Chapter Forty-One
Morgan settled in the driver’s seat, the steering wheel freezing under her hands. “If Stan has an alibi for today, he couldn’t have been at the hospital.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Lance’s breath fogged in front of his face like a personal storm cloud. “He’s lying about the night my dad disappeared. I’ve no reason to believe anything else he says.”
“But he has witnesses for today,” Morgan pointed out.
“He has employees who will say what he wants them to say. The hospital is a fifteen-minute drive from here. He could have slipped out and done the deed. With driving time, it would have taken less than an hour. The receptionist must take a lunch break.”
“I still feel like we’re missing something.” Morgan drummed her fingers on the wheel. “Our only suspects are Brian and Stan, yet both had alibis for at least some of the recent murders.”
“What if they were working together?” Lance asked. “Their original false alibi was joint.”
“It’s possible. But what was their motivation? If Brian killed Mary because she was going to tell his wife, how did Stan get involved?”
“Brian called him for help disposing of the body,” Lance suggested.
“It’s possible, but I feel like we’re still missing a key piece of information.” The theory wasn’t ringing true to Morgan. “It’s one thing to cover for your pal, but quite another to help him commit murder.”
“And it doesn’t explain what happened to my father.” Lance closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with both hands.
“Unless Vic saw Brian kill Mary.”
“And my father wouldn’t help them cover it up.” Lance dropped his hands into his lap. “Even though I know Brian and Stan both lied, I still have a hard time believing they would have killed my father.”
“What do we do?” Morgan asked.
“We get comfortable.” Lance cracked his neck. “I have no ideas other than good old-fashioned surveillance. Stan is our best lead at this point. I want to stick with him and see where he goes after work.” He glanced at Morgan. “He might be late. Do you want me to take you home?”
“No.” Morgan glanced sideways.
Lance seemed to have gotten his temper under control, but she didn’t trust him to go off on his own.
She reached behind the seat for her tote and pulled it onto her lap. Unzipping it, she dug for the case file and handed it to Lance. “Stan drives a black Mercedes. Let’s find it in case he goes out the back door.”
Lance read off the license plate number. Morgan started the engine and turned on the heat. She drove the Jeep up and down the rows until they spotted Stan’s car. She parked in the darkest spot she could find several rows away.
Turning off the engine, she fished her leftover candy bar from her bag. She tore the wrapper and waved it at him. “Want half?”
He shook his head. “Don’t eat that.”
Too late.
She chewed and swallowed. “It has peanuts in it. Nuts are healthy.”
Lance was always prepared for an impromptu stakeout. He kept his Jeep stocked with emergency supplies. He opened the console and took out two protein bars. From a bag behind his seat, he removed two water bottles and offered her one.
She took it but didn’t open it. Who knew how long they’d have to wait? After three pregnancies, it was safest to minimize fluid intake on stakeouts of indeterminate length.
She fished gloves from her pockets and turned up her collar. He handed her a protein bar, but she put it aside as well. The chocolate would keep her going for a while. It could be a long night. They’d have to ration their supplies. She settled lower in her seat. Lance did the same.
Time passed with a creeping slowness that reminded her of Salvador Dali’s melting clocks.
Just after eleven p.m., Stan exited the building.
Morgan perked up. “There he is.”
Hunching his shoulders against the wind, Stan hustled across the parking lot and slid into his Mercedes. The headlights turned on. A minute later, he drove out of the lot.
Morgan followed him. With the roads nearly deserted, she eased off the accelerator and stayed well back. When Stan turned into his development, she drove past, then turned around to double back.
“Kill the headlights before you make the turn,” Lance said.
Exterior lights blazed in the new development, eliminating the need for headlights.
Two blocks away, she slid the Jeep to the curb, choosing the darkest place between street lamps. They watched Stan park in his driveway. Lights shone in the front windows of the big house. Stan got out of his car. Closing the door, he stopped and scanned the street. Did he feel them watching him?
Stan went into the house. The first-floor windows went dark a minute later.
“Maybe he’s going straight to bed,” Morgan said. That’s what she would do.
“It’s late,” Lance agreed.
“Do we continue to watch him? If he was going anywhere else, he wouldn’t have driven straight home.”
“Unless he saw us.”
“If he saw us, we might as well leave. He won’t lead us anywhere if he knows we’re watching.”
Lance shifted in his seat. “Drive around the next block.”
Morgan cruised past Stan’s house and turned left three times.
“Pull over here,” Lance said. “Under that tree.”
Morgan parked at the curb around the corner from Stan’s house. “It’s so bright here. I feel exposed.”
Not only were the lots covered in landscaping lights, but the houses were close together. There were no dark places to hide.
“It’s the best we can do in this neighborhood,” Lance said. “From a home security perspective, I applaud the lack of dark shadows for burglars to lurk. But for our purposes tonight, it’s damned inconvenient.”
They climbed out of the Jeep. They locked the vehicle’s doors manually and closed their doors as softly as possible.
“Hold my hand.” Lance reached toward her.
She slid her hand into his.
Lance tugged her onto the sidewalk. “We’re just a nice couple taking a stroll.”
For a minute, that’s exactly what she wished they were. The crisp night air chilled her face, but her coat blocked the worst of the cold, and the heat of his body penetrated her thin leather glove. A snow flurry drifted down, slow as a feather, and landed on her arm.
If they weren’t on a stakeout, their walk would be romantic.
Tires crunched on asphalt.
“Look casual.” Lance pulled Morgan closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
Morgan glanced over her shoulder. “Uh-oh.”
A black-and-white sheriff’s vehicle pulled up to the curb a few feet ahead of them. Sheriff King climbed out of his car, crossed the strip of grass next to the curb, and stepped onto the sidewalk, blocking their way. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking a walk,” Lance said.
“Don’t smart-ass me.” The glare of the streetlamp overhead cast the sheriff’s face in harsh, angry shadows.
Waves of animosity—and testosterone—shimmered between the two men.
“Stan Adams called me to say you have been harassing and stalking him,” the sheriff said.
Morgan squeezed Lance’s hand. “Don’t say anything.”
The sheriff propped his hands on his hips. “Didn’t I tell you both to stay away from this case?”
Lance said, “My mother is lying in a hospital bed—”
“Stop. Talking,” Morgan said in a louder voice.
The sheriff pointed at Lance. “You should listen to the lawyer.”
But Lance’s temper had obviously kicked his sense out of the way. “I have every right to protect my family.”
“You don’t have squat.” The sheriff paused after each word for effect.
Morgan nudged an elbow in between the men and tried to defuse the situation. “We just found out that Stan Adams called Jenny Kruger yesterday, but you knew that, right? You have access to her phone records.”
The sheriff’s lips mashed flat. She couldn’t tell if he knew or not.
Lance leaned forward, as if he was going to speak. Morgan tugged him back.
“Jenny was poisoned with opioids,” she said. “Tonight at the hospital, someone tried to do it again.”
“Do you have proof of that?” Sheriff King asked.
“It just happened,” Morgan said. “Her saline solution was spiked. The Scarlet Falls PD has just begun their investigation.”
“So you just thought you’d take matters into your own hands?” King asked.
Lance shook his head. “And this is why we didn’t want to call you.”
“I’ve had it with you.” The sheriff’s finger stabbed in the air toward Lance. “The only way I’m going to keep you both out of my way is to put you in a cell. You’re both under arrest.”
“You can’t be serious.” Lance took a step forward.
So did the sheriff. “I don’t make jokes.”
It was true. The sheriff had no sense of humor.
“Just do what he says.” Morgan gripped Lance’s bicep. The muscles were hard and tense under her fingers.
“Both of you, hand over your weapons.” King held out an empty hand.
They slid their guns from their holsters and offered them butts first.
The sheriff took both. “Put your hands on top of your heads. Lace your fingers.”
Lance tensed, but he followed instructions.
“Now you first, Kruger.” The sheriff crooked a forefinger at Lance. “Give me your coat.”
Lance slid out of his leather jacket and handed it over. “You can’t arrest us.”
“I most certainly can. Remember the last time you went off half-cocked?” The sheriff tossed Lance’s jacket over the hood of his car. “You almost got yourself and Ms. Dane killed. Now turn around.”
Lance complied.
Pulling Lance’s hands down one at a time, Sheriff King snapped handcuffs onto his wrists. He gave Lance a thorough pat-down, emptying the many pockets of Lance’s cargos and piling the contents on top of Lance’s jacket. Pocketknife, a fully loaded magazine for his Glock, and a handful of plastic zip-ties. The sheriff guided him into the back of the police vehicle.
“Now you, counselor.” The sheriff pointed to her. “Let’s have your coat.”
Morgan took off her coat and handed it over. The cold air swept through her, and she shivered as she turned around.
“Turn out your jeans pockets,” he said. “Use two fingers.”
She turned her jeans pockets inside out and handed him the keys to the Jeep. The rest of her belongings were in her tote bag, which she’d left in the Jeep. The sheriff handcuffed her and gave her a cursory pat-down, skipping the more intimate areas of her body, something she was positive he would not do when arresting a female stranger. He was being a gentleman while he arrested her, a fact that was ridiculous all on its own.
“What are the charges?” Morgan asked.
“I’m starting with loitering, harassment, stalking, and impeding an investigation,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll think of some more during the drive.”
With a solid hand on her arm, he guided her to the back door of the vehicle. Then he put a gentle hand on the top of her head as she slid into the vehicle.
Scooting across the bench seat in handcuffs was harder than Morgan anticipated. The door closed. The physical restraint of the handcuffs and the cage separating the back and front seats felt claustrophobic. She glanced over her shoulder and watched the sheriff going through their coat pockets. Lance’s jacket held his cell phone, a miniature screwdriver, and a small flashlight. From Morgan’s coat, the sheriff pulled her phone, a wad of tissues, a lip balm, and two lollipops. The second lollipop was sticky and covered in lint, having been licked and rewrapped when Sophie had discovered she didn’t like green apple. With a disgusted sneer, the sheriff wiped his hand on the thigh of his uniform, then bagged their personal possessions.
“I can’t believe he’s arresting us.” Lance glared out the side window.
“We’ll call Sharp from the station,” Morgan said. “He’ll get us out.”
Lance shook his head. “Knowing the sheriff, he’ll stick us in a holding cell overnight just to prove he can.”
“I messaged Sharp earlier. He knows where we are. He’ll look for us.”
“He won’t think to call the sheriff.”
“Probably not,” Morgan agreed. “We’ll survive a night in a holding cell.”
“You know what cells are like.” Lance frowned at her. “You don’t belong in one.”
In her former life as a prosecutor, Morgan had interviewed plenty of criminals. Holding cells, like other jail and prison facilities, were disgusting, filthy places with open toilets and the lingering scent of vomit. From the outside, the sights and smells could gag someone with a strong stomach. The thought of being locked in one wasn’t pleasant.
“I’m aware of that, but there’s nothing we can do about it now.” Morgan was less surprised at their arrest than Lance. He and the sheriff had butted heads one too many times. They were equally hardheaded, but the sheriff had the law on his side. Sheriff King had warned them, and Lance was right: King was just arrogant enough to want to prove he had the upper hand.
The sheriff collected their belongings and put them in his trunk.
Morgan turned to Lance. “You need to remain silent. I mean it. Don’t say a single word to the sheriff or anyone else at the station.”
Male and female prisoners were not held together. She suspected Lance would be put in the holding cell, and the sheriff would handcuff her to a bench somewhere. She sensed they had finally pushed King over the line.
“Cooperate, but exercise your right to be silent. Anything you say will be used against you. Anything.”
“I know.” Lance’s shoulders fell. “I’m sorry. I should have listened to you tonight. You were right. We should have called the sheriff and told him about Stan. Now we’ve lost a whole night.”
“It’ll be all right.” Morgan shivered.
Lance shifted closer, pressing his shoulder against hers. “I can’t help protect my mother from a jail cell, and now that we’re getting locked up, Stan is free to do what he wants.”
“Stella and Brody are with your mother tonight,” Morgan said.
The sheriff climbed into the driver’s seat, ending their conversation. As the vehicle pulled away from the curb, Morgan turned and glanced back at Stan’s bright-as-day neighborhood. Stan had seen them following his car, and he’d gone on the offensive, smartly turning the tables on them.
No one was watching him now.