“We need to talk to Owen Walsh.” Lance said.
Sharp nodded. “I already left a message on his cell phone. Ford was fifty-five years old and unmarried when he died. His sister brought the lawsuit against the sheriff’s department. I’m trying to track her down. She moved out of the area. I’ll keep following up with Owen Walsh and Ford’s sister.”
“This case keeps getting more complicated,” Morgan said.
“But wait. There’s more,” Sharp added. “I also found out that the ADA plea bargained Ricky Jackson’s case. He has to complete a drug rehab program.”
“That the kid who was robbing Crystal’s house while her body hung dead in her bedroom?” Grandpa asked.
“That’s the one.” Lance cracked his shoulder. “We should talk to Mr. Jackson again. When we interviewed him, we didn’t know Warren might have molested Mary when she was a child.”
Grandpa slumped in his chair. Despite the brighter look in his eyes, his shoulders sagged.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” He patted her hand.
“Lance and I will take you home,” she said, worried.
Grandpa didn’t argue, which meant he was truly exhausted.
“Morgan and I will pay Warren another visit.” Lance stood and rolled his neck.
“I didn’t get to review these.” Grandpa held up a stack of papers. “Can I take them home with me?”
“I’ll make you copies.” Sharp took the pages and carried them out of the room. He brought them back a few minutes later and put them in a folder for Grandpa. “Thanks again for your help, Art.”
Sharp didn’t look healthy either. His face was drawn and pale, and he moved with the stiff gait of an old man. Morgan was running on coffee, and Lance had to be feeling the effects of too little sleep and too much stress.
But they had no time for a break. The killer was ahead of them at every step of the investigation.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lance carried the bag of groceries he and Morgan had picked up for Elijah Jackson to the old man’s doorstep. The afternoon had turned gray and cold. Shivering next to him, Morgan knocked.
The old man opened the door and motioned them in. “Come in.”
Mr. Jackson’s eyes misted as Lance brought the groceries inside. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to.” Lance followed him down the hall into the kitchen and set the bag on the counter. A small fire smoldered in the next room.
Morgan unbuttoned her coat, started to take it off, then slipped it back onto her shoulders.
Lance took off his leather jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. The inside of the house wasn’t much warmer than outside. Did the old man have heat except for the fireplace? Lance walked to the window. A small pile of wood was stacked beside the rear porch. A very small pile.
Mr. Jackson smiled as he lifted a sack of coffee from the bag, then unloaded the rest of the food. “Pie! I haven’t had pie in ages. Sit down. I’ll make a pot of coffee.”
Lance had voted to stick to staples. Morgan had insisted coffee and pie were staples.
“Thank you, but we can’t stay,” Morgan said. “We just wanted to ask you a few quick questions.”
“Ask me anything you want. I’m going to make coffee. I’ve been out for a month.” The old man’s mood seemed lighter and his posture straighter as he filled the coffee machine. He opened an upper cabinet.
“We heard Ricky was offered an alternative sentence of drug rehabilitation,” Morgan said. “That’s good, right?”
Mr. Jackson paused, leaning both hands on the counter. “It would be, if they helped get him into a program. And if I could afford to pay. Ricky doesn’t have insurance, and every center I called today is booked for months. He has to stay in jail until he gets into a program. I know he can’t be trusted out on his own, but someone at church told me he can get heroin in jail. I never imagined such a thing. I’d love to get him help. I lost my son to drugs. I’d do anything to get my grandson back.”
“There are centers that charge on a sliding scale based on how much you can afford,” Morgan said. “You should be able to do an online search. That should speed things up, though he’ll probably have to wait his turn. Space is limited.”
“I don’t have a computer.” Mr. Jackson took a mug from the cabinet. “I suppose I could go down to the library and use the one there.”
“I can help you with that,” Morgan volunteered. As always.
He smiled at her. “You would do that?”
She nodded. “I could look up the information faster than you could drive to the library.”
“You’re a doll,” Mr. Jackson said.
Lance moved the conversation along. He had no doubt Morgan would be semiadopting Mr. Jackson, like she did everyone else. “We wanted to ask you about Crystal’s husband.”
“Warren?” Mr. Jackson’s face pinched. “He’s useless.”
“Have you seen him around Crystal’s house lately?” Lance asked.
Mr. Jackson poured a mug of coffee and inhaled over the cup. “Warren is always hanging around. I assumed they were getting back together.”
“Did you see him the day Crystal died?” Lance asked.
“No, but he was there last Sunday. I saw his truck at her house on my way home from church.” Mr. Jackson sipped, his eyes closing in satisfaction.
“Did you ever see Warren threaten Crystal?” Morgan asked.
Mr. Jackson set down his mug. “No, I didn’t spend any time with either one of them. I’m sorry. I really can’t tell you anything else. Are you sure you don’t want pie?”
“No, we need to leave, but thank you for your help.” Lance put on his jacket. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
Morgan followed Lance, then turned back. “One more question. Did you ever suspect Warren molested Mary when she was a child?”
Mr. Jackson frowned. “No, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Thank you again,” Morgan said.
They left Mr. Jackson cutting a slice of pie, almost giddy.
“I told you coffee and pie were important,” Morgan said, sliding into the passenger seat of the Jeep. “That poor man has very few pleasures in life.”
Lance drove toward the recycling center. He glanced at the clock. Two p.m. “We can still catch Warren at work. Once he gets home, he’ll never open his door to us.”
Lance drove to the recycling center and parked the Jeep. He climbed out of the vehicle.
Morgan walked around the rear of the SUV and fell into step beside him. “Let’s stick together this time.”
“I don’t think Warren will mess with you again.” But Lance would stay close, just in case. There was too much going on, too many people lying, too many possible motives and victims.
They entered the small recycling office building. Instead of Warren Fox, a black-haired man sat at a beat-up desk watching something on his smart phone.
Lance stopped in front of the desk. “We were looking for Warren.”
“He called in sick,” the black-haired man said without taking his eyes off his screen.
“Thanks.” Morgan led the way out of the building and climbed into the Jeep.
Lance slid behind the wheel. “Do we have Warren’s home address?”
“Yes.”
While Morgan dug out the address and plugged it into her phone maps app, Lance called the hospital and checked on his mother’s condition. Nothing had changed.
As he started the engine, his phone rang. “It’s Sharp.”
He answered the call.
Sharp didn’t wait for a greeting. “Sheriff King wants to see us at the sheriff’s station. He actually threatened to arrest us if we’re not there in thirty minutes.”
“I’m on my way,” Lance said. “I’ll bring the lawyer.”
“Please do. I believe we’re going to need her.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
In the
conference room at the sheriff’s station, Morgan kept a hand on Lance’s arm. On her other side, Sharp held his injured arm close and shifted in his chair as if he couldn’t get comfortable.
“I’m trying to solve a murder. Why are you competing with me?” The sheriff paced the narrow space between the table and the wall. “Especially you.” He pointed at Lance. “Don’t you want to know what happened to your father?”
“Of course we do,” Morgan answered, afraid of what Lance might say.
“I went to see Abigail Wright at the Roadside Motel. I asked her for the motel registry for August 10, 1994. Guess what she told me? That you already took it!” The sheriff turned and flattened both hands on the conference table. “This is an active murder case. I should arrest all three of you for impeding an investigation.”
Morgan met his gaze without blinking. “But we might all be more successful if we worked together rather than running parallel investigations.”
“You took evidence from the motel.” The sheriff’s words were measured, as if he was working to keep his voice level.
“And we fully intended to turn it over to you,” Morgan said, producing the large paper envelope from her tote. “Inside you’ll find both the hotel registry and the registration form for Mr. Joshua.”
“Why did you take it?” King asked.
“At the rate potential witnesses are dying, we thought the registry might not be safe at the motel,” Morgan said.
The sheriff snorted. He didn’t believe her.
“We think Crystal Fox was murdered,” Sharp said.
“The preliminary autopsy results are inconclusive.” The sheriff lowered his bulk into his chair and dragged a yellow legal pad in front of him.
Sharp folded his hands. “The Scarlet Falls PD is investigating Jenny Kruger’s supposed suicide attempt as a potential attempted murder.”
“I heard about her overdose.” Sheriff King’s gaze shifted to Lance. “How is your mother?”
Lance lifted a shoulder. “Her condition is still critical.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The sheriff frowned, picked up a pencil, and made a note on his legal pad. “She seems like a nice lady.”
Sharp outlined the inconsistencies at Jenny’s house. “Don’t you think it’s a little coincidental to have two suicides in the same number of days, both associated with Mary Fox’s case? And what about P. J. Hoolihan and his wife? P. J. knew Mary. Was P. J. tending the bar on the night of August 10? Do you really think they died in a bungled burglary?”
“I never said I did.” The sheriff leaned closer to the table, slid the register out of the envelope, and opened it. “Save me some time. What am I looking for?”
“Brian Leed was Mary’s client and he went by the name Mr. Joshua,” Morgan said. “Mr. Joshua was with Mary on August 10 at the motel.”
The sheriff snapped his pencil in half.
“Brian Leed lied about his whereabouts the night Vic disappeared,” Morgan said. “He wasn’t with Stan. He was with Mary. Brian told us that he dropped Mary off at PJ’s around eight p.m.”
“Hell.” The sheriff scribbled on his note pad with the broken pencil stub. “Is anyone telling the truth?”
“We also learned there was a bar fight on that night.” Sharp jerked a thumb toward the door. “And that a man died in the holding cell.”
The sheriff held up a hand. “Wait. Now you think a bar fight is related to Mary’s murder?”
“We’re exploring all options,” Morgan said. “We don’t have any evidence to link the bar fight to Mary, other than it happened at PJ’s the night Vic went missing, and she was likely there at the time.”
“I’ll look into it.” The sheriff wrote a note and circled it. Then laid his pencil down.
“We’d like a copy of those three arrest reports from the bar fight,” Sharp said.
“No!” The sheriff slammed a hand down on the table. The pencil halves jumped. “Stay away from this case. Do you remember what happened the last time you stuck your noses in a dangerous situation?” King paused for two heartbeats. “I had to come in and save your butts.”
The sheriff had come to Morgan and Lance’s rescue the previous month.
King stood and swept a hand toward the door. “Get out of my station before I find some reason to arrest all three of you.”
Lance opened his mouth. Morgan shushed him with a hand on his shoulder.
“One more thing.” Morgan extended an olive branch. She didn’t think the sheriff would really arrest them. He was just frustrated. They had beat him to several important clues. “Warren Fox’s truck was at Crystal’s house the Sunday before she died.”
“I know that. I talked to her neighbor. Do you think I’m sitting on my hands all day? I’m investigating the case.” The sheriff’s eyes were dark, and Morgan sensed his patience was depleted.
Time to go.
If they weren’t under arrest, technically the sheriff couldn’t hold them or make them answer questions, but they did have to respect his authority. This was all a balancing act.
“Please call us if you have any other questions,” Morgan said. “We want to cooperate fully with your investigation. Like I said before, we could accomplish much more as a team.”
He glared.
“We gave you Brian,” she reminded him.
Sheriff King looked only slightly less furious as they filed out of the conference room. Morgan wasted no time herding Lance and Sharp out the door before either one of them said anything to set the sheriff off again.
They walked across the parking lot toward their vehicles. The temperature was dropping as the sun set.
Sharp paused next to his Prius. “If the sheriff is not going to give us those arrest records, we need access to the police blotter. Nowadays, many police departments post their arrests online. But years ago, the Randolph County Times used to publish police activity on a weekly basis. They used to call it ‘The Weekly Round Up.’”
“I don’t suppose those archives are online?” Morgan shivered and stuck her hands in her pockets.
“No.” Sharp shook his head. “I suspect I’ll have to dig through the old microfiche files in the library basement.”
Morgan stamped her feet. “I didn’t even know microfiche still existed.”
“It does here. The basement of the library is circa 1979. Randolph County doesn’t have the funds to tackle old records.” Sharp stretched his arm, as if it was stiff. “They’re busy trying to stay afloat. I’ll let you know what I find.” He glanced at his phone. “My battery is dead again. I need to pick up a new phone.”
“Any luck with the deputy who arrested Ford . . . Owen Walsh?” Morgan asked.
“No. I left another message,” Sharp said. “He hasn’t returned my calls. I’m going to call an associate in Florida and ask him to interview Walsh. It’s harder to ignore someone who is standing on your doorstep. I’ll let you know if I hear from him. I’m meeting the boys at The Pub for an early dinner. Maybe one of them remembers the case.”
The boys were all over fifty. Sharp met regularly with his retired or almost-retired local law enforcement buddies.
“Do you still want to look for Warren Fox?” Lance asked Morgan.
“Yes.” Morgan hugged her coat tighter around her body, then pulled up her map app. Her phone calculated new directions from their current location. “I don’t like not knowing where Warren is.”
“Or what he’s doing.”
Morgan’s phone rang in her hand. “It’s Stella.” She answered the call.
Stella sounded rushed. “I just got off the phone with the Redhaven police.” Redhaven was a small town about fifteen miles from Scarlet Falls. “They arrested Tyler Green yesterday around noon for violating a restraining order against his ex.”
Morgan froze. “Did you say noon?”
“Yes.” Stella’s voice darkened. “Tyler Green didn’t send you that package yesterday.”
A nasty wind nipped at Morgan’s exposed face. �
��Shit.”
“You be careful,” Stella said.
“I will.” Morgan ended the call. A chill slid through her bones, and she fastened the top button of her coat. “Did you hear Stella?”
Lance’s face was set. “Yes.”
Morgan shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “If Tyler isn’t my stalker, then who is it?”
“I can think of one other person who is both angry and petty.” Lance crossed his arms.
A scene in the courthouse popped into her mind. Morgan hunched against the wind. “Esposito?”
“He tried to bully you,” Sharp said.
He had.
“But he’s the ADA . . .” Morgan had a hard time believing the new prosecutor would be that angry she’d outmaneuvered him.
“He looks like the type who doesn’t like to lose,” Lance pointed out.
Sharp added, “He didn’t care about guilt or innocence, only about winning his case.”
“He’s a good candidate,” Morgan agreed.
“One more thing. Esposito was handling Tyler’s case,” Lance said. “Do you think it’s possible he reduced the assault charges against Tyler out of spite? Maybe that was part of a grand plan to harass and intimidate you.”
“Ninety percent of cases are plea bargained. We can’t prove Esposito had any motive in letting Tyler out beyond getting the case cleared.” But it made perfect sense. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Criminal charges were at the discretion of the prosecutor’s office. “Look, we have to put my stalker on the back burner for now. We need to focus on figuring out who’s killing people.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.
But also, try harder.
And try smarter.
He pulled the green cap lower on his forehead. His gloved fingers gripped the rolling trashcan as he pushed it from room to room. He kept his chin down and made sure the security badge hanging from his belt loop faced backward. He looked nothing like the Hispanic janitor whose ID he’d stolen. With his attention on his task, his face was turned away from the surveillance cameras overhead.
Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3) Page 21
