Gary nodded. “Which means—”
“Someone else must be paying her bills. But nobody is listed?”
“She could be subletting.”
Morgan had his suspicions. “To her son?”
“Could be.”
As excited as he wanted to become, something didn’t feel right about this. It all felt too easy, like a piece was missing. Maybe it was because he hadn’t taken into account his jurisdiction—or lack thereof—and the MPD would make a mess of him if he wanted to get involved. But would that be the end of the world? Gary wouldn’t get to execute his vengeance, but that would be okay… wouldn’t it? The point was that Emma Cole could be inside that house, and a simple knock on the door might change her fate. Morgan understood then; they needed help from someone bigger than themselves.
“Have you notified Homicide?”
“Not yet. I was waiting for your go-ahead.”
Morgan shuffled the papers back into an organized pile and replaced the rubber band. He handed it over. “Then go ahead. All of this doesn’t mean a thing if we can’t get an arrest on it. Just be aware that if they can’t get a warrant, then we’ll be up shit creek.”
“You’re telling me.” Gary dropped the file back into the footwell. “Do you think Lyonette is involved in these murders?”
“I’m not even sure Nick is involved, but there’s only one way to find out.”
“But you know they’ll never let you near this?”
Morgan faked a smile. “Doesn’t mean I’m not coming.”
“Typical. What about Rachel?”
Exactly, Morgan thought, craning his head back toward the charity hall. She would still need a hand setting up for tonight’s event, but after their recent discussion, he had a feeling she’d understand why he had to leave tonight. This could be the end of the investigation, which meant she would get her husband back, and wasn’t that what she wanted? Of course, it depended on whether or not this search came to anything. There was always a chance it wouldn’t, and even if they had the right guy, there was no guarantee Emma was still alive.
Morgan clutched his stomach, bile churning inside. “All right, let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty
Morgan sat in the reception area of the MPD precinct, wondering what it’d be like to join the team. It wasn’t something he’d ever considered, and he probably never would, but it did make him question whether he’d be good at the job. He decided he wouldn’t.
Gary had left him an hour ago, heading inside to present his findings to the Homicide department and keep them up to speed, where the working detective would most likely accept all recognition for the legwork. Morgan was okay with that—he only wanted to bring the killer to justice—but they were taking their damn time getting that warrant.
Yawning into his palm, Morgan checked his watch. It was just after ten, which meant Rachel’s presentation was nearly at an end. Looking around at the rush of officers and men in flashy suits storming around the place, he figured they were too busy to get this over with any time soon, and so he convinced himself he wouldn’t make it back in time to catch the end.
He was right.
A swarm of men—some in uniform, some not—burst from a nearby door and headed to the exit with Detective Gary Lee struggling to catch up. Stopping beside Morgan and puffing like he’d run a marathon, he put his hands on his knees and doubled over. “They’re heading in now,” he said. “They have a warrant to search the premises.”
This alerted Morgan in more ways than he’d have imagined. “And Nick Hansen?”
“Let’s just say they’re going in armed.”
Not good, Morgan thought as he headed outside with Gary. They rushed toward his car, climbed in, and followed the swarm of police vehicles, the lights flashing blood red and sky blue as they swerved between civilian cars. Morgan held on tight while Gary drove, the adrenaline setting his skin alight. He controlled his breathing, his stomach uneasy in the fast pursuit. At this rate they wouldn’t get there in one piece, and even if they did, there would be the matter of the detective’s boundaries to contend with. Not that Morgan had any intention of crossing them—the last thing he wanted was to go in unarmed.
They stopped outside an uncared-for house where only one light shone through the night. The men scrambled from their cars toward the front door, a couple heading around the back. Gary stopped the car behind them all, turning off the engine and leaving them both in silence.
Morgan stirred, watching from afar.
“Better we keep our distance,” Gary said.
“No doubt. What did you tell them?”
“Everything I told you. Why?”
“Just wondered.” Morgan climbed out of the car, if only to breathe or pace, or anything. Whatever it was, he couldn’t just sit there wondering what was going to happen. He watched the men kick down the door and storm into the house with their guns raised, and all the while he could only imagine Emma Cole getting caught in the crossfire. The very thought of it stirred up anger he didn’t know he’d had; until now Gary had been the one most emotionally affected by this case, but Morgan was starting to lose control. He’d seen enough to turn him white.
There was a clunk as Gary exited the car, joining him at his side. They both stood in silence, leaning against the car doors as flashlight beams flooded through the dark windows of the house. Morgan’s skin crawled, like millions of bugs were nibbling through his skin and crawling over his flesh. He noticed how tense he was, his back stiffened and his shoulders hunched as he anxiously awaited a result.
And then it came.
Two gunshots from behind the house.
Morgan shot up straight.
Gary did the same. “Shit,” he spat.
Before he could question what’d happened, Morgan found his legs moving without command. He heard his name being called behind him as he sprinted toward the door, where one man remained with an outheld hand, forbidding his entry. Morgan’s instincts took over, sending him darting around the side of the house and bursting through the backyard gate. Fear blended with the cool air, shooting up his aching spine. Cold sweat dampened his forehead. His fists trembled as he ran.
When he came around the back there was a third gunshot.
Morgan froze in his tracks, grounded like a victim of stone petrification. But even looking into Medusa’s eyes couldn’t compare to the terror he experienced as an armed man—no uniform—dashed onto the back porch, searching left and right for an exit.
Until he saw Morgan.
The gun came up then, the dull metal glowing in the moonlight.
Morgan held still, not threatening a single movement. He closed his eyes and bit down on the inside of his cheeks, fear tearing through him like an icy blade. He looked away, all weight seeming to leave his body. All he saw on the backs of his eyelids was Rachel.
There were footsteps.
They were the steps of the killer as he ran into the darkness at the far end of the yard. Morgan saw this through the narrow slit of one eye. He then opened the other, confirming he was totally alone as he felt around his body for a bullet hole. There was none.
Not in him, anyway.
“We need a medic!” came a voice from inside.
No longer caring if he was allowed or not, Morgan ran inside the building with his hand feeding into his jacket for the cell phone he kept there. His mind absent, he took it out and called for an ambulance, observing the room of horrors that only vaguely resembled a kitchen.
A woman, easily in her late fifties and in terrible shape, was bleeding out by his feet. It was Lyonette Hansen, and a pool of blood oozed out of her, reaching across the stained tile floor like it was threatening to paint over the years of neglect. Morgan’s stomach turned, the voice on the phone asking which service he required, and he heard himself say “ambulance.” Although he was sure the police had already made the call.
But that wasn’t all.
Three men cleared the hallway attached to the kitchen.
They fussed around each other, making way for a small blonde lady who couldn’t walk without help. They held her upright, escorting her into the back while one of the men asked Morgan to leave.
He had no choice.
Coming to, Morgan obeyed the direct command and stepped out into the cold night air. He gave the woman on the phone an address, craning his neck to scan the yard in case the killer came back to finish his work. Not that he hadn’t done enough—the woman inside was dead, and the only hope of finding Hansen was with the one woman who’d survived his wrath.
Emma Cole was alive.
For how long, he didn’t know.
Chapter Thirty-One
Nick—or the DC Carver, as he was now being called—kept running until his feet were on fire. The rough ground stabbed at his bare soles as he sprinted down back alleys, crossing onto new paths while sirens wailed somewhere behind him. He thought he’d gotten away, but there was no way to tell for certain. Not without revealing himself from the darkness in which he now stood, panting like his lungs were about to burst.
What a night it’d truly been, he kept thinking while he stuffed the gun into the waistline of his pants. It wobbled and clunked to the ground, so he scooped it up and shoved it deep into the pocket of his sweater, pissing him off even more for not having had the chance to get dressed.
And then there was the matter of his mother.
Nick couldn’t necessarily say it’d been easy to shoot her. The shock that came with it had made his mind foggy and his legs weak, like he was five seconds from fainting. But he hadn’t fainted, had he? Quite the opposite, in fact: he’d made it out of there without a scratch on him. Save for the cuts on the soles of his feet, that was.
But she’d encouraged him.
Not just in her final moments, when she’d held her ground in front of the back door and insisted he awaited consequences for what he’d done, but in the years leading up to it. Had she protested when her boyfriend had smacked him around all those years? Had she since tried to make amends, even starting with something as simple as an apology?
The answer to both of those questions was a firm “no.”
Which was why she’d had to die.
Back there, when he’d squeezed the trigger and the room lit up for a much shorter time than it seemed, he’d almost enjoyed the way her mouth hung open in shock. She’d stood there frozen like a mannequin, assessing him with eyes that questioned if he’d really done it, and when she’d looked down and saw the small blotch of scarlet growing across her shirt, she knew.
But by then it was too late.
She’d hit the floor with a thud that both satisfied and pained him. It was the pain of guilt, though only a brief fleck. The rest was drowned out by the sound of sirens and the rush of blood in his ears as the adrenaline took over. After that, he’d had no choice but to run, leaving all he knew in a house he’d probably never see again.
He’d also had to leave her.
Emma Cole had belonged to him for a short period of time. It was something he’d fantasized about in his adolescence, spending long nights alone in bed, staring up at the ceiling while his imagination allowed him to slip off her bra. But there was more than that—that same flexible imagination showed him what it would be like for him to turn her down. Only then was there a foundation for him to claim his vengeance after humiliating him all those years ago, back when he was just a kid.
Just. A. Kid.
Nobody deserved that torment.
Especially him.
The bustle of interested citizens made a roar in the street, filling in the gaps between the commands of policemen who were still searching for him. Nick peered around the corner, flakes of wood from the fence scratching his cheek. He didn’t care—all he wanted was a peek.
It didn’t disappoint.
A crowd was forming between the police vehicles, the public demanding the latest news from the authorities. There were cries, screams, and even murmurs as Emma Cole was taken into the back of an ambulance. Nick swept his gaze across the scene as an unidentifiable emotion settled in his chest. Was it fear? Anger? The rapid tick of his heart told him it was both, but it wasn’t until he saw him that Nick truly realized.
It was anger.
Raw, uncontrollable anger.
The black investigator from the charity hall left the scene, retreating to his car with one of the detectives. He must’ve been the one to lead the police his way, Nick figured, and that only made his blood boil. Just who the hell did he think he was? This was Nick’s life work—his vengeance for years of shitty treatment and neglect. And just when he’d started to get his own back, this goddamn hero came swooping in out of nowhere to save the stupid day.
But he would learn.
Oh, yes. Rachel’s husband, whatever his name was, would have the attention turned toward him, and he would suffer. Knowing this, Nick felt a sense of relief, as if not all was lost. There was a new challenge for him now: a pleasant distraction from his troublesome youth. Already formulating a new plan, he turned and disappeared into the night, eager to make those inventive nightmares a reality.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Morgan sat in a quarantined wing of the hospital, where nobody was allowed in or out except for him and Gary, who’d been able to sneak him in under his own authority. Morgan appreciated this more than anyone could know—until now he’d been sitting at home wishing the days away and waiting for some news while Rachel stayed with him for support. When Gary had finally come knocking on their door to tell him Emma Cole requested his presence, it finally felt as though his luck had changed for the better.
Tapping his heel repeatedly on the floor, Morgan made a constant flick of his head at every sound from each end of the corridor. Now that he was here, he had no idea what he’d say to Emma. He’d never been very comfortable talking with trauma victims, so this should be no different. The thing was, she wanted him in there, and there was a reason for that.
He just had to figure out what it was.
The minutes slogged by. Morgan was only seconds away from heading downstairs for a coffee when there was a click. Emma’s door inched open, and Gary stepped out with his face creased into a frown. “She’s ready. Go ahead.”
Morgan shot to his feet and headed inside before his nerves could talk him out of it. He thanked Gary and closed the door behind him, preparing himself to not make a fuss of the way she looked. He hadn’t yet seen her since she’d been rescued and cleaned up, but he didn’t want to cringe or hiss through his teeth when he saw her, so he kept the thought at the front of his mind as he ventured deeper into the large dark room where the blinds were closed and only a small bedside lamp beckoned him to her side.
“Hello again,” Emma said. Her voice was stifled, as if talking through swollen lips.
“Hi, Emma.” Morgan crossed the room and lowered himself into the seat beside her bed, letting his will slip and staring right at her. It wasn’t so bad—a couple of bruises here, a swelling there, and one perfectly neat line of stitches. All in all, she didn’t look like she’d been hurt too badly. Not in comparison to the other victims, anyway. “How are you doing?”
“Meh. I can’t feel my face, but that’s probably a good thing. At least my body is okay, I guess. They have me doing some sort of press release later on, so I’m a bit nervous about that. Otherwise…” She stared across the room like something held her attention, then shook her head. “How are you?”
Morgan let a smile part his lips. It was funny—after all she’d been through she was still concerned about his well-being. If that wasn’t the trait of a good person, he didn’t know what was. “I’m just fine, thank you for asking. But we’re not here to talk about me, are we? Why did you want to see me, Emma?”
Emma made a tsk sound into her lips, wincing as if it hurt. “I already told the police what happened, but there was one thing I couldn’t bring myself to confess. You’re a nice guy, and you seem to care a great deal about your investigation, so I wanted to ope
n up.”
“I’m all ears.”
“But you can’t tell anyone.”
Morgan sighed. “Unfortunately I can’t promise that. If it directly relates to the case, I have a duty to—”
“Forget your duty,” she said, groaning as she sat up. “Do you want to hear it or not?”
“You seem eager to tell.”
“Call it a guilty conscience.”
Morgan hated the idea of withholding information from the police, but what could he do? If he didn’t promise to keep it a secret, then it’d all go to waste, and for what? His pride? Forget that, he thought, and gave a little nod, signaling her to continue.
“The killer—I mean, Nick Hansen—and I had a relationship in high school.”
Taken aback, Morgan crooked an eyebrow. “You said he harassed you.”
“Yes.” Emma rolled her head back onto her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “Back then, I made a mistake and slept with Nick. A few times, actually. Eventually, it turned into something of a romance, but I had to call it a day, you know?”
“So you ended it.”
“Exactly. Nick spent the next few nights knocking on my door, kicking up a fuss. My dad had to go out there with his shotgun one night, and that was the last time Nick gave us any trouble. At home, at least.” She laughed, but it was one of nostalgic reminiscence rather than humor. “I found a note in my locker the next day. It was from Nick, of course, saying that if I didn’t tell my boyfriend the truth, then he would.”
“Your boyfriend at the time was…?”
“Matthew.”
Morgan was crushed under the weight of this information. Finally, some loose ends were coming together, but they came with their own baggage. As difficult as it was to be the sounding board for Emma’s regret, he had no choice but to continue. “Go on.”
Emma coughed, reaching up to touch her face before dropping her hand onto her lap. It was obvious this was a hard story for her to tell—her constant fidgeting accompanied her guilt-ridden expression. “I was a kid, and I did what most kids would’ve done. I told Matthew that Nick was stalking me, in case he ever heard the truth. At least my side of the story was already established, right?”
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 57
