Morgan gave him a soft smile. “Hi, Kirk.”
“Hey,” Kirk mumbled. His gaze darted from Morgan’s chest to her face, then dropped, and he stared, red-cheeked, at his skateboard.
Morgan began, “We just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Tim Clark.”
Kirk played with a skateboard wheel, brushing it with his fingers and watching it spin. “Sure.”
“How long have you worked with Tim?” Lance asked.
Irritation flashed across Kirk’s face. His gaze passed across Lance’s face for a quick second, then dropped to stare at the center of his chest. “Dunno exactly. Maybe two years.”
“Do you and Tim get along?” Lance kept his voice conversational.
One of Kirk’s shoulders lifted and dropped. “Sure. Tim’s OK.”
Morgan set her clasped hands on the table in front of her. “Do you know his wife, Chelsea?”
Kirk’s gaze moved to her hands. “Yeah.”
“Do you like her?” Morgan pressed.
Despite her gentle tone, Kirk seemed to shrink, his shoulders caving in as his weight shifted back in the chair. “I guess.” He swatted the wheel of his skateboard three times. It spun with a soft whir.
“Is she nice to you?” Morgan twirled her thumbs.
Kirk seemed transfixed by the movement. “She’s nice to everybody.”
Despite his limited social skills, the kid was bright enough to know he was in the hot seat.
“Have you ever talked to her?” Morgan asked.
“Not really.” Kirk tugged at the neck of his T-shirt. “Just hi and stuff.”
Morgan kept moving her thumbs. “Did you see her at the last company function?”
“Yeah. She brought the kids. I like kids.” Kirk’s tone brightened.
“Everyone says Chelsea is a great mother,” Morgan fished.
Kirk agreed with an emphatic nod. “She is.”
“It’s such a shame she’s missing,” Lance said in a tough voice, playing off Morgan’s good detective persona.
Kirk’s face fell. He looked like he was going to cry.
“We’re trying to find her.” Morgan unclasped her hands and reached into her bag at her feet. She slid a business card across the table.
Kirk stared at it.
“Would you please call me if you think of anything that might help us?”
Instead of answering, Kirk took the card and slipped it into the back pocket of his skinny jeans.
“Thank you for talking to us, Kirk.” Morgan smiled. “Would you let Elliot know we’re ready for the next interviewee?”
Kirk grabbed his skateboard and rushed for the exit.
“Oh, Kirk?” Morgan asked. “You don’t happen to remember where you were last Friday night, do you? We’re asking everyone.” She shot him a halogen-bright smile.
Kirk blushed. “I was online playing World of Warcraft.”
“People still play that?” Lance asked. “I thought everyone was into Call of Duty, Overlook, and Destiny now.”
Kirk nodded. “I play those too.”
“Were you playing alone?” Morgan treated him to another smile.
“No. Well, yes.” He flushed, his hands clenching the edge of the board. “I was playing online with some friends.”
“But you weren’t all in the same physical place,” Lance clarified.
Kirk shook his head. “No.”
“Thanks, Kirk,” Morgan said.
Kirk ducked out of the room. Outside the door, he tossed his skateboard onto the concrete and jumped aboard. His body had the finally-free posture of a kid leaving the principal’s office.
Lance and Morgan interviewed the remaining five members of Tim’s team without discovering anything interesting, other than they all alibied each other.
Lance and Morgan finished with the last interview, and Barbara escorted them to the lobby.
Outside, street lamps cast puddles of yellow light on the parking lot blacktop. The temperature had dropped, and the air smelled of burning wood. Morgan buttoned her coat and hunched her shoulders against the cold as they walked to the Jeep. “Isn’t that Elliot’s brother, Derek?”
He followed her gaze to a man clad in jeans, a leather jacket, and a knit hat walking across the parking lot. “Yes.”
“Shall we ask him about last Friday night?” As she asked the question, Morgan was already veering off course toward him.
“Hi.” She flashed him a megawatt smile.
He nodded. “Can I help you?”
Morgan introduced them. Lance kept his mouth shut. Most young men responded better to her than to him, especially when she turned on the charm.
“I know who you are,” Derek said. “Everyone inside was talking about you.”
“We just wanted to confirm that Elliot was with you last Friday night,” Morgan said. “You went out to dinner?”
Lance appreciated her attempt to catch Elliot if he had been lying.
Derek shook his head. “No. We just hung out at my place. I was tuning up my road bike.” He glanced back at the building and frowned. “Elliot hasn’t been himself since Candace died. I don’t like to see him spend too much time alone.”
“He must have been heartbroken,” Morgan empathized.
“He was.” Derek nodded. “I think if you have any more questions about Elliot’s wife, you’d better ask him, but I’ll tell you right now, Elliot wouldn’t hurt anybody. He takes care of people.”
Morgan thanked him. Lance led her back to the Jeep, and they got in.
“At least he verified Elliot’s alibi. Though they’re brothers, so we have to take that into consideration.” Morgan closed her door and shivered. “Poor Elliot. Twenty-seven is young to be a widower.”
“It would be devastating at any age, but it must have been a huge shock for him. It’s a wonder he could function to run his company.”
“Maybe he used it as a diversion. It’s best to keep busy.” Morgan would know. She’d only been thirty-one when her husband had died. No doubt her focus on her children had gotten her through.
He started the engine. “Kirk Armani seemed pretty happy to get away from us.”
“He’s on the autism spectrum, so I wouldn’t read too much into his body language.” Morgan fastened her seat belt. “Just being forced to talk to two strangers would be very stressful for him.”
“But he got more uncomfortable when we asked about Chelsea.”
“True. But given that she’s missing, that’s natural. He’s obviously extremely intelligent. We’ll see what turns up in his background check.” Morgan cupped her hands in front of her face and exhaled into them. “Do you think there’s any possibility that someone kidnapped Chelsea to get information from Tim?”
“Then why would Tim come to us to find his wife?”
“I don’t know.” She rubbed her palms together. “And we don’t have a ransom note.”
“No, and it’s been five days since Chelsea disappeared.” Lance reached across the console and took Morgan’s hand in his. Her fingers were freezing. He rubbed her hand between his palms for a few seconds then released it to drive out of the parking lot.
“What if the kidnapper wants to wait until police interest in the case dies down?”
“Typically, the opposite happens. They contact the family immediately to prevent the police from being involved at all.”
Morgan’s thinking line creased the bridge of her nose. “What’s your impression of Elliot?”
“Smart. Ambitious. Workaholic.” The air streaming from the vents warmed, and Lance turned the heater on high.
“His only alibi is his brother, though I can’t come up with any reason Elliot would hurt Chelsea.” Morgan stretched her hands toward the heat vents in the dashboard. “But we should find out more about his wife’s death.”
“I’ll let my mother know, though I’m sure she’ll find it on her own.” Lance checked the clock on the dashboard. It was almost eight thirty. “I’ll drop off the list of Sp
eed Net employees tonight. It’ll be a good excuse for the extra visit.” He usually stopped to see his mom once a day.
Heat filled the vehicle until Lance was nearly sweating.
But Morgan settled deeper into her seat with a contented sigh. “I doubt his employees get along as well as he claims. There’s always workplace drama.”
“Throw in high stress levels and a bunch of very young people with outrageous IQs and weak social skills,” Lance added. “It was like a high school in there.”
“Right?” Morgan laughed. “I felt like such a mom.”
She crossed her legs, the movement drawing Lance’s eye fast enough to treat him to a quick flash of pretty thigh. “I don’t think Kirk saw you as a mom.”
And neither did Lance, despite the fact that he loved her kids.
“No?” She seemed cheered by his comment.
“No.” Lance wasn’t giving Kirk a pass because of his autism. The kid had acted weird toward Morgan and even weirder when they’d talked about Chelsea. Until she turned up, no one was getting a pass for any reason except a solid alibi.
Chapter Twelve
Pain surrounded Chelsea. Her entire body hurt. Was there any body part he hadn’t battered?
Not that she could find.
She opened her eyes. They were so swollen that all she could manage were slits. Her vision blurred. She lifted a hand to her face and barely recognized its tender contours.
Giving up, she lay still for a while. Her ribs were bruised. Every time she drew in a breath, it felt as if she was wearing a corset of nails.
Pain rolled over her in waves but eased as she breathed more deeply and smoothly.
You can’t give up!
Chelsea forced her eyelids open a bit farther and scanned the room as much as she could without moving her head. She was still in the shipping container. Still chained to the barrel. She lay on her side, curled naked on the plywood, in the corner where she’d crawled in a feeble attempt to get away from him.
But there had been no escaping.
As punishment for trying to open the drum, he’d ripped the clothes from her body. He’d taken away the cot, the blanket, and the water and left her shivering in an empty metal box.
After a few minutes, she lifted her head a fraction of an inch. The first movement sent dizziness careening though her. Dehydration? She swallowed. Vomiting wasn’t possible. She was so empty she felt hollow. She hadn’t had anything to drink since he’d beaten her, and she didn’t remember when she’d last eaten.
Still, her stomach heaved as she slowly tested each limb with a tiny movement. She curled her toes and clenched her fingers, bent each knee and elbow. Her muscles protested, but her bones felt miraculously intact. There was no blinding agony to indicate a mortal injury; instead she felt an all-over soreness and exhaustion that made her not want to move at all. But that wasn’t an option.
Do something or die.
She put both hands on the plywood and pushed her torso off the floor. The dizziness passed and she sat upright, leaning against the corrugated wall. The metal was cold on her bare back, and she shivered violently.
The cold helped to clear her head as she scanned her body. Her skin was mottled with bruises. She put a hand to her swollen mouth. Dried blood caked her split lips. She found a painful lump on her scalp.
But swelling and bruises seemed to be the worst of it. The rest of her injuries seemed to be superficial. Extensive, but not life-threatening.
As if he knew exactly how hard he could hit her without causing major damage.
As if he’d done it before.
Movement seemed to ease the stiffness in her body a little. She peeled her tongue off the roof of her mouth. Dehydration was the biggest threat. Without water, she wouldn’t survive much longer.
There was nothing to do except wait. Rest. Heal. When an opportunity presented itself, she needed to be ready.
She looked up at the hole in the ceiling. The sky was dark. Nighttime. She tried to determine how long she’d been here but couldn’t.
The sound of a padlock being opened and chains rattling startled her. She jerked to full alertness, pain jolting through her limbs at the sudden movement.
The door opened, and he stepped inside. The mask made him featureless, and her insides shivered. Her gaze locked on the gallon jug of water in his hand. His other hand was behind his back, and she eyed it with suspicion.
“You’re awake.” His head tilted as he assessed her. “Finally.”
Had he been in before? Had he watched her while she’d slept?
A shudder racked her bones. Her mouth opened to respond to his greeting, but somewhere deep in her mind a warning bell sounded.
Rule number one: Do what he says.
Her mouth automatically clamped shut, as if it had been trained like a dog. Her eyes refused to travel to his face.
Rule number two: Keep my eyes on the floor.
“Do you think you’ve learned your lesson?” he asked.
Staring at her bare feet, she nodded.
“Good. I knew you were smart.” He sounded pleased. He set the jug of water at her feet. “You may drink.”
Bending forward, she grabbed for the water. Her weak, bruised arms tapping into some survival reserve. She removed the cap and drank. Water spilled into her mouth and over her chin. The cool liquid soothed her throat and lips. Her body demanded more.
“Wasting what I give you is disrespectful.” His tone sharpened.
Fear shot through her. Cringing, she braced for a blow, but it never came. She lowered the jug, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and swallowed. Then raising the water again, she sipped slowly.
Neatly.
“That’s my girl.” His praise was a relief, the way she craved it a horror.
But her instinct told her she had to adapt to survive. Without water, she wouldn’t live long. She must do whatever it took to keep him happy . . . so he didn’t leave her in here until she shriveled up and died.
Because she knew in her soul that he would do so the moment she was more trouble than she was worth.
What did he want with her?
Water sloshed in her empty stomach. She set the jug on the floor. As much as she wanted to drain it, she feared losing what she’d already drank.
“Since you’re being such a good girl, I have something else for you.” He brought the hand behind his back around. He held the wool blanket, folded in a neat rectangle. On top of it was another piece of cloth. He set the blanket on the floor and shook out the other item—a bright-yellow dress. He leaned forward and offered it to her. “Put this on.”
She scooted forward and took it from his hands. Turning it the right way, she drew it over her head. The dress was long-sleeved, empire-waisted, with a hemline just below her knees. Though the fabric was thin cotton, it was better than nothing. She drew the skirt over her bent knees.
“Do you remember rule number three?” he asked.
Fear curled in her belly as she struggled to remember all he’d shouted at her after the beating. But a blow to the head, the one that had given her the lump behind her ear, had left her ears ringing.
Her hands began to tremble. She bent her fingers into fists. A tear left her eye and dripped down her cheek as she shook her head.
“I’ll go over them one more time,” he said in a patient voice. “And you will memorize them. Further transgressions won’t be tolerated. Understood?”
She nodded.
“Let’s review.” He crossed his arms. “And pay attention. Memorizing the rules might earn you some food.”
At the mention of food, Chelsea’s stomach clenched painfully. She strained to listen.
“One, you belong to me. You will do what I say without question. You are my property. Two, when in my presence, you will keep your eyes on the floor. Three, no speaking without permission. Four, disobedience is punishable any way I see fit. Can you repeat those back to me?”
Chelsea nodded but waited for his
cue. In her peripheral vision, she saw the cruel smile twist his mouth.
“You may speak.” His voice rang with satisfaction.
Mumbling through swollen lips, she repeated his rules.
“You learn quickly.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a protein bar. He held it out to her. She tried to grab it, but he raised it just out of reach at the last second.
With his free hand, he grabbed a handful of her hair. “Know this. I am not fucking around. If you ever try to escape again, I will beat every inch of you bloody, slit your throat, and bury you in the woods. Do you understand?”
Pain seared her scalp. Chelsea’s bones shook as she nodded, grateful he hadn’t asked her to speak because fear had paralyzed her vocal cords. Terror shook her body down to her bones.
He released her hair and dropped the protein bar in her lap. His hand lingered. His finger stroked her bruised, swollen cheek. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see that I know best. I’m going to bring your cot back in. If you continue to behave, I’ll bring you more food.”
Straightening, he turned and walked toward the door. He returned in a moment, dragging the cot back into the container and leaving Chelsea wondering what else tomorrow would bring and what she would need to do to survive.
Chapter Thirteen
He closed the door, peeled off his mask, and welcomed the cool night air. He could hardly believe how fast she was learning. Pleasure rushed through him like an excited child. Everything was working exactly as he’d planned.
Turning around, he secured the heavy-duty padlock and set the alarm on the door. He couldn’t be too careful with his prize. He was a winner, and he intended to keep his spoils. She truly was the ideal woman. He would never let her go.
Chelsea had made so much progress in such a short time. She’d exceeded his best expectations.
Responding to a direct greeting was automatic, yet Chelsea’s brain had shut down her normal reaction. He’d seen it happen before his eyes. Her mouth had opened as a reflex, but her brain had intervened and closed it. A protection mechanism no doubt. Defiance equaled pain. Obedience led to physical comfort.
Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Page 11
