“Just her boss. What’s his name?” Randall tilted his head, thinking. “MacDonald. Curtis MacDonald. She seemed to have a pretty good relationship with him.”
“In what way?” Lance asked.
Randall shifted his weight as if suddenly uncomfortable. “Nothing inappropriate. She mentioned he was letting her work a little from home. She was supposed to go back to the office weeks ago, but William hasn’t been cooperative.”
“Is it all right if we take a look around?” Lance asked.
“Please do.” Patricia wiped a teary eye. Randall put an arm around his wife’s shoulders, pulled her closer, and kissed her temple. She closed her eyes and leaned into his shoulder.
Lance led Sharp from the room, giving Chelsea’s parents privacy. But he glanced back at them over his shoulder. What would it be like to be that close to someone for thirty years? It would be amazing to have that level of comfort and support and love no matter what life threw at him.
Then he imagined having that partner ripped away, which is exactly what had happened to both his mother and Morgan. His mother had never recovered, and it had taken Morgan two years to come out from under her grief.
Everything had a price.
Even love.
Especially love.
In the foyer, Sharp poked him in the arm, breaking his depressing train of thought. “Earth to Lance.”
“Sorry.” Lance shook off the sad memories. “Where are we starting?”
Sharp opened the hall closet. “I’ll go through coat pockets. You want to check out the bedroom?”
Lance turned toward the stairs. “On it.”
At the top landing, he glanced in each doorway. One bedroom was an explosion of pink and purple with a clear princess theme. Primary colors and trains decorated the nursery. Lance stopped in the doorway of the master bedroom. A man’s watch on the nightstand told him that Tim slept on the right side of the bed.
Lance went to the left side and opened the single drawer. ChapStick. Moisturizer. Pens. Normal stuff. Nothing interesting. The bottom shelf held a few mystery and romance novels, plus a reference book on infant care. Lance picked each book up and made sure nothing was stashed between the pages. The dresser was piled high with clean, folded laundry. Next to the laundry sat a laptop.
Tim’s?
No. Patricia said that the computer downstairs was used by both Tim and Chelsea.
Curiosity pulled Lance toward the dresser. He paused and listened for voices. Patricia and Randall were still in the kitchen. Tim hadn’t come back yet. Lance raised the lid and turned on the computer.
A few minutes later, he’d determined the laptop was owned by Skyver and MacDonald, the firm Chelsea worked for. Lance tried to poke around, but the files were password-protected. He took his flash drive from his pocket and plugged it in to the USB port. A few keystrokes later, the computer hummed as it copied files.
Had the police looked at the work computer? Probably not. They would need permission or a search warrant, given the confidential nature of accounting. Lance doubted Chelsea’s boss would have been able to give access without consulting each and every client whose files were on the computer. And a search warrant wasn’t likely to be granted with no link to Chelsea’s employer. Hell, the police didn’t even have any evidence that foul play of any sort had occurred in Chelsea’s disappearance.
Lance left the computer chugging away and searched the dresser and closet. Chelsea and Tim owned mostly casual wardrobes. Lance checked jacket pockets, then sifted through the garbage can for any important notes. He found nothing unusual.
Chelsea and Tim seemed perfectly ordinary, at least on the surface.
“Lance?” Sharp called from the hallway.
Lance relaxed. “In here.”
“I’ve checked most of downstairs,” Sharp said from the hallway. “I found two iPads. One must belong to Chelsea.” Walking into the bedroom, Sharp glanced at the computer on the dresser and raised his brows. Lance shook his head and put a finger to his pursed lips.
Sharp’s mouth flattened with suspicion. “Did you search the bathroom?”
“Not yet.”
Sharp went into the adjoining bath. Lance heard cabinets opening and closing.
Ten minutes later, Lance disconnected the hard drive, shut down the laptop, and slid the flash drive back into his pocket just as Sharp emerged from the bathroom.
“Nothing unusual,” he said. “Her travel makeup bag is still in there. No interesting prescriptions.”
The front door slammed, a baby cried, and a little girl chattered. Lance and Sharp went back downstairs.
In the foyer, Patricia took the baby from Tim, and Randall helped Bella take off her jacket while Tim hung his own in the hall closet. With a quick glance between them, Randall and Patricia led the children toward the stairway.
“Let’s read a story.” Randall took his granddaughter’s hand.
Lance waited until they disappeared at the top of the steps. “Tim, there’s another laptop upstairs. Is it yours?”
Tim shook his head. “No. That’s Chelsea’s work computer. In fact, I have to return it to her office today. I was supposed to do it yesterday, but I got hung up with the kids.”
“I don’t suppose the police had a look at it?” Lance asked.
“No. They said they couldn’t. I don’t know why it would matter. There’s nothing personal on it. It’s all spreadsheets. Chelsea was trying to catch up with her clients’ books.”
“Then I think we have everything we need for now,” Sharp said.
Lance and Sharp left the house and returned to the Jeep.
Sharp slid into the passenger seat. “Drop me at the office before you take Tim’s data to your mom.”
“We could just drive out there now.”
“No,” Sharp said. “Morgan is safe enough at the sheriff’s department, but if she beats us back to the office, she’s liable to head off on her own if the sheriff gave her a lead.” Sharp lifted a hand. “Don’t give me a bullshit argument about her being able to defend herself. I have enormous respect for her. I don’t want you looking for a potential kidnapper on your own either.”
“You don’t have to convince me. I worry about her more than you do for rational and irrational reasons.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.” Sharp fastened his seat belt. “So whose computer were you copying in the bedroom?”
Once again, Sharp earned his name. He didn’t miss a trick.
“It belongs to Chelsea’s accounting firm,” Lance admitted.
“You know that copying those files was illegal.”
Lance started the engine. “Only if I get caught. The operating system’s auditing capability wasn’t enabled. So there’s no record of my activity. No one will know the files were copied.”
“Sloppy data security for an accounting firm,” Sharp said.
“Definitely,” Lance agreed. “If there’s nothing suspicious in the files, no one will ever know.”
“And if there is?”
“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Lance drove toward the office. “But I’ll go through the computer files myself. I don’t want to bring my mom into anything . . . unscrupulous.”
“Illegal,” Sharp clarified.
“Technicality.” Lance felt Sharp’s laser gaze on his face.
“This case must bring back painful memories, but you can’t let your personal history affect your actions. You’ve come a long way since your dad disappeared. Don’t do something stupid because you can’t be objective.”
Lance glanced at his boss. “Good thing we have an excellent attorney in the building.”
“I mean it.”
“OK. OK.” Lance held up a hand.
“I will not bail your ass out of jail.” Sharp’s mouth went tight.
But Lance knew his boss would bail him out in a second. Sharp would be pissed, but he’d be there. As always.
“I’ll be careful.” To Lance this could neve
r be just a case. A woman’s life—and the future of her two children—depended on this investigation.
He would not wish his own life upon those kids. All the years of not knowing. Of wondering if their missing parent was a victim of violence or if they’d been abandoned. Neither option was optimal, but both were better than no closure at all.
He wouldn’t be able to live with himself unless he did everything within his power to find Chelsea Clark, no matter how many rules he had to break.
Chapter Nine
The sheriff’s office was located near the county jail and municipal complex. After verifying that the sheriff’s car was parked behind the building, Morgan opened the glass door and stepped into the lobby. Inside, the ugly brown brick building was old, worn, and thoroughly unattractive, from the scraped linoleum floor to the stained dropped ceiling tiles. The sheriff didn’t waste money on decor.
She went to the reception counter. At a desk a few feet away, a woman glanced up from a computer. She looked like a grandma, about sixty years old, soft all over, with dark-brown dyed hair.
But when she crossed the floor to address Morgan, Grandma’s voice was sugarcoated steel. “Can I help you?”
Morgan’s smile didn’t earn her one in return. “I’m Morgan Dane. I’m here to see Sheriff King.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No.” Considering their last phone interaction hadn’t been entirely pleasant, Morgan had opted not to warn him. Showing up unannounced seemed like her best option. It was harder to ignore someone in person. “But he knows who I am.”
Behind her reading glasses, Grandma raised her penciled-on eyebrows. “I’ll need to see some ID.”
Morgan fished her wallet out of the depths of her tote bag.
Grandma considered Morgan’s driver’s license for a few seconds before handing it back. “Wait here.”
She turned away and disappeared down a hallway. Two additional administrative employees bustled behind the counter, answering phones and working on computers. The sheriff’s office of a rural county was always busy.
In addition to regular policing, the sheriff was responsible for the county jail, prisoner transport, and serving warrants. As an elected official, he was also forced to be part politician or face not being reelected.
At least most sheriffs did. King seemed immune to bad press. Last year, his office had been accused of roughing up a prisoner. The sheriff’s popularity had soared.
Grandma’s soft but firm voice floated back to the lobby. “I will not tell her you left. Your car is parked out back, and she can probably hear your voice.”
Morgan couldn’t make out the sheriff’s words, but the deep grumble that answered didn’t sound promising. It sounded more like profanity.
“I know you’re busy, but you have an election coming up in a few weeks,” Grandma said.
More grumbling followed.
But Grandma wasn’t fazed. “I’m bringing her back. Be nice.”
She returned. “You can go on in.” She gestured toward the hallway.
Morgan rounded the counter and went through the doorway. A short corridor opened into a larger room filled with desks and computers. A deputy fielded a phone call and typed on his keyboard.
On the other side of the room, a door opened and a uniformed deputy marched a handcuffed man through a side entrance. The front of his worn jeans and white undershirt were stained with dried blood.
Of all the luck . . .
She had to run into Tyler Green.
His previously handsome face had been transformed by her elbow. Both eyes were blackening. Cotton rolls protruded from his nostrils, and a bandage was taped over the bridge of his swollen nose.
He spied Morgan across the room. A nasty gleam lit his eyes. Morgan’s pulse spiked, and her empty stomach cartwheeled as adrenaline flooded her system.
I’m going to get you, he mouthed, his gaze locked on hers. The deputy gave him a not-so-gentle push into a chair.
A tall, broad-shouldered man tossed a file onto the deputy’s desk.
Sheriff King.
He was at least six feet three inches tall and could have stepped out of an old Western. He wore jeans, a tan uniform shirt, and cowboy boots. Though she knew he was only in his midfifties, he looked older, his skin as weathered and worn as an unpainted fence.
“Hey, Green,” the sheriff said in a curt tone. “Shut it.” His scowl landed on Morgan, and he gestured toward an open door on the other side of the room. “Come this way.”
As they entered his office, she caught sight of a uniform Stetson-style hat hanging on a coat-tree in the corner. Seriously, all the man needed was a horse.
He motioned to a guest chair and left the room.
Morgan slipped out of her trench coat, folded it over the adjacent chair, and smoothed her skirt, grateful that she’d started leaving several changes of clothes and shoes in her office closet. These days, she never knew if she’d have to interview a witness or traipse through a muddy field.
The sheriff returned a minute later with two bottles of water. He perched on the edge of his desk, offered her a bottle, and stared down at her. “So, you’re Morgan Dane?”
“Yes.” Morgan accepted the water. “Thank you.”
She’d seen the sheriff on television, and his reputation had preceded him. He was a hard man, and he looked the part. The tanned skin around his eyes and mouth was deeply lined, as if he squinted and frowned most of the time. His nose was crooked, and a scar bisected one eyebrow. She wasn’t surprised at his rough appearance, but his eyes flickered with surprise as they swept over her from head to foot and back again, which was odd. She’d conducted several press conferences during her last case and had no doubt he would have watched them.
“Your appearance is deceiving.” He looked at her as if he didn’t know quite what to do with her. “Tyler Green obviously underestimated you as well.”
Remembering the morning’s incident, Morgan flushed.
“Green’s nose is broken. He’s complaining about headaches and back pain. My deputy was tied up all morning at the ER, and I’ve been fielding calls from Green’s lawyer.” King’s mouth twisted as he said lawyer. “What a pain in my ass.”
Me or Tyler?
King’s jaw tightened. His tone was all you-don’t-belong-here. “You got lucky this morning. He could have hurt you.”
Morgan swallowed the retorts on her lips about him being sexist and minding his own business. She needed his cooperation. Butting heads with him wouldn’t get it. “I wasn’t alone.”
“I should hope not.”
“And I assure you, my breaking Green’s nose wasn’t an accident.”
Another quick flash of surprise flickered in his eyes, then resignation, and just a little respect. He pushed off the desk and moved behind it. His chair squeaked as he settled his heavy body into it. “So, I hear you officially hung out your shingle. Did you decide criminal defense was more lucrative than working for the prosecutor’s office?”
“It isn’t about money.” Morgan paused. “I come from a family of cops. My brother is NYPD SWAT. My sister is a detective with the SFPD. My grandfather is a retired homicide detective, and my father died in the line of duty. I believe in justice, and I’ll fight for it. But I’m afraid my chance to work for the DA has passed.”
The sheriff coughed. Was that a grin he was trying to hide with his hand? “Sweetheart, you blew by that chance like Richard Petty.”
Morgan’s brain stuttered. Did he just call her sweetheart?
“So why are you here today?” he asked.
“I’m representing Tim Clark.”
The sheriff shifted his weight forward. His forearms landed on his desk. “Tim hasn’t been charged with a crime. Why does he need a lawyer?”
“After the publicity of last month’s false arrest, he’s concerned with your focus on him as a suspect in his wife’s disappearance.”
King scraped a hand down his battered face. “I assume Sharp and Kr
uger are on board?”
Morgan nodded. “Yes. Tim wants his wife found.”
“We’re doing everything we can to find his wife. Since you’re from a family of cops, you know I can’t talk about an active case.” King could share information. He was choosing not to.
“We’re both on the same side,” Morgan said. “All we want to do is find Chelsea Clark and bring her back to her family.”
And protect Tim’s legal interests.
“And we are in the middle of our official investigation into her disappearance,” King said in an end-of-discussion tone.
“Anything you can tell me would help. I know you’re swamped here. You can’t possibly give Chelsea’s case a hundred percent of your attention. Sharp and Kruger are experienced investigators who can focus solely on finding Chelsea. You don’t have the manpower or the budget.”
King studied her without responding. Despite his reputation as a good lawman, he was also stubborn and arrogant. Morgan could not force him to cooperate. She needed a new approach, but King wouldn’t fall for any bullshit. Her argument would have to be sincere, and something he couldn’t argue with. And something that had nothing to do with his department’s ability. She needed to throw him off balance, to appeal to him in a human way.
She chose the one thing many men, particularly manly men, weren’t comfortable handling: emotion.
“My youngest was an infant when my husband was killed in Iraq.”
King blinked. “I’m sorry.”
Morgan let her true emotions show on her face. “I know what it’s like to be left alone to raise young children. I know what it’s like to wish your kids remembered their father. I know what it’s like to have to explain, over and over, why Daddy won’t ever be coming home. Unless someone finds his wife, Tim Clark won’t even have an explanation for his children. Grief is hard enough to survive. I don’t want them to have to live with not knowing what happened to their mother.”
She had lived under a dark cloud for two long, exhausting years. She was just recently emerging from her depression, blinking at the sunlight, almost as if she’d just discovered that she deserved to have a life. She still missed and loved John but knew that he would have been angry if she wasted the rest of her life being sad.
Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Page 8
