Chapter Thirty-Seven
Morgan warmed her hands in front of the dashboard heat vents. The temperature was dropping as the light waned.
Lance followed directions to a small brick apartment building not far from the Grey’s Hollow train station. The building was divided into eight apartments. Four up and four down. Warren lived in a downstairs end unit. Morgan and Lance got out of the Jeep, crossed the sidewalk, and walked up the concrete path. Lance knocked on his front door. No one answered. Morgan wasn’t surprised.
Turning, she scanned the parking area in front of the building. “I don’t see his truck.”
Even if Warren were home, would he answer the door to them?
Stepping into the grass, Morgan cupped her hand over her eyes and tried to peer through the front window.
“See anything?” Lance asked.
“No, the curtains are drawn.” She stepped back onto the path.
Lance walked around the unit, but blinds covered the windows. At the front window, he angled off and tried to look through the half-inch gap between the curtains. “Can’t see anything.”
A middle-aged man wearing blue coveralls came out of the apartment next door. Frowning, he raised a suspicious eyebrow at Lance.
“Hello.” Morgan walked toward him, smiling while trying to look innocent.
The man didn’t look convinced. “Can I help you?”
Morgan turned up the wattage of her smile and reached into her pocket for a business card. “We’re looking for Warren Fox—”
“We’re private investigators.” Lance put a hand on her arm, keeping it in her pocket. “Warren might have inherited some money. Have you seen him?”
“Sorry.” The neighbor relaxed and shook his head. “I wish I could help, but I haven’t seen Warren today. You should try the county recycling center. I don’t know what time he gets off, but that’s where he works.”
“Do you know Warren well?” Morgan asked.
“No.” His curt tone implied that was by choice.
“Do you have any idea where else he might be?” Lance asked. “He’s going to want to talk to us.”
The neighbor adjusted the zipper of his coveralls. “You could try the Black Tavern. That’s his watering hole. You’ll have to excuse me. I have to get to work.” He turned and walked toward a sedan parked in front of the building.
“Thank you,” Morgan called after him.
They went back to the Jeep.
“You lied to him.” Morgan closed her door with more force than necessary. “What if he tells the sheriff?”
“I said might,” Lance clarified. “And that’s why we didn’t give him a business card or our names.”
Morgan sighed. “The sheriff will know it was us. This is the kind of behavior that puts you on Sheriff King’s bad side.”
“He’s impossible.”
Morgan was sure the sheriff felt the same way about Lance.
“I know you’re frustrated, but we have to pick our battles,” she said. “Like it or not, he is the law. There are some fights we just can’t win. It’s better to willingly give on some issues, makes you look cooperative.”
“I know. You’re right, but people are dying.” Frustration sharpened Lance’s words. “My mother almost died, and we still have no idea what happened to my father.”
“Why don’t we go see your mother now?” Morgan suggested.
He consulted the map on his smart phone. “We’ll stop at the Black Tavern first. It’s just up the road, and the hospital is in the other direction.”
He backed away from the curb. The tavern was only a half mile from the apartment. Warren could stumble home blind drunk. Remembering his breath on her face, Morgan thought the location was probably convenient for him.
Lance parked, and they went inside. Clearly a neighborhood dive, the tavern was small, holding barely a dozen booths and the same number of stools at a worn bar. The air smelled like sour beer and lifelong disappointment. A chalkboard on the wall announced beer on tap was one dollar during happy hour. At five thirty, a handful of patrons took advantage of the special. They stared at a hockey game playing on a wall-mounted flat screen. Several slumped, already appearing intoxicated though happy hour had just begun.
Two men on the end of the bar eyeballed Morgan. Lance changed sides, putting his body between her and the men. The gesture was unnecessary but appreciated.
They went up to the bar. Grit on the floor crunched under Morgan’s feet.
Below the short sleeves of his black T-shirt, the bartender sported two full sleeves of tattoos. “What can I get you?” he asked.
Morgan leaned across the bar. “We’re looking for Warren Fox.”
The bartender barely glanced at her.
Lance rested his forearms on the bar. In a low voice, he said, “Warren might have inherited some money.”
The bartender scratched a red bump on a tattoo of a robot on his wrist. There were more marks on the insides of his arms. Addict. A friendly smile wasn’t going to influence him. Addicts only cared about one thing, money to buy their next hit.
Lance slipped a folded twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and set it on the bar. He held a second between his forefingers. That got the bartender’s attention. He pocketed the money and gave Lance his full attention. “I’d like to help, but I haven’t seen Warren today.”
“How often does he usually come in?” Lance asked.
“Almost every night.” The bartender pointed to the other end of the bar. “He’s usually on that stool by four thirty.”
Warren hadn’t been at work, and he wasn’t at his usual hangout. Was he guilty, in danger, or simply drunk somewhere other than the bar?
“When was the last time you saw him?” Lance asked.
“Come to think of it, Warren wasn’t here last night either.” The bartender scratched his belly.
His itchiness felt contagious. Morgan eased back a few inches.
“Maybe he decided to drink at home.” The bartender shrugged. “Or he could be broke. That slut he was married to was after his paycheck. Maybe she got some of it.”
Lance passed the second bill over the bar. “Do you know anywhere else Warren might hang out?”
“Sorry.” The bartender took the cash. “As far as I know, he’s at work, here, or home.”
“Thanks.” Lance steered Morgan toward the other patrons, keeping her tucked just slightly behind his left arm. He took another twenty from his pocket. “Does anyone here know where Warren Fox might be?”
Morgan had little doubt that the other patrons had overheard Lance’s conversation with the bartender.
“You could try his wife’s place.” An old drunk swayed on the closest stool. “He was trying to get back with her. Hated the bitch, but loved her too, if you know what I mean.”
Not really.
“Anyone have any better information?” Lance waved the folded bill.
The other men sighed and turned back to their beers.
Lance handed the old man the twenty, then steered Morgan out of the bar. The fresh air was cold but welcome.
“Warren hasn’t been in the bar in two nights.” Morgan reached into her tote and pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer. She offered it to him.
He shook his head. “You didn’t touch anything.”
“I still feel dirty.” She rubbed a spot of gel between her hands. He was right, but the sting of Purell in her nose made her feel cleaner. “Nasty place. The bartender is an addict.”
Lance nodded. “Which is why he gave us info on Warren for forty bucks without a hint of guilt.”
They got into the Jeep.
“We should call the sheriff.” Morgan smoothed her coat and fastened her seat belt. “Given the history of this investigation, Warren could be dead inside his apartment.”
“As much as it pains me to admit it, I agree,” Lance said. “You call him.”
Morgan sighed and made the call. She covered the speaker with her fingers. “No answer.” She left a message for him to call her about the case.
“That works perfectly. We did our duty and didn’t have to deal with the sheriff.”
“I still feel guilty.” Morgan lowered her phone to her thigh. “Should we call 911?”
Lance steered the Jeep onto the on-ramp. “I suppose we can’t let ourselves in?”
“No. Definitely not.” Morgan made the call, giving the dispatcher her name and asking for a welfare check at Warren Fox’s address. “They won’t rush a welfare check.”
“If he’s dead, an hour or two won’t make any difference.”
The hospital was a thirty-minute drive from the Black Tavern. It was nearly seven o’clock by the time Lance parked in the lot. “I’m sorry. We should have stopped for food.”
“I’m fine.” Morgan pulled two candy bars from her tote and offered him one.
He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
She stashed one back in her bag and ate the other as they walked across the parking lot. They went through the automatic doors, collected visitor badges at the front desk, and took the elevator to the third floor. They walked down the hall toward the ICU. A lab tech was exiting, and they slipped in while the doors were still open.
Morgan picked up on a somber energy the minute they walked into the ward. Staff talked in hushed, subdued voices. Lance’s steps quickened. He felt it too. Morgan took his hand in a strong grip.
Someone had died.