Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  “I like them, too,” she said. “First thing tomorrow, you can get all your clothes put away.”

  Once she’d demonstrated her newly-acquired secret handshake in praise of her own bedroom furniture, she repeated her go to bed order. “You can read for a while. Lights out in twenty minutes.”

  “Do you have some paper I can use?” he asked. “I want to write down the playlist for Momma’s memory.”

  Her heart squeezed. “Of course.” She went down to the kitchen and fetched a notepad and pen.

  She brought Austin the materials, and he started writing.

  “I don’t want a bunch of sad songs. ‘Amazing Grace’ would be good, don’t you think?”

  “I think it’s perfect.”

  “I can’t decide if it should be first or last, though.”

  “Why don’t you write all the pieces down, and you can work out the order later.”

  He chewed his lip as he wrote.

  Morgan left him to it and went to her room. Tomorrow, she’d deal with organizing her dresser. She crawled into bed with her laptop to check her email. She’d filled out the Kinship application form, submitted it, and even though she knew it was far too soon to hear anything, she had to check. Ms. Accorso had been helpful, as if she, too, wanted to resolve the issue of Austin’s custody as soon as possible.

  For a government agency, that meant at a snail’s pace. As expected, no response.

  The next message was from a D. Gehman at Metropolitan Financial Services in response to the email she’d sent. Did they know what the ledger sheets meant? Or was this a sorry, can’t help you message.

  She closed her eyes and clicked it open.

  Chapter 40

  AS HE MOVED TOWARD the Burger Hut kitchen, Cole reflexively tapped his chest, driving home the point he wasn’t wearing a vest.

  The kitchen door was solid, no way to peer inside. He put his ear to the wood.

  “Hold still, dammit.” Male voice. “These aren’t medical tools.”

  “You’re supposed ... to be fixing me, not ... making things ... worse.” Different male voice. Strained. In pain?

  How many people were in the kitchen? Thinking of the six uniformed people in the dining room, Cole tried to remember how many wait staff were usually working. Not more than three. Whoever was in the kitchen must have moved the cooks to the dining room as well.

  If there were only two in there, and one sounded incapacitated, Cole should have the element of surprise.

  Didn’t slow his heart.

  The way the door opened, he had a view of the far wall, which held the sink, dishwasher, and a steel door to what Cole assumed was the refrigerator. Could he sneak into the kitchen without being seen? Should he shove the door open and burst inside?

  He had a gun.

  He’d rather not have to use it.

  Vision worked both ways. He couldn’t see who was in the room. They couldn’t see him. He pushed the door open a couple more inches. Listened.

  Clearly, someone was attending to someone else’s injury. Cole, using the door as cover, slipped into the kitchen.

  A man in a Burger Hut tee holding a thin, long-bladed knife hovered over a second man lying on a steel prep table.

  What was he doing?

  Neither looked Cole’s way. A quick glance revealed a rubber clown mask under the table. A revolver lay alongside. Cole took one more step into the room.

  Swallowing, hoping his voice didn’t crack, he shouted, “Police. Show me your hands. Now.”

  The man in the Burger Hut uniform dropped the knife to the floor and raised his food-service-gloved hands, panic in his eyes. “Don’t shoot. He made me do it.”

  Bullshit.

  “What’s the problem here?” Cole, still wary, considered the second man more carefully. Red high top sneakers. Overalls, straps released, bib folded down. Open shirt, covered in blood. The man clutched a blood-stained towel to his torso. His face was pasty-white.

  “You need medical attention,” Cole said.

  “That’s what I keep telling him, but the jerk refuses,” the uniformed man said. “A fileting knife is no scalpel.”

  “What’s your name?” Cole asked.

  “Donald Higgins. I’m the restaurant manager.”

  “And yours?” Cole asked the injured man.

  “John Doe.”

  Cole let it drop. From outside, the welcome sound of approaching sirens had him breathing easier. Cops and medics. Somebody called 911. John Doe made a move to get off the table.

  “You don’t want to do that,” Cole said. “The cops are on their way. Things will go better for you if you cooperate. Your partner’s already in custody.” Not police custody, but the man didn’t need to know that.

  “We could make a deal,” Doe said. “I’ve got cash. Let me walk and half of it’s yours.”

  “From the looks of the blood you’ve lost, you wouldn’t get far.”

  Pounding sounded at the back door. “Police.” Brody’s voice. The knob rattled. “Come out. Show me your hands.”

  “Patton here, Brody.” Cole rushed to unlock the door.

  Brody stepped inside, grabbed and cuffed Higgins, escorting him outside. Nolan burst into the room, weapon drawn. “Can’t you have a quiet day off like normal people, Patton?”

  Cole smirked. “That would be so boring.”

  Nolan alerted the medics and patted down the man on the table for more weapons before securing his revolver. Two medics brought a gurney into the kitchen and set to work.

  “You can put your weapon away, Patton,” Nolan said.

  Cole looked at his hand, shaking as the adrenaline rush subsided, hardly aware he was still holding it. His chest felt as though a gorilla was shaking his ribs, trying to escape from its cage. Sweat soaked his armpits.

  Brody rejoined them. “Mr. Higgins claims he had nothing to do with what happened, and I’m inclined to believe him. These two clowns—”

  “One clown, one rabbit.” Cole pointed to the clown mask. “Rabbit was in the dining room.”

  Nolan had her camera out and was documenting the scene.

  Moments later, both Kovak and Detweiler showed up, along with Connor.

  Detweiler snapped on gloves. He surveyed the room, shook his head, gave a tsking sound, then turned to Cole. “Good work, Patton. You’re dismissed. We’ll get your statements at the station.”

  Brody nudged Cole, his voice lowered. “Bet this was an eight on the pucker scale.”

  Cole might have said ten, but he hadn’t puked, pissed, or crapped his pants, and no gunfire had been exchanged, so he agreed with Brody. “All good.”

  At the station, while they waited in the break room for the detectives to come back with their prisoners—prisoner, because the clown had been taken to the ER—Brody filled Cole in on what he’d learned from the restaurant manager.

  “Clownie—whose name is Jake Fallon, but I think Clownie is more appropriate—and his partner held up a lounge in Salem. Restaurant, bar, upscale, but not snooty, you know. Thursdays are two-for-one drinks, karaoke nights, and the place was doing a fundraiser for a local charity. Some local celebrities performed. The coffers were overflowing.”

  A platter of muffins sat on the counter, and Cole snagged one to give him an excuse to sit rather than admit to shaking knees. He set it on a napkin in front of him, picking it apart. “Cut to the chase, Brody.”

  “Hey, how often do we get something like this in Pine Hills? I should be allowed to milk it.”

  “Moo,” Cole said.

  Brody flipped him off. “The two guys had almost pulled off what they considered a perfect crime, and were on their way to their getaway vehicle when a man from the bar followed them outside and fired his weapon. Caught Clownie, but they still managed to drive away.”

  “How did they end up here?”

  “Turns out Clownie and Higgins go back a ways. Served in the same army unit. Higgins was a medic. They parted ways. Neither wanted anything to do with the militar
y life. Whereas Higgins went into the food business, Clownie and his rabbit buddy opted for a life of crime. When the chips were down—or, in this case, the bullets flew—Clownie showed up at Burger Hut to call in a favor, demanding Higgins patch him up to avoid the ramifications of showing up at the ER with a bullet wound. Thanks to your brilliant police work, it’s where he ended up anyway.”

  Detweiler poked his head into the break room. “Here’s as good a place as any,” Detweiler said. “Kovak has Mr. Rabbit—which is his name, by the way—in interrogation. Let’s get your statements for the record.” He grabbed a cup of coffee, then sat and placed a recorder in the middle of the table.

  “Did everyone get out?” Cole asked.

  MORGAN OPENED HER EYES and read the message.

  While I cannot say for certain, the sample you sent does look like it might be related to Metropolitan Financial’s records. I took the liberty of forwarding it to a colleague who worked here at the same time as your uncle, and she confirmed that it looked like it had been written by your uncle, although she couldn’t guarantee it. Given that these ledgers you spoke of were found in a house that had belonged to Robert Tate lends credence to their validity.

  He also noted that these types of records pre-dated MFS, which took over a smaller company, Portland Financial Management, in the 1970s. Your uncle was part of Portland Financial, and it’s possible these records go back that far.

  Way to beat around the bush. Morgan continued reading.

  It is the policy of MFS to encrypt records for the privacy of our clients. Each is assigned an account number, and our system uses these rather than names for our recordkeeping. When MFS acquired Portland Financial Management, it’s likely parts of their recordkeeping methods carried over and became policy at MFS. If these were MFS records, the number at the top would be the client, and the rest would be investment accounts, sales and purchases, profits and losses, and the like. I doubt anyone still working at the firm would be able to interpret these without your uncle’s personal records.

  When your uncle retired from MFS, his clients would have been split among our other advisors. Most of his contemporaries are no longer with MFS. If it is important to you, I can try to put you in touch with one of them.

  I hope this is of some help.

  D. Gehman

  Some help? Maybe.

  Thanks so much for your time, she replied.

  At least she knew the ledgers were part of Uncle Bob’s work. Why would Uncle Bob have kept them? Leftovers from his days with the other company?

  Packed in a box, tucked into the basement, and forgotten was her guess.

  Not as much fun as if they’d been secret messages, but at least she could close the door on that mystery.

  “Miss Tate?”

  Austin’s call yanked her from her musings. There was no fear, no alarm in his tone, so she put on her robe and went down the hall to his room. He sat propped up against the headboard, the notepad she’d given him lying on the nightstand, Bailey curled up at the foot of the bed.

  “What do you need?” she asked. “And I think, now that you’re living with me, you can call me Morgan.”

  He seemed to ponder that for a moment. “Okay. Can we go to Mr. Detweiler’s tomorrow? I want to try my playlist, and I’m not positive about the names of these pieces. Too many are numbers. Sonatas and Opuses. I get them mixed up. I left my sheet music there like Mr. Detweiler told me, since I don’t need it here, but some of what I want on my playlist aren’t my practice pieces.”

  Morgan smiled as she remembered learning the names of what she was playing. “Yes, we can go, and I can help you with the titles.”

  “Can I play them for you and Mr. and Mrs. Detweiler? Like a recital? Maybe you could invite Mr. Patton, too.”

  Would there be heavy metal on Austin’s playlist? She doubted it. Cole could suck it up.

  “That would be wonderful.” Morgan’s mind jumped ahead to getting Austin used to performing. What opportunities were there in Pine Hills? Was there a hall she could rent? A school auditorium?

  Austin extended his fist, and she ran through his secret handshake.

  “Now, get to sleep.” Was he too old, or too new to being part of her household—family was still too much to hope for—for a goodnight kiss? She let their handshake ritual suffice.

  She crawled into bed, checked her phone one more time. Where was Cole? Was he all right? He must have known she and Austin were at the restaurant. That they’d be worried. The internet videos were all after the fact, posted by the few people who hadn’t had the sense to get out of a potentially dangerous situation. From what she could see, the cops had rounded the bad guys into an ambulance and police car, doing an excellent job of hiding faces.

  She saw uniforms. Cole hadn’t been wearing one. She clicked from one video to the next, but Cole was nowhere to be found. Was he all right? They hadn’t loaded him into an ambulance, had they?

  He had to be all right. If something had happened to him, would someone call her? Who? Nobody knew they were better than friends. Had Cole mentioned her to one of his cop buddies? If he had, they’d have let her know, right?

  She told herself this was the time to believe in No news is good news, and turned off the light. Exhausted as she was, questions roiled through her brain. Repairs. Deliveries. Cole. Kinship Care. A piano teacher for Austin. Cole. Would Randy let her secret slip? Could Austin finish his school year doing lessons from Dublin teachers? Cole.

  How could she ignore her feelings for Cole? Just because having an intimate relationship was frowned upon by the people who could grant her custody of Austin didn’t make the feelings go away.

  The heart wants what the heart wants.

  Did he have the same feelings? Maybe the nice Cole was all part of getting her into bed.

  You’re forgetting you were the one who instigated that.

  So, maybe she’d gone too far, and he was glad she’d told him they couldn’t have a relationship. Gave him the easy way out.

  Chapter 41

  COLE SHOVED HIS CRUMBLED muffin aside. He eyed Detweiler’s recorder. The scorched coffee aroma permeated the room. His stomach felt like he’d swallowed a super-sized portion of broken glass. Sweat filmed his body. Buzzing in his ears sounded like high-voltage electric wires. He eyed the door to the restroom.

  Visions of Jazz, of Morgan, of Austin lying bleeding refused to leave. Of his first reaction when he saw the man with the knife poised above the clown. That he was torturing him, serial killer style.

  Nobody died. Nobody got hurt.

  Cole swallowed. He was not going to puke. Not now.

  Yes he was. He bolted for the restroom, emptied the meager contents of his stomach. Heaved until there was nothing left, then heaved some more.

  He rose to his feet on unsteady legs, staggered to the sink, and clutched the edge of the basin. He grabbed a handful of paper towels, soaked them in cold water, and wiped his face, his neck. Leaned over the stream of water, filling his mouth, rinsing, spitting, until he felt semi-human.

  Studying his pathetic reflection in the mirror, he waited until he looked semi-human before making his way to the table. A bottle of water sat in front of his chair. Brody—all traces of humor gone—was reporting his part in the arrest.

  Cole slid into his seat, unscrewed the water bottle, but didn’t trust his stomach enough to drink.

  “You want to wait until tomorrow?” Detweiler asked.

  Cole twirled the bottle in his hands. “Nah. Let’s get it over with.” He related everything that had happened. “The grandmother and the kid. He pitched a fit about using the bathroom. Whether they know it or not, they’re the real heroes. Rabbit lost his focus, which gave me the chance to act. Any way to get their names? Did they give statements?”

  “We have statements from everyone who didn’t hightail it to safer positions once they left the restaurant,” Brody said. “The woman was in the restroom with her grandson, so she didn’t see how you subdued the su
spect, but we have her name and address.”

  “Would it be all right if I stopped by tomorrow, told her how she and her grandson helped? Give the boy one of the police badge stickers we give to schoolkids?”

  “Don’t see it as a problem,” Detweiler said. “We’re always looking for ways to show people—kids especially—that cops are the good guys.”

  Cole had a fleeting vision of his discussion with Austin. Cops as good guys was a rare opinion these days.

  Those thoughts triggered more visions of Jazz and Morgan. He picked up his water bottle with both hands to hide his shaking, and braved a sip. Stayed down. Good.

  “Too bad Burger Hut doesn’t have cameras in the dining room,” Brody said. “I wish I’d seen Big Toby Vandenburg sitting on the rabbit. I expect him to visit the mayor tomorrow and ask for a medal.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, they can all have medals,” Cole said. “Keeping quiet so I had the element of surprise in the kitchen was a gift from whoever’s up there looking after cops in trouble.”

  “You were quick,” Detweiler said. “They were still in shock. The delay before they could react was all you needed.”

  Cole accepted the reality, but he still held out that once in a while, whoever watched over cops was in the right place at the right time.

  Kovak sauntered into the room, sniffed at the coffee pot, grimaced, and snagged a muffin. After a bite, he said, “This morning’s or a week ago last Tuesday’s? They’re definitely not from Ashley’s bakery.”

  Kovak took a seat, and Cole wondered how the man acted as though everything was a normal day at the office.

  Then again, Cole was the only one who’d been there for the incident. Arriving after the fact had to be easier.

  “Our suspect’s being transported to the county jail. As interrogations went—” Kovak held his hand out, palm down, and wiggled it back and forth. “He insisted he was acting under orders. He confessed to the robbery at the lounge in Salem, to driving the van—which did contain a duffel stuffed with cash, by the way—and to agreeing to hold people in the dining room while his partner had his wound treated. He’s using the but I didn’t hurt anybody defense. We’ll see how far that gets him.”