The Stolen Identity (The Sydney Harbour Hospital Series Book 7)

by Chris Taylor

  “Of course. Give me ten minutes.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Colt. I’d really appreciate that.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you soon.”

  Morgan ended the call and slid the phone back into the pocket of her shorts. Bending down, she collected Rusty’s collar and headed back to the house. Once again, she knocked on the front door and waited for her uncle to answer it.

  “Morgan! I take it you’re done with looking around. Is there something else I can help you with?”

  “I… I’m not sure. I… I found this down the back. It’s Rusty’s collar. I found it beside a mound of fresh dirt. Do you know anything about it?”

  Her uncle frowned. “No, I don’t.”

  The sound of a vehicle approaching reached Morgan’s ears. She turned and was relieved to see Colt pulling up to the curb. His long stride ate up the distance between them and within moments, he stood by her side. She threw him a grateful smile.

  “Thanks for coming over.”

  “No problem.” He turned his attention to her uncle and held out his hand. “I’m Detective Barrington. We met last night.”

  Morgan’s uncle shook Colt’s proffered hand. “To what do we owe this pleasure, Detective?”

  “I’m here as Morgan’s friend. She found a mound of dirt at the back of the property. Can you tell us anything about it?”

  “No, I can’t. I just finished telling her,” Leslie replied.

  Colt eyed her uncle. “You arrived at your brother’s place a month ago, is that correct?”

  “Yes, thereabouts. I don’t remember the exact date.”

  “Where are you from?” Colt asked, his voice filled with curiosity. Morgan swallowed a smile. Colt probably wasn’t even aware how much he sounded like a cop.

  Leslie looked away. “Here and there. I’ve moved around a bit over the course of my life.”

  “Where were you living before you arrived in Armidale?”

  “Sydney. That’s where I was born.”

  Colt nodded briefly in acknowledgement. “What do you do for a living, Mr O’Brien?”

  “This and that. I left school at fifteen. I didn’t learn a trade. I guess you could call me a handyman. Sometimes I do odd jobs for people, fix leaking pipes, squeaky doors, windows that won’t open. Whatever needs doing, really; whatever someone will pay me for.”

  Colt shot her a glance, apparently satisfied with her uncle’s answers. “Let’s go and take a look at this pile of dirt.”

  Feeling slightly apprehensive, Morgan led the way down the back to where she’d found the earthen mound. Her uncle trailed behind them.

  “It’s right there,” she said and pointed.

  Colt kneeled and picked up a clod of soil that lay on the top of the pile. “It’s dried hard. It’s been exposed to the sun for a while. We haven’t had rain all month. It’s my guess it’s been here since before Christmas.”

  Morgan frowned and looked at her uncle. “You’re sure you haven’t noticed it?”

  “No. I haven’t been all the way down the back. There’s no reason to. I only mow to the edge of the lawn. There’s nothing but dirt back here.”

  Colt stood and brushed off his hands. He faced Leslie. “Do you have a shovel?”

  Leslie frowned. “What, you’re going to just dig it up?”

  “That’s right,” Colt replied. “How else are we going to tell what’s under there?”

  “But it mightn’t be anything. It might just be a pile of dirt,” her uncle protested.

  Colt shrugged. “Could be, but I don’t think so. This dirt’s been formed up deliberately. It wasn’t just dropped here. And Morgan’s right. It looks like some kind of grave. Given that she found a dog collar here, it’s my guess an animal’s been buried here. There’s only one way to find out. Do you have a shovel, or not?”

  “Yeah, all right. Hold your horses. I’ll get one from the shed.” Leslie turned away and headed back in the direction they’d come. Morgan looked at Colt.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Exactly what I told your uncle. I think someone buried an animal. From the size of the mound, I’d hazard a guess it’s a dog.”

  “It can’t be Rusty,” Morgan said, not sure which one of them she was trying to convince. “He’s with my dad.”

  Colt’s lips compressed. “Yes, that’s what you told me.”

  Leslie arrived back, carrying a round-nosed shovel. He handed it to Colt. A light sweat had broken out on her uncle’s brow and his breath came fast. Morgan was reminded he wasn’t a young man. She probably should have offered to go and get the shovel. The morning sun had warmed up and even she was feeling its effects. She hoped her uncle hadn’t overdone it.

  Colt pulled off his suit jacket and handed it to her before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. She wondered how the crisp white fabric would fare after he’d dug up the pile of dirt and was grateful all over again that he was there, helping her – and to hell with his expensive clothes. This was probably the nicest thing a man had ever done for her.

  Oblivious to her thoughts, Colt bent over the shovel and started digging. Load after load of dirt was removed until finally, the shovel scraped against something that looked like a piece of blue plastic. Morgan’s heart leaped into her throat. She was sure it wasn’t Rusty, but she didn’t know if she was ready to see what the grave was about to reveal.

  Colt scraped off another layer of dirt and more and more plastic was exposed. On closer inspection, it looked like a cheap tarpaulin – the type that could be bought from any hardware store. When the object concealed by the plastic was cleared of dirt, Colt set the shovel aside and bent over and lifted one side.

  The smell hit her like a wall of putrid heat. She covered her mouth and nose and tried hard not to breathe too deeply. Whatever it was had been there long enough to decompose. Barely daring to look, she peeked between her fingers. Bit by bit, the contents were revealed.

  The first thing she saw was a golden yellow coat, but unlike Rusty’s it was matted and dull. Still, her pulse picked up its pace. Colt pulled back more of the plastic, revealing the badly decomposed body of what had once been a large dog. He looked back at her and she could see the question in his eyes.

  She shook her head back and forth with increasing vigor. “It’s not Rusty. I’m sure it’s not him.”

  Colt turned back to the dog and moved closer. Morgan wondered how on earth he could bear the smell. The stench was making her retch. Any moment, she expected to vomit and yet Colt was poking through the remains with a stick, as if looking for something.

  “The decomposition’s pretty bad. There’s no collar or other identification that I can see, but he has a large white patch of fur under his chin.”

  Morgan froze. Rusty had a large white patch under his chin. But it couldn’t be Rusty! He was with her dad. Wasn’t he? She made a sound of distress in the back of her throat and Colt’s gaze immediately zeroed in on her.

  “Are you all right, Morgan?”

  She bit her lip to hold back the tears and somehow managed to nod.

  Colt’s expression softened. “It’s Rusty, isn’t it?”

  His voice was gentle, but his quiet words pierced her heart. How could her father’s dog be lying dead, buried in the ground? Her father had told her only the night before that Rusty was with him. Why would he lie?

  She would have understood if he’d told her he’d had to leave his beloved dog behind. He’d left in a hurry with no real destination in mind. Taking a dog along might not have suited his plans. After all, Leslie was staying in his home and was presumably willing to feed and look after the animal.

  It didn’t make sense that her father would leave him behind and then lie to her about it. And not only lie about having his dog, but withhold the fact that, far from being with him on his journey of self-discovery, Rusty had died. Perhaps he thought that if she believed his dog was with him she might not worry so much.

  Though she tri
ed hard to hold them back, hot tears filled her eyes. She clenched her jaw tight, but a sob escaped, followed quickly by another. Before she realized it, she was crying softly for Rusty and for her dad. She didn’t know what the hell was going on, but she needed to talk to her father, to see him, to hold him, to assure herself everything was all right.

  She suddenly remembered her conversation with her uncle only the night before. She turned to face him.

  “I guess that’s why you hadn’t seen Rusty. He must have died before you arrived.” She shook her head slowly back and forth. “I just can’t understand why Dad didn’t tell me and why he felt the need to lie.”

  Leslie looked stricken. “You mean, your father told you he had the dog with him? Is that what you mean?”

  Morgan bit her lip against a fresh wave of emotion and nodded. “Yes. He emailed me last night. He told me not to worry, that he had Rusty with him and that everything was all right. But it’s not all right! It’s not!”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I really am. I don’t know what to say.”

  Her uncle looked so distraught, Morgan’s heart went out to him. None of it was his fault. Had Rusty died right before Christmas? Was that the reason her dad hadn’t told her? Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to spoil her excitement over the holidays.

  She’d always loved celebrating Christmas, even the times when she had to work. It was possible he was trying to protect her by withholding the sad news. The thought brought her a modicum of comfort.

  Colt drew the tarpaulin back over the body and covered it again with dirt. Morgan felt like she’d been through the wringer and the day wasn’t nearly done. She was grateful for Colt’s assistance, but right now, she needed to be alone. She wanted to check her emails and see if her dad had replied. She wanted to call him, to hear his voice, to know that he was all right. She moved closer to Colt.

  “Do you mind dropping me back at your place?” she asked quietly.

  He stared at her a moment in silence and then nodded. “Of course. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Drawing in a deep breath, she let it out slowly on a heavy sigh. “No, but I will be. Just as soon as I speak with my dad.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  After giving Morgan the spare key to his condo and dropping her off outside the complex, Colt headed back to the station. His thoughts immediately returned to Leslie O’Brien. It was obvious the man was a drifter with no fixed abode. Though he wore clean clothes and had recently shaved, there was a general air of neglect about him that came from years of living a life filled with instability and change.

  Colt had seen it many times during his years in the police service. A fair percentage of the people who ended up behind bars had lived a transient life and though Colt hadn’t wanted to draw it to Morgan’s attention, there was something about her uncle that got Colt’s radar humming. The man definitely warranted a closer look.

  Then there was Rusty. Morgan’s father had told her via an email the dog was with him and yet, clearly that wasn’t the case. Either Rex O’Brien had lied to spare his daughter or he wasn’t the person who’d sent the email. And if not Rex, then who?

  Colt made a mental note to ask Morgan if someone else could have access to her father’s username and password. Colt hadn’t wanted to say anything to Morgan, but it was clear the dog hadn’t died from natural causes. Despite the advanced decomposition, Colt had noticed Rusty had been shot.

  Taking the set of stairs two at a time, he pushed open the door that led into the detectives’ squad room and made a beeline for his desk. Nodding distracted greetings to the handful of officers that occupied the room, he pulled off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair and took a seat. Dragging the keyboard of his computer toward him, he signed into the database that stored the names of anyone who’d ever been arrested in New South Wales. And then he entered Leslie O’Brien.

  Almost immediately, the page filled with text. Scrolling through the information, Colt eliminated the first two entries purely on the basis of age. He wasn’t sure how old Morgan’s uncle was, but the man looked like he was in his late fifties or early sixties. Then again, it was obvious he’d lived a hard life. That tended to age people. Even so, he wasn’t a young man and the first two Leslie O’Briens were under forty.

  The next two entries were in the right age bracket, but both of them were women. It was the last entry that caught his attention. The file related to a white male, aged fifty-nine, whose last known address was in Sydney.

  Colt’s heart rate picked up speed. He continued to scan the text. There was only one offense recorded and it was more than a decade earlier. O’Brien had been convicted of common assault. He’d been given a two hundred-dollar fine.

  Colt’s excitement dimmed. If he was looking at the same Leslie O’Brien, there wasn’t much to be found. A minor offense more than ten years ago. It counted for zilch. So much for his gut instinct.

  With a disappointed oath, Colt pushed the keyboard away and contemplated what he knew so far. There was a lack of weeds on the grave and the advanced state of composition indicated the dog had died several weeks earlier. Leslie had been house-minding for a month. Morgan’s uncle knew nothing about the dog or his death. Or so he said. Morgan’s father had apparently told her the dog was with him. If he’d been the one to send the email, he was definitely lying. But was he the only one? And why had he lied to his daughter?

  Movement out of the corner of Colt’s eye snagged his attention. He turned to see his superintendent bearing down on him.

  “Colt, I’ve just taken a call from dispatch. There’s been an accident on the New England Highway, just north of Uralla. A car’s gone into the river.”

  A familiar surge of adrenaline flooded Colt’s veins. He was on his feet and reaching for his jacket even before his boss had finished speaking.

  “How many occupants?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Superintendent Troy Barwick replied. “The call came in from a passing motorist. He saw the vehicle leave the road.”

  “Who else is at the scene?” Colt asked, searching for his keys.

  “I told Jared Buchanan to ride with you. Bob Coster and Jack Small are already on their way. They were in a patrol car on that side of town when the call came in.”

  Colt nodded, recognizing the names of the two highway patrol officers. Finding his keys at last, he snatched them from beneath a pile of paperwork and headed for the door, calling out for Jared as he went.

  * * *

  Colt saw the blue and white and red strobe emergency lights flashing across the field from nearly a mile away. A crowd of emergency personnel – paramedics, police officers, firemen – as well as the usual gathering of curious onlookers were scattered around the accident scene.

  Someone had called a tow truck and an early model dark blue Mitsubishi Magna was in the process of being lowered back to the ground via a winch. Colt came to a sudden halt not far away and jumped out of the car. His colleague, Detective Jared Buchanan, followed suit.

  Muddy water still poured from beneath the doors of the rescued vehicle. Colt located Sergeant Bob Coster and asked the highway patrol officer to bring them up to speed.

  Bob scratched at his thick, gray hair and peered off into the distance, his expression grim. “The car belongs to Anthony Adamson. He’s over there.”

  Colt turned in surprise. He hadn’t realized the driver had escaped unharmed. A long, thin man with unkempt hair and a straggly beard stood not far away, his clothes dripping. He looked to be in his mid-thirties.

  “He got out okay?” Colt asked.

  Bob grimaced and turned to spit on the grass. “Yeah. Too bad about his kids.”

  The words turned Colt’s blood to ice. He forced himself to ask. “Kids?”

  “Yeah,” Bob replied. “There were two of them in the back, strapped into car seats.”

  Bob’s words penetrated Colt’s brain and all of a sudden, he felt sick. He stared at his colleague, willing him to take the words back, but t
he man said nothing. “You’re fucking kidding.”

  Bob’s lips thinned and his gaze turned to flint. “I wish I was.”

  A solid block of concrete settled in Colt’s gut. With leaden feet, he forced himself forward until he stood beside the Magna. He put his face to the back window on the passenger side and spied a baby. It was blue and still.

  With growing dread, Colt took hold of the door handle and wrenched it open. He gasped in horror. Another child lay dead on the opposite side. Like Bob had told him, they were both strapped into car seats. They hadn’t stood a chance.

  Bile rose up inside him and he pushed away from the car. He only managed to take a few steps before the contents of his stomach burned a path up his esophagus and poured out onto the ground.

  Grabbing a hanky from his pocket, he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, trying his best to wipe himself clean. His throat burned and all he could taste was vomit, but he reminded himself, this wasn’t about him. Two children lay dead in their car seats, drowned in the most horrible way. He couldn’t imagine how it must have felt for them, screaming, gasping, hollering; desperate for air that wasn’t there.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around to face his colleague. Bob stared at him, grim and sympathetic.

  “It’s all right, buddy. Take it easy.”

  Shaking off his hand, Colt drew in a deep breath and got himself together. He’d attended his fair share of traumatic accident scenes. This one was no different. He needed to shut out the emotion and simply get on with his job. That was the only way to cope.

  He looked back at Bob. “What happened?”

  “According to the driver, he failed to take the corner and ended up in the river. Said he was going way too fast. Wasn’t familiar with the road. Didn’t know about the tight bend. He hit it hard, tried to brake, but lost control. Next thing he remembers is the car hitting a wall of water. The vehicle filled up fast. It took him awhile to undo his seatbelt. He tried to release the kids. Their seatbelts jammed. There was nothing he could do.”