’s watchdog, a sixty-something-year-old woman with sensible shoes, a navy-blue cardigan, and a laserlike gaze that could cut a man in two.
“Hey, Margie.” Sharp leaned on the counter.
Margie rested both hands on her hips. “Lincoln Sharp. I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Sharp inclined his head beyond the counter. “There’s a reason for that.”
Margie’s head shake said it all. “It isn’t personal. He doesn’t believe in the whole concept of private investigation. I’d tread extra carefully today if I were you.” Margie dropped her voice. “He just canceled his annual hunting trip because of this case. This will be the first deer season he’ll miss in fifteen years. He is not in a good mood.”
Was he ever?
“Thanks, Margie,” Sharp said.
Margie continued to shake her head as she gestured over her shoulder with a thumb. “Go on back. He’s expecting you.”
The sheriff greeted them with a nod and a grunt in the corridor. King had showered, shaved, and donned a fresh uniform, but his eyes were weary. He hadn’t slept much, if at all. He issued commands to a deputy at his side. “Put Sharp in room one, Kruger in room two, and Ms. Dane in my office.”
Only Morgan warranted a title.
“You realize neither Mr. Sharp nor Mr. Kruger will answer any questions outside of my presence,” Morgan said without moving.
The sheriff muttered something that sounded like oh, hell under his breath. “I give up with you three. Just go in there.”
With a frustrated wave, he motioned toward an open doorway on their left. Lance led the way into a cramped conference room full of stale air and the smell of burned coffee.
The sheriff came in behind them. The office chair squealed as he dropped his bulk into it. “No doubt you’ve had plenty of time to get your stories straight anyway.”
“Mr. Sharp and Mr. Kruger gave full statements last night,” Morgan pointed out. “Were there any discrepancies?”
“No,” the sheriff admitted.
“Before we get started, I have news for you.” King nodded at Morgan. “I had a talk with Tyler Green about your stalker problem. He claimed not to know anything about it. But the most interesting takeaway from our conversation was that he has struck a deal with the prosecutor’s office.”
“What deal?” Morgan stiffened.
“His case was given to Esposito, who offered him reduced charges for time served.” The sheriff’s frown deepened. “I impressed upon him the importance of staying far away from you if he wanted to avoid further incarcerations. But Tyler isn’t known for his self-control or intelligence. Please be careful.”
“Thank you,” Morgan said. “I appreciate the notice.”
King nodded, then turned to Lance. “Now back to the case. Do you remember going to PJ’s when you were a boy?”
“Yes,” Lance said.
Sheriff King cocked his head. “Your dad went there a few times a week. Mary Fox worked there. Do you remember her?”
“No.” Lance shook his head. “I was ten.
All he remembered was that the burgers were huge and he could watch TV while he ate.
“Your father’s friends remembered Mary. You talked to them yesterday, right? Brian and Natalie Leed and Stan Adams?” the sheriff asked. “How well do you remember them from your childhood?”
“I have some memories.” Lance shifted his weight. The hard plastic chair dug in to his back. “But once my dad went missing, I didn’t see any of them.”
The sheriff leaned forward. “Do you remember your mother acting strangely back then?”
“No,” Lance said. His father had hidden that well.
“Do you remember your father being depressed?” the sheriff asked.
“No,” Lance answered.
“Kids don’t always know what’s really going on with their parents.” The sheriff leaned back and crossed his arms.
Discomfort swam around in Lance’s chest. Where was the sheriff going with his questions?
King turned to Sharp. “Your original reports mentioned that Vic was upset, depressed about his wife’s deteriorating mental health.”
Sharp nodded.
“Mary Fox had a prior arrest for soliciting.” The sheriff scrutinized their faces, one at a time. “But I suspect you already knew that.”
Discomfort curled Lance’s fingers into fists. Next to him, Morgan must have felt his tension building. She pressed her leg against his, a silent plea for him to cool it.
“Where are you going with these questions, Sheriff?” she asked.
Sheriff King straightened. “Once we cleared the mud from the vehicle, we found a brick on the floor on the driver’s side, as if someone had used it to jam the gas pedal down so the car would drive into the lake all by itself.”
Lance’s gut twisted. He wanted the sheriff to get to the point, but his mouth would not form words. He felt like King was toying with him, leading him along, like a cow being coaxed into the slaughterhouse. They all knew Mary hadn’t driven the car into the lake.
“Yesterday, the dive team scanned the lake bottom where we found the car. They found no other remains.” The sheriff leaned forward, his elbows hitting the table. “You’re sure you haven’t heard from your father over the years?”
“What?” Shock freed Lance’s voice. “No.”
“How about your mother?” King interlaced his fingers. “Are you sure she hasn’t heard from him?”
“Yes.” Lance’s spine snapped straight.
“I’m giving this to you.” The sheriff pulled a folded paper from his pocket and dropped it on the table. “These are the things I’d like from your mother. Either you get them for me, or I’ll be forced to go to her.” His big hand settled on top of the page. “I’m doing my best to be considerate of her fragility, but I can’t let it undermine the investigation.”
Morgan beat Lance to the paper. He kept his eyes on the sheriff while she unfolded and read it. “He wants the last twelve months of your mother’s e-mail and phone records.”
“My mother is a victim here.” Anger replaced Lance’s unease.
The sheriff held up a hand to cut him off. “Here’s what I think might have happened. Your dad was depressed and lonely. He turned to Mary for comfort, maybe even paid for it. But she was known for being less than kind. Maybe Mary threatened to tell your mother. Maybe Vic strangled her, put her in his trunk, and sent his car into Grey Lake. Maybe that’s why your father left town, never to be seen again. And if Vic is alive, I also have to wonder if he’s contacted your mother over the years.”
Lance surged to his feet. Morgan had him by the arm on one side, Sharp on the other.
Morgan was whispering in his ear. Her tone was calming, but Lance couldn’t hear the words over the roar of fury in his head.
She shoved her way in front of Lance, blocking him with her body. “This interview is over, Sheriff.”
“My father was a victim.” But Lance’s voice was strained. Could the sheriff be right? How much did Lance really remember about his dad? Some of his memories had already been proven false.
“Will you call your mother about these records or should I?” the sheriff asked.
“I’ll do it.” Lance forced the words out of his locked jaws.
The sheriff’s posture eased and his tired eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He didn’t retreat from his position or his statement. “I think your father skipped town because he’d committed murder. Now I need to know if your mother was an accomplice.”
Lance wasn’t sure how he left the sheriff’s station. Suddenly, he was outside. The sun broke through the clouds, blinding him.
Morgan took his arm and led him across the parking lot. “Your mother doesn’t have to comply with the sheriff’s request. He doesn’t have a search warrant, nor does he have the grounds to get one.”
“She’ll give him whatever he wants, and he knows it.” Lance put both his hands on his head. “He’ll tell her not providing the information will slow his investigation. But giving him access to her personal records will upset her.”
His mother wanted nothing more than to find the truth. She’d been waiting more than two decades to move on with her life.
“You can go for a power of attorney and block him from seeing her,” Morgan said.
Lance shook his head. “I’d have to convince her psychiatrist that Mom is incompetent at the same time that she’s been making improvement with her new therapist. It won’t fly. And she would feel that I’d betrayed her.”
And that would hurt her more in the long run than anything the sheriff could do.
“Then let her comply.” Morgan stopped next to his vehicle. “He won’t find anything. He’s just spinning his wheels.”
Lance swallowed a lump of anger the size of a volleyball in his throat. If Morgan hadn’t dragged him out of King’s office, he might have taken a swing at the sheriff and ended up spending the night in jail. Losing control would help no one.
But was he losing his shit because the sheriff’s theory was way off base?
Or because it was all too logical?
Sharp came out of the building and crossed the parking lot. “The sheriff is a dick. You want to get even with the SOB? Let’s find out what happened to your dad before he does. King will never get over it.”
Lance breathed. Angry air hissed out of his chest. “As much as I don’t want to, I can follow the evidence to the sheriff’s theory that my father killed Mary. In fact, if I wasn’t too close to the case, I would have already considered it. But to suggest my mother conspired with him is too much.”
“Your mother did nothing wrong, and she will be fine,” Sharp said. “She’ll send him copies of her e-mail and phone records. Hell, she’s better than any forensic computer tech I’ve ever worked with. Even if she had been in contact with your dad, the sheriff would never find the evidence in her permanent records. All communication would have been routed through some village in Turkey.”
Lance paced a tight circle in front of his Jeep. His mother was in no danger from Sheriff King. Right?
“I might not have been right about my parents’ relationship when I was ten,” Lance said. “But I know that my mother hasn’t been in contact with my dad since that night.”
“Of course she hasn’t.” Sharp waved off his comment. “The whole line of inquiry is ridiculous. Unfortunately, it makes me think the sheriff is desperate, and that he doesn’t have squat in evidence or leads to follow.”
“Did the background checks reveal anything useful?” Sharp asked Lance.
Lance looped a hand around the back of his neck. The hours he’d spent online the previous night had given him a stiff neck. “Brian and Stan both have multiple mortgages on their homes. Stan is the more leveraged of the two by far.”
“Brian had a sports car in his garage,” Morgan said. “Maybe he has other expensive toys. Stan has a big house, a Mercedes, and expensive furnishings. But as a partner in an established accounting firm, I’d think he’d be able to afford those things.”
“Maybe the firm has problems,” Lance said.
“It’s worth a deeper dive,” Sharp agreed.
“Then let’s get to work,” Morgan said. “Lance and I will talk to Crystal Fox’s neighbor.”
Sharp nodded. “I’ll go to PJ’s when it opens this afternoon and see if I can track down anyone who knew Mary. I’ll see what I can dig up on Stan Adams’s accounting firm as well.” He headed for his car.
Morgan held her hand out for Lance’s keys. “I’ll drive. You are too angry to get behind the wheel.”
Lance dropped his keys in her palm. They climbed into the Jeep. Lance called his mother and explained what the sheriff wanted. He didn’t elaborate on the whys of the request. “I’ll stop by later and pick up the documents,” he told her.
She sounded confused but steady as she agreed. He lowered the phone.
“Was she upset?” Morgan glanced at him.
“I don’t even know anymore.” He leaned his head against the seat. He could tell Morgan wanted to talk. She was desperate to help, to share his burden and lend him some of her tremendous strength. But Lance was unable to process any more emotion. So he took the cowardly way out. He closed his eyes and didn’t say another word until they arrived at the farmhouse down the road from Crystal Fox’s house.
Morgan parked on the shoulder of the road.
Lance lifted his head. The farmhouse sagged under the weight of its history. The structure seemed wobbly and precarious, as if the removal of one cinder block from its foundation would bring the whole building crashing down like a giant Jenga tower.
“Looks like the kind of place where the residents cook meth in a shed.” He scanned the tall weeds that surrounded the property. The carcass of a barn, its timbers exposed like the ribcage of a skeleton, lay behind the house. “Maybe this is a mistake.”
A low throb started in Lance’s leg. The memory of approaching another rural house with an abandoned air hovered in the periphery of his mind, the way a predator hides in the shadows. He surveyed the windows, looking for movement but saw nothing.
No shifting of a curtain. No silhouette of a man. No rifle barrel.
No criminal waiting to shoot him in the leg and nearly kill him.
“We’re just going to ask a few questions,” Morgan said.
He rubbed his leg. He’d been shot approaching a front door to ask some simple questions. He shook off the memory of lying on the grass, bleeding out, but his bullet scar continued to ache. “Maybe you should wait in the car.”
“No one answers the door when you knock.” Morgan got out of the vehicle.
Lance followed her to stand in front of the Jeep. “Sure they do.”
She shook her head. “You don’t look casual. You still look like a cop. You intimidate people.”
He glanced down at his clothing. Black cargos, T-shirt, leather jacket. “This is casual.”
“Sure. For a SWAT team. It wouldn’t matter what you wore. You just have that look in your eyes, and your muscles bulge out all over.” Shielding her eyes with one hand, she surveyed the house. “Looks abandoned to me, but tax records say the house belongs to Elijah Jackson. He must be related to Ricky Jackson.”
Which made the meth lab even more likely.
“There’s only one way to find out.” She walked toward the porch.
Lance tamped down his emotional turmoil as he refocused on the house. Ripped screens covered the windows. A gust of wind blew through a set of rusty wind chimes. The high-pitched metallic pings lifted goose bumps on Lance’s arms.
He checked his weapon and tucked Morgan behind him as they walked up the driveway and approached the sagging porch.
“Watch yourself.” He steered her around a hole in the porch step.
Moving away from him, Morgan raised a hand to knock on the door. Lance tugged her to stand behind the doorframe.
He whispered in her ear, “Never stand dead center.”
In case someone shoots through the door.
Despite the cold air, sweat dripped down the center of his back. His senses went on high alert, and his bullet scar itched with the intensity of an electrical current.
Or an instinct.
An early warning system designed for survival.
Standing to one side, Morgan knocked on the door. Something moved inside. A thump and a scrape sounded behind the door. Then another.
Thump. Scrape.
Lance’s hand inched toward the weapon on his hip as the door creaked open.