Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  After giving profuse thanks, Morgan ended the call and turned up her ringer volume. She’d wait until she heard from him before ordering the Uber.

  Trying not to worry—which was like trying not to notice the sun had come up—Morgan continued to work her way through the boxes. When, half an hour later, her phone rang, she hurriedly swiped to take the call.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Tate,” Austin said. “I forgot to hide my phone, and Momma found it.”

  “That’s okay. We all forget things.” She instructed him to wait in the school’s pickup line after school for the Uber. “What are you wearing, so I can let him know how to find you?”

  “Jeans, Bengals shirt.”

  Which could be dozens of kids at the school. “You have your backpack?” Another piece of Bengals gear, one she’d given him last Christmas.

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll have him look for you. I’ll tell him to ask for—” she thought for a moment— “Frederic, just in case somebody else is trying to pick you up. Don’t go with your mom today, okay?”

  “Okay, but Frederic?”

  “As in Chopin.”

  “Oh, like a code name. Can I be Wolfgang? Nobody’d ever think of that.”

  Morgan laughed. “Wolfgang it is. Call me as soon as you get to your lesson.” She explained this would be his last one, but that she’d work something out. “I’ll work on getting your phone back, too.”

  With luck, Mrs. Jackson would respond to Morgan’s threats to sic the cops on her for stealing the phone—assuming she was still boozed up enough to accept what Morgan said without thinking it through.

  A harsh tone rang in the background.

  “Gotta get to class. I’ll talk to you later,” Austin said.

  Morgan arranged for his ride, told Mr. Nakamura he’d be there. Austin seemed upbeat, calm, not hiding anything. Maybe it was as simple as him forgetting to keep his phone tucked away from his mom’s prying eyes. Maybe she’d stumbled upon it lying around and had called on a drunken impulse. Alcohol brought out a belligerent streak in the woman.

  Back to work. Two more boxes. Small ones. A few minutes and she’d have a major item checked off her to do list.

  She pried open the flaps. Folded t-shirts. Charity or trash? Morgan lifted the top shirt. A long-sleeved polo. Much nicer than the rest of her finds. The one underneath seemed of equal quality. She went to move it to the charity section of the basement and was surprised by its weight—far more than what she’d expect from a box of shirts. She held up the next shirt. They looked very much like the ones in Uncle Bob’s box from the Villas.

  Were they his? If they were, did that mean everything in the basement had also belonged to her uncle?

  Didn’t matter. Regardless of who these things had belonged to, they were all being disposed of, one way or another.

  Beneath the last shirt Morgan found the reason for the extra weight. More notebooks. Morgan pulled one out. Not a notebook. A hardbound ledger. Her heart doing a brisk mazurka, she opened the book.

  More numbers, just like the ones in the spiral notebook.

  COLE SAT AT HIS DESK, filling out his report. Once Connor and Detweiler had shown up, it was Thanks for the information, we’ve got it covered, now get back to work.

  Ahh, the life of a patrol officer. Front lines, first on scene, keep the peace. Digging for who and why fell to the detectives and crime scene people. Cole liked it that way, although today’s case had him curious. Why had Randall been so withdrawn about his assailants? Even if he hadn’t been able to identify them, if they’d been disguised or caught him totally by surprise, he’d have had an idea of who they were.

  Detweiler had nixed Cole’s request to sit in on the interview. Cole turned in his official report, making mental notes about questions jouncing around in his brain. Whelan might make a good sounding board.

  Whelan. Lunch. Damn. Cole checked the time. Almost two. Whelan’s cop experience meant he understood there was no such thing as a scheduled lunch, but Cole moseyed out to reception to apologize.

  Whelan was on the phone, staring at the ceiling, a look of undisguised exasperation etched on his face. “Yes, ma’am. I understand, ma’am. I’ll be sure to report it.”

  “Helpful citizen?” Cole asked once Whelan hung up.

  “Wants us to move the handicap parking slots out of the city lots and put them in the hospital lots, because there are more handicapped people who need them there.”

  “Wonder where she was when they were handing out brains.”

  “Looking for a parking place in the city lot.” Whelan wrote notes on a phone intake form and shoved it into an accordion folder on his desk. “You had a little action today.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about missing lunch. You didn’t wait for me, did you?”

  Whelan chortled and patted his midriff. “If I waited every time someone said, ‘Let’s have lunch,’ I’d weigh twenty pounds less. Of course, taking up with a woman who runs a bakery doesn’t help.”

  Cole smiled. “I’m off shift at four. I have to drop some things off for a friend right after work. I’d still like to pick your brain, even more so after what happened today. See if you can tell me if I’m overcomplicating things or show me the simpler solutions.”

  “Occam’s Razor.”

  “The simplest solution is usually the right one.”

  “Casting a wide net at the start makes sure you don’t miss anything, even though it seems totally unrelated or trivial,” Whelan said.

  “Wagon Wheel? Closer to five?” Cole could drop off Bailey’s gear, meet with Whelan for a bit, then go back to Elm Street to do the next coat on Morgan’s drywall.

  “Should work. I’ll check with Ashley, let you know if I can’t make it.”

  Cole thanked him, then pulled out his phone to check his messages. Nothing since Morgan had told him she’d be bringing Bailey home today.

  He added another reply to the message thread. OK I drop Bailey’s stuff come back later 4 wall.

  He smiled at her thumbs up.

  Whelan called after him. “Detweiler wants to see you. His office.”

  “Roger.” As Cole strode down the hall, he ran through everything he’d done at the scene. Had he screwed up?

  Cole stood in the detectives’ office doorway. Detweiler motioned him inside.

  Cole took a seat, still replaying his actions.

  Detweiler folded his hands on his desk. “Good call about checking on school absentees. Randall Ebersold’s doing all right. Bruises, slight concussion, and a broken arm. He refused to talk, says he can’t remember much, and has no idea why he was accosted. All he gave us was he’d ditched school because he wanted to study for a major exam and concentrates better out in nature. I want you to go with Kovak when he interviews three boys who were on the absence list at the high school today.”

  Cole’s brows shot upward. “Me, Sir?”

  “You don’t think you’re up to it?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I’ll go.”

  “Kovak’s in the workroom. Report to him now.”

  Cole shot to his feet. “Yes, Sir.”

  He liked his job as a patrol officer, but being included in the followup had a balloon of pride swelling in his chest.

  Kovak’s directive to take notes and observe, not speak, poked a pinhole in that balloon.

  “They’re minors,” Kovak pointed out, “so parents will have to be there. Watch the body language, especially the way the kids look—or don’t look—at their parents before and after they speak.”

  They arrived at the first house, home to Sean Dennison. Dark hair, shuttered eyes. Built like a linebacker. His mother was home, but not his father. She was all too willing to cooperate with the police. From her tone, her boy could do no wrong.

  Cole looked at Sean. A few bruises, no cuts or scrapes. The kid passed them off as routine bumps incurred in football practice.

  “You heard about Randall Ebersold,” Kovak said. “Got beat up pretty bad. We’re trying to
find out who might have wanted to do this.”

  Sean shook his head. “I hardly know Randall. No classes together, and football takes up most of my time.”

  “Season’s over,” Kovak said.

  “Coach has after-school sessions year-round. Wants us sharp for next year.”

  “Why weren’t you in class today?” Kovak asked.

  Cole shifted his gaze to the mom. She stood tall. “He wasn’t feeling well this morning. He said he was up to date with his classwork, and—” she shrugged— “sometimes a day off helps recharge the batteries.”

  “Were you home with him, Mrs. Dennison?” Kovak asked.

  “No, I work in Salem, half days for a real estate office. Receptionist. I got home an hour ago, and Sean was here, watching television.”

  “You were here all day, Sean?” Kovak said. “Anyone come by who can confirm it?”

  Sean gave a canary-swallowing grin. “Nope. Slept late, played video games, watched television.”

  Kovak thanked them, and they moved on. It was more or less the same at the other two houses. Lives revolved around football, all had mysterious episodes of malaise, parents vouched for them with the attendance office.

  “Your take?” Kovak asked when they were headed to the station.

  “They’re lying.”

  “Any way to prove it?”

  Cole shifted to face Kovak. “Did Connor find anything that put them at the scene? Prints on the Mustang? What about those beer cans we flagged?”

  Chapter 24

  SPEAKING IN SOOTHING tones, Morgan clipped Bailey’s borrowed leash to his borrowed collar. “You’ll get your own pretty collar when Cole comes by. And a nice leash, too.”

  Bailey stood poised on the edge of the seat.

  “Come on, Bailey. This is your new home, boy. It’s not much now, but you’ve hit the jackpot with creature comforts. It’ll be crazy while they fix things up, but when it’s done, the two of us will have great times together.”

  He tilted his head and pricked up his ears. Then, he jumped onto the ground with no indication of pain.

  “Atta boy, Bailey. Let’s take a walk around the grounds.” The vet had said to use his name often, and he seemed to be responding.

  Bailey explored, sniffed, and marked his new territory. When they approached the spot where she’d found him trapped in the shrubbery, she wondered what he’d do, but he’d either forgotten or didn’t care.

  Inside the house, she let him off the leash and watched as he explored. Was he housebroken? Derrick hadn’t been sure. The dog sniffed, moved from room to room downstairs, but didn’t pee. Maybe he’d had an indoor life somewhere in his past.

  “Want to sit outside, Bailey?” Morgan carried the quilt she and Cole had used for their indoor picnic to the front yard and spread it on the patchy grass and sat. The clinic had played classical music in the kennel area, so she opened her music library. After several long moments staring at the screen, she tapped shuffle and the classical playlist. If she’d never wanted to hear classical music again, she wouldn’t have put it on her phone.

  A lump expanded in her throat, as Debussy’s “Arabesque” flowed from the speaker.

  Tears she couldn’t hold back flowed down her cheeks.

  Bailey gave another head tilt, then lay down beside her and rested his head on her thigh. She rubbed him gently behind the ears.

  It’s been long enough. You can enjoy the music again. Associate it with good things. With Bailey. New Life on Elm Street, right?

  Cole drove up a few minutes later. Bailey’s head lifted, and he looked at her as if to ask if she was all right, if he should ward off the intruder. Wiping her eyes, Morgan rose to her feet. “It’s okay, Bailey. He’s a friend.”

  Cole got out of his car, looked her way, then jogged over. “Are you all right?”

  She swiped at her eyes again. “Fine. Memory tears.”

  With a skeptical gaze, Cole went to his car and started unloading Bailey’s supplies.

  Morgan, Bailey’s leash looped over her wrist, rushed to help. “See, Bailey. I told you you’d have more things than you know what to do with.”

  “Where do you want it all?” Cole asked.

  “Living room will do for now. We’ll be moving things around once the repairs get underway.”

  “You hire anyone yet?”

  “Been busy,” she said. “Boxes are all sorted. Getting references and quotes for the repairs and the fence is next on my to-do list.”

  “Anything good in the boxes?” Cole hefted a forty-pound bag of dog food onto his shoulder and moved toward the door.

  “As a matter of fact, there might be.” She told him about the ledgers.

  He set the bag on the porch. “What about a key, something to explain what they mean?” He flashed a grin, one that warmed her like a blazing fire on a snowy day. “Did you find a secret decoder ring?”

  She returned his grin. “No ring. I haven’t had a chance to look at the ledgers to see if there was an explanation. What about your day? Anything good?”

  “Detweiler had me accompany Kovak—he’s the other detective in the department—to interview potential suspects.”

  Morgan tugged Bailey away from the bag of food. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I was strictly an observer, but it was ... interesting.”

  “I take it you can’t discuss it further.”

  “Open investigation, so no, that’s all I can say.”

  “Good. I approve of the privacy thing.” If he had told her more, she’d wonder if Randy Detweiler had kept his lips zipped as tightly as he’d promised.

  Her phone rang. Austin’s ringtone. He’d already used Mr. Nakamura’s cell to let her know he’d made it to his lesson. She checked the time. He could be home by now. Or, it could be his mother again.

  Austin’s voice, filled with panic and tears, dropped a bucketload of ice water over her.

  She moved inside, Bailey in tow. “Slow down, Austin. Say that again.”

  A moment of ragged, sniffly breathing before he went on. “I came home. Mr. Nakamura was nice and drove me. Then, after he left, the cops came.”

  “The cops? What did they want?” Morgan sank to the couch and dropped Bailey’s leash. Cole, a concerned expression clouding his features, crossed to the door, closed it, then released the dog.

  “Momma got in a bad accident. She’s in the hospital.”

  Morgan’s heart rode the Tilt-A-Whirl. “Where are you now?”

  “With Miz. Slauson.”

  His elderly next-door neighbor. A loving soul, homebound and providing afterschool care for four of her grandchildren.

  “Where’s your dad?” Morgan asked.

  A pause. Then a weak, “Don’t know. He ain’t—hasn’t—been home in a while.”

  A bit of information Austin hadn’t bothered to mention before. “Do you have anyone else in your family nearby? Grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?” He’d never spoken of relatives, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist.

  “MawMaw and PawPaw died when I was seven. They was—were—my momma’s momma and dad. I don’t know about any others.”

  Her heart squeezed. “Stay with Mrs. Slauson for now. I’ll find a way to help. Hang on to your phone. Is it charged?”

  A pause. “I’ll get my charger.”

  She offered what comfort she could, then disconnected. Paced. Tugged on her curls.

  “What can I do?” Cole asked.

  Just like that. No questions, merely offering his presence. More tears threatened, and she built a dam to hold them back. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she sucked in a breath, held it, then let it escape.

  “Austin—a kid I’ve been trying to help—got home and the cops showed up to tell him his mom was in an accident. She’s in the hospital. His dad’s nowhere around.”

  “How bad was the accident?” Cole asked.

  “Austin didn’t know. The cops didn’t say. Austin convinced them his neighbor would watch out for him, b
ut she’s not capable of dealing with him for more than a few days.” Morgan lowered her head, buried her face in her hands. “I can’t let Children Services take him. Austin’s—special. Talented. This whole house thing—I wanted to get him away from his parents.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Is he the special someone you wanted to bring out here?” Cole asked.

  She nodded.

  Cole frowned. “You can’t just walk in and decide a kid’s going to live with you. Does he have any other relatives?”

  She lowered her head, pressed the heels of her hands against her temples, as if she could squeeze all her whirling thoughts into a tidy, bow-wrapped package. “He said he’s not aware of any. I hoped to convince his mom to sign over a shared custody agreement. She’d be done with him in a heartbeat. She said so. More than once.”

  Cole sat beside her. Rested his hand on her thigh. It gave comfort, just the way Bailey had. Okay not exactly the same way, but comfort nonetheless.

  “Where is Austin?” he asked.

  “Dublin, Ohio.”

  “I’ll make a few calls.”

  She met his eyes, surprised by the gesture. “You’d do that?”

  “Of course. We’re friends, right? That’s what friends do. Believe it or not, the system’s designed to help people. Sometimes, there’s too much red tape for things to be easy.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I’ll be back later for the drywall. I should have some news by then.”

  She thought she’d cried herself dry until another onslaught overcame her. Cole wrapped his arms around her. No words, just warmth. Hands caressed her back. Gentle strokes. Offering comfort when she hadn’t asked for any. Hadn’t realized she’d needed any.

  Morgan lifted her head, gazed at the worry in Cole’s Mediterranean Sea eyes. As if someone else controlled her body, she tilted her head further upward, and pressed her lips to his.

  COLE’S BODY HAD RESPONDED when Morgan leaned into him, all soft curves and fruits-and-flowers scent. When her lips touched his, he sprang to full attention. Did she know what she was doing? She was upset. Would accepting a kiss send the wrong message? He’d reached the point where any time he was within five feet of Morgan, the message was I want you. Were he and Morgan on the same page? Friends, friends-with-benefits, or a full-blown relationship?