Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  “Please take the license out,” Officer Nolan said.

  Morgan complied, the officer looked at the license, then at Morgan, and handed it back with a polite thank you.

  “What brought you here?” Morgan slipped her license into its slot.

  “Routine patrol, ma’am. We’ve been instructed to keep an eye on this property. I saw the lights and came up to check things out.”

  Morgan estimated the officer was in her late thirties, early forties. Had she lived in Pine Hills when Uncle Bob lived here? When she asked, she got the same answer she’d been getting since she’d arrived. Nobody knew Uncle Bob.

  COLE’S BACK WAS TO the door, and he wasn’t going to turn around. If Morgan noticed he was here, it was her decision to come say hello. Which he doubted she would, given her reply that she’d see him tomorrow.

  “Out of luck, Patton,” Brody said. “She’s doing takeout.”

  “I told you, there’s nothing between us other than me offering to help her with house repairs.” Cole didn’t mention they had plans to meet in the morning.

  “Right,” Connor said. “Construction worker turned cop.”

  “I hung around after high school to help my dad out.” Cole felt no obligation to reveal his entire history. He wasn’t lying. Just withholding bits of the truth. “There’s no law that says you can’t change career plans.”

  Connor grinned. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve wanted to be a lab geek since I was eight and my uncle gave me a chemistry set.”

  Scott Whelan hid behind his beer mug. Cole recalled he’d been forced to change careers after an on-the-job injury. As far as Cole could tell, Whelan had made the adjustment and was always available and willing to answer questions, and he did it without sounding superior. None of the belittling this is how the big boys do it attitude.

  The door chimes tinkled. Connor’s eyes lit up. Cole didn’t need to turn around to know that Officer Nolan—Faith—had come in. Seconds later, she pulled out the chair next to Cole and sat, exchanged hellos.

  Will came by and Nolan ordered a Diet Coke and a chicken sandwich. On duty, food that could be grabbed and carried if you got a call while on a meal break worked better than pizza or wings, a reality Cole had learned the hard way.

  “Thought I had a prowler at the old Tate place,” she said. “It was the new owner. No excitement.”

  Cole’s ears perked up. Morgan had gone to the house, not the Castle? What was she doing? Why hadn’t she wanted his company?

  Because she lives in a different world. Get over her. You’re blue collar. She’s got money.

  “Back to my question,” Cole said to Whelan. “Strictly as an intellectual exercise, how would you determine if the message referred to a crime or was just a prank?”

  “I’d look for missing persons reports first. Won’t be easy. Without a clue as to whether you’re looking for a male or female, with no idea as to age and a timeframe as long as five years, you’d be hunting for a hamburger patty in a McDonald’s warehouse.”

  “Where would you start?” Cole asked.

  “Looks like somebody wants to score points with the new owner,” Brody said.

  Cole flipped him off. “Intellectual exercise.”

  “I’d start in close, then move out,” Whelan said. “Since it’s not ringing bells with Pine Hills, I’d look at the county level. Look for missing persons cases in the cold case files. See if you’ve got any homicides, recovered John or Jane Does—look at the NamUs database. There’s nothing to say—if this was somebody boasting about killing someone—that he didn’t kill his victim someplace far afield, but it makes more sense that it was someone local.”

  Cole made mental notes, since he had no cause to be searching police databases for the information. NamUs, the database of missing persons and unidentified bodies, wouldn’t be much good if he didn’t have the slightest idea who he might be looking for.

  “So, you’d be looking at a whole lot of McDonalds’ warehouses,” Nolan said. “Major distribution centers.”

  “Like I said, start close, spiral out. Same as walking a crime scene.” Whelan stood, fished some bills out of his wallet, and dropped them on the table. “Enjoy your evenings.”

  Cole gave a pointed glance at Brody and pushed back his chair. He added enough money to cover his share. “Laundry beckons.”

  Brody snagged one more wing and added money to the pot. “Yeah, I’d better be going, too. Early shift means early to bed.”

  “Nolan’s a good cop,” Brody said when they were outside. “I don’t get what Connor sees in her. She’s got to be at least five years older than he is, and on the hot scale, relative to your recent lady friend, she’s lukewarm.”

  “Which is a problem because?” Morgan was three years older than Cole, and it didn’t bother him. He didn’t know if it would bother Morgan if he told her—which brought things back to moving from friends to close friends, and then maybe into relationship territory. A long way off, and Cole feared the money thing might be a bigger obstacle than a few years of age difference.

  Of course, he was jumping ahead of himself on that, too.

  Get some groceries. Finish your laundry.

  “You’re right.” Brody dug his keys out of his pocket. “I come from a long history of stay-at-home, put Dad through college moms.”

  “Times change,” Cole said. “It’s good that there are more options today.”

  As he drove to Thriftway, Cole pondered Brody’s words. He’d let whatever was going to happen between himself and Morgan play itself out, money be damned.

  After putting his groceries away and dealing with the dreaded laundry folding chore, made more palatable by streaming The Matrix, Cole considered Scott Whelan’s words. Sounded like a search that had more tentacles than a school of squid. Knowing more about Robert Tate might narrow things down. What had Morgan said the housekeeper’s name was? He closed his eyes, tried to recall everything he and Morgan had talked about, a technique he’d found helpful with witnesses.

  Most of what surfaced in his thoughts was Morgan. Her smile, the way she played with her curls, her scent, a blend of unidentifiable fruits and flowers. He pushed his way past that, to their conversations.

  Phyllis. No last name. How many housekeepers named Phyllis would be working at the Castle?

  The grouch at the front desk answered Cole’s call. The good side of dealing with the grouch was that he didn’t ask for details.

  “Jessup,” the man said.

  Cole thanked him and disconnected.

  He set up his laptop at his desk and started a new search.

  Chapter 14

  AS MORGAN HEADED TO her car for her dinner, she became aware of a whimpering sound, as if someone was in pain. She walked around the side of the house, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. As she walked, the sound got louder.

  Her first thought was it didn’t seem to be emanating from the basement, which was a positive. She wasn’t ready to test her mettle there yet. She followed the drive toward the garage. The sound grew louder as she approached. Was someone hurt?

  “Is anyone there? Are you all right?” she called.

  The whimpering stopped for a moment, then continued, this time accompanied by a dull clanking sound.

  She darted into the house for her phone with its flashlight app. The yard maintenance standards for this part of the lot seemed a lot more lax than the front. Grass grew almost to Morgan’s knees. Overgrown shrubs, once providing a border around the garage threatened to take over the entire driveway, half-blocking the door.

  As she sought the source of the cries, she made a mental note to add a landscaper, or at least a yard service, to her to-do list.

  The sound seemed loudest near one of the overgrown shrubs. Shining her light, Morgan moved closer. Two eyes caught in the light reflected back at her. An animal. A stray dog or cat? What other creatures lived here? Raccoons? Foxes? She’d never thought to research the wildlife in and around Pine Hills.

&nbs
p; Stepping tentatively, whispering soothing words, Morgan inched nearer and attempted to move some branches blocking her view. A low growl made her back off. A dog, she thought. She couldn’t just leave it out here, alone, injured, and in pain.

  She called Cole. He’d know what to do, who to notify.

  He said he’d be there as soon as he could.

  Morgan lowered herself to the ground to wait. She’d changed into her jeans for what she’d assumed was going to be a dusty evening but wished she’d brought a towel or blanket to sit on. While she waited, she hummed what she hoped were soothing melodies to the dog. Almost half an hour later, approaching headlights illuminated the driveway.

  The dog—yes, it was definitely a dog—whimpered and retreated farther into the shrubbery.

  Morgan clambered to her feet and ran to the driveway, waving for Cole to stop. She realized it wasn’t Cole’s car. A pickup truck. She froze.

  The passenger door opened. Cole jumped out. “It’s me. I figured it was better to have an expert lend a hand, so I called Animal Control.”

  A woman, tall and sturdily built, stepped out of the driver’s side. “I’m Trixie. You have a trapped dog?”

  “That’s right. I think your truck spooked him. Or her,” Morgan said.

  Trixie brought out a flashlight and moved toward the dog’s hiding place. “Better if you keep your distance. Three people will spook the dog worse than it is.”

  Cole stepped to Morgan’s side, pulled her a few steps back. “She’s good. She’s got the right equipment. Closest thing to an animal whisperer in Pine Hills.”

  Morgan focused her attention on the woman who had a noose apparatus on a pole. “She’s going to scare it to death.”

  “It’s for the best,” Cole said. “Once she knows the dog can’t bite—and even friendly dogs will bite if they’re scared and cornered—she can free it and see what the damages are.”

  “Where will she take it?” Morgan asked.

  “The local shelter. They’re good.”

  Trixie’s voice interrupted. “Patton. Can you bring me the toolbox from the back of the truck, please?”

  Cole jogged to the truck, which had a camper top over the bed, and opened the back door. He returned with a large metal case and set it on the ground. “What do you need?” he asked.

  “Garden shears,” Trixie said. “To cut away these branches.”

  Morgan reached in before Cole could grab the tool and took it to Trixie. The dog, its coat matted, filled with twigs, stared at her, then at Trixie, as if to say where did she come from?

  “It’ll be all right,” Morgan cooed. “She’s going to help you.”

  “You seem to have established a bond,” Trixie said. “You can keep talking, keep it distracted while I cut it loose.”

  Morgan spoke and hummed while Trixie worked. The dog flinched as each branch snapped, until finally, the animal was free.

  Trixie cursed. “If I catch whoever did this—”

  Someone had looped a string of cans around the dog’s neck, and they’d become more tangled as the dog must have tried to run away. One leg was bleeding, and some of the dog’s coat was missing, as if it had been singed. The poor dog’s ribs showed, as if it had been far too long since its last meal.

  Trixie cut the cans away.

  “I’ll be right there with you.” Morgan turned to Cole. “If you catch them, you can arrest them, right?”

  “Damn straight.” Cole stepped closer. Morgan sensed his presence, was calmed by it, but her attention was wholly focused on the dog.

  “Can you get fingerprints or DNA from the cans?” she asked.

  “Even if we did, all it would prove was someone had touched the cans, not that they tied them to the dog. It’s likely kids, and we won’t have prints on file.”

  Trixie carried the dog to the truck and wrapped it in a blanket before putting it into a kennel.

  “Where are you taking it?” Morgan asked.

  “To the shelter. They’ll have a vet look him over tomorrow, see if he’s chipped, try to find his owners.”

  “No.” Morgan peered into the truck, into the kennel, where the dog lay motionless.

  “Morgan—” Cole said.

  “No. Isn’t there a vet in town who does emergency cases? You know, an all-night clinic?”

  “Yes, but—” Trixie said.

  “No buts. Tell me who it is, and I’ll call. This dog isn’t going to a ... shelter.” She raised a hand. “Look, I know shelters are great, and they do good work. But being in a place full of other dogs that could scare him can’t possibly be good for Bailey.”

  “Bailey?” Cole asked. “Did he have a collar with a name tag? If so, we have to return him to his owners.”

  “No collar,” Trixie said. “I’ll alert the doc that we’re on our way.”

  “He looks like a Bailey, don’t you think?” Morgan said to Cole. “I started calling him that because the name works with males or females.” Morgan turned to Trixie. “You can take him to the vet, right? Otherwise, I’ll take him in my car.”

  Trixie and Cole exchanged a look. “I suppose I can do that,” she said.

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  COLE HADN’T SEEN MORGAN this adamant since he’d met her. He’d seen her fear, curiosity, determination, but never anything with the intensity she was showing now about rescuing a stray dog. She’d already named it, for God’s sake. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that she might not be able to keep it, although she’d never said she wanted to keep it, only ensure it had the best possible care.

  “You know how to get to the clinic?”

  He turned at Morgan’s voice. She held her phone, watching as Trixie closed the Animal Control truck.

  “I do, yes,” he said.

  “I know you came with Animal Control, but if you’d ride with me to the clinic, I’d appreciate it. I’ll give you a lift home once I know Bailey is in good hands.”

  “Of course.” Cole jogged over, let Trixie know the plan. She drove off, and Morgan dashed toward the front door.

  “I’ll get my purse and be right out.”

  Cole waited by Morgan’s car, noting the faint glow in the living room window and another from the attic upstairs.

  The trunk. How had he forgotten? That must have been what Morgan planned to do this evening. Had she found anything?

  Cole’s heart leaped for his throat as Morgan barreled down the rickety porch steps. He didn’t need to be taking her to an emergency clinic, too.

  “Car’s unlocked,” she called.

  He opened the passenger door, spying the plastic Wagon Wheel bag on the seat. He held it on his lap as Morgan got in and started the car.

  “Where am I going?” she asked.

  “The clinic’s outside town a couple miles. Left on Main.”

  Morgan’s hands gripped the wheel, her fingers flexing and unflexing.

  “Did you have a dog?” Cole asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I wasn’t allowed to have pets. We traveled a lot.”

  Right. She’d mentioned Hong Kong. Who knew where else she’d been? “What was your favorite place?”

  “Places they spoke English,” she said.

  Cole laughed. “I guess that would make things easier.”

  She didn’t reply, and Cole made no further attempts to fill the silence.

  They arrived at the clinic as Trixie was unloading the crate with the dog—Bailey. Cole had never been here, hadn’t met the staff. A short plump woman wearing scrubs, dark blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, rushed out to the Animal Control truck.

  Morgan parked next to the truck and jumped out of her car. Cole got out, leaving the takeout bag on the seat, and hurried after her.

  Inside, the scrub-clad woman introduced herself as Dr. Shannon and took the crate from Trixie. “Let’s get this fella into a room, see what we need to do.”

  “His name is Bailey,” Morgan said.

  “He’s yours?” Dr. Shannon sa
id, her gaze holding more than a hint of disapproval.

  “No, I found him hiding in my yard.” Morgan turned her fawn eyes to the vet. “Can you take care of him?”

  “I’ll know more once I’ve examined him. Please have a seat in the waiting room for now, and I’ll be back when I have something to tell you.”

  After ten minutes of Morgan’s pacing the small waiting room, Cole stood and intercepted her, grasping her hands. Her very cold hands. “Sit. Relax. Would you like me to get your dinner from your car?”

  Her expression went blank, as if she’d forgotten she’d bought food. “Not hungry.”

  Cole didn’t mention he’d heard her stomach growl. Needing to eat and wanting to eat were two different games. He guided her to the chairs, sat, and gave her a gentle tug. “Sit.”

  Robot-like, she lowered herself onto the chair beside him. He dovetailed his fingers with hers, and she didn’t pull away.

  “I almost had a dog once.” Her voice was barely audible. She stared straight ahead.

  He waited.

  “It was a stray. I brought it home. I was six. I didn’t know enough about animals to know if it was a boy or girl. I made a bed out of towels and gave it water in my blue cereal bowl. I emptied my allowance jar so I could buy a collar and leash. I insisted our housekeeper take me to the store. When I got back, the dog was gone. The towels were gone. My cereal bowl was back in the cabinet. My mom said she took the dog to a place where people would find it a good home.”

  Morgan’s voice cracked. “I wanted to be that good home.”

  Cole squeezed her hand. “So you’re making things right with Bailey.”

  “One way or another, yes.”

  Dr. Shannon ambled into the waiting room.

  Morgan popped up from her chair. “How is he?”

  “He’ll be fine, but his lacerations are several days old and showing signs of necrosis, so stitches won’t work. He’s also suffering from malnutrition. Some bruises, cuts. No broken bones. Mostly he’s scared. I’d like to keep him here a couple of days.”

  “Can I see him?” Morgan asked.