Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  He set his muffin aside and trapped Cole with his gaze. “Good job, quick thinking. How are you holding up? I’m surprised the big guy hasn’t sent you home already. Or at least invited you into his office for a sip of his secret stash.” The two detectives exchanged a knowing look.

  “I’d rather get my report written and filed before going home,” Cole said. “While it’s fresh in my mind.”

  Detweiler tapped the recorder. “We have people who can transcribe this for your signature tomorrow,” he said. “If you’d like to drink a toast to an officer defusing an incident without a shot being fired, I’m fine with that.”

  “Don’t forget apprehending two bad guys,” Brody added.

  Cole didn’t want to go home where nightmares about Jazz’s shooting and what might have happened tonight would be playing in 3-D on a big screen.

  He took several long pulls on his water bottle, then stood, testing his knees. No more shaking. “Thank you, Sir. A short drink would be nice.”

  “Make sure it’s the good stuff, and it’ll be better than nice,” Kovak said, a hint of a grin in Detweiler’s direction. “I need to get home.”

  Kovak reached into his pocket, pulled out a cell phone and handed it to Cole. “Here. We had eight unclaimed phones. Yours was among them. Forgot I had it while I was interviewing Rabbit.”

  Tapping his pocket to confirm his was missing, Cole said, “Thanks. Forgot all about it, too.”

  To Cole’s surprise, Brody declined Detweiler’s offer of a drink. That, combined with the look the two detectives had exchanged, made Cole wonder if after the group commendation, he might be in for a private reprimand for acting on his own.

  MORGAN HURRIED TO DRESS the next morning, not wanting to greet Tom and his crew in her robe. The fact that Cole might be included had nothing to do with it, she told herself as she tamed her hair and applied makeup. Not a lot. Eyeliner, a hint of shadow, mascara, and lip gloss. A squirt of perfume. She snorted. Definitely not doing this for Cole. He’d seen her naked.

  Didn’t mean she shouldn’t look presentable.

  She found Austin in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. “Sleep okay?”

  He nodded, put his spoon down, and hummed a tune. “Which one is this? I know it’s Mozart, but can’t remember the name. Turk something?”

  Morgan poured a cup of leftover coffee and put it in the microwave. “Right. That’s Sonata Number Eleven in A major. ‘Alla Turca’.”

  “Thanks.” He dashed upstairs.

  “Where’s Bailey?” she called after him.

  “Backyard.”

  Best that the dog stay outside while the crew was working, so she filled his water dish and set it beside the steps. He scampered over and dropped a ball at her feet. Rumbling and clunking sounds came from the front of the house. Too loud to be Tom’s van. She picked up the ball, threw it across the yard, and went out front to investigate. Tom and his partner were unloading a Bobcat from a trailer.

  She hadn’t given the front porch more than a cursory glance when she’d driven in last night. Tom was supposed to have repaired it. Why was so much of the entranceway dug up, and why the scattered holes? The porch landing looked new, but the steps were makeshift. She met Tom and one of his crew as they climbed out of the van.

  “What happened?” She pointed toward the porch.

  “Slight delay while they dug up the bones,” Tom said. “It’s first on our list today.”

  Morgan’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Bones? What bones?”

  “Thought you knew. Your dog found a bone under the porch, and they had to call the county to dig them up. They’re done now, so we can get going again.”

  “What kind of bones?” Her mind shot to the graffiti with its Now You’re Dead message.

  Tom hiked a shoulder. “Human, or the cops wouldn’t have been all over the place. That’s all I know.”

  “Did they get them all?” Visions of skeletons beneath her house, like the catacombs in Rome, swam before her eyes.

  “They said so.” Tom and his partner worked a table saw from the back of the van. “Gave us the green light.”

  Cole hadn’t thought to mention this? No, he’d probably thought about it, then decided not to tell her, keep her from freaking while she was away.

  It was her house. She had a right to know what was going on. Was he coming to work today? Or had something happened after everyone left the restaurant last night?

  He’d have let her know. Or it would have been on social media.

  “Just the two of you working today?” she asked Tom.

  “Nope. Forsythe should be here any minute.”

  The two men set up the saw and a pair of sawhorses, then went to the side of the house, returning with several long planks of lumber. Tom pulled a notebook from a pocket of his jeans and read off measurements to his partner, who laid boards across the sawhorses, measured and marked them. Their third worker, Layton Forsythe, Trisha’s husband, appeared from the side yard and moved toward the Bobcat.

  Tom hadn’t mentioned Cole, and she wasn’t going to ask. She went inside, saw her coffee still sitting in the microwave. She dumped it and set a fresh pot to brew. A full one, enough for the crew.

  She checked her phone. No messages from Cole.

  Screw that. Screw him.

  She brought her laptop to the kitchen. Her email program showed a message from a sender she didn’t recognize. The subject line said it was about her uncle and Portland Financial. She opened the message, trusting her anti-virus software to do its thing.

  Morgan read the message. A woman introduced herself as her uncle’s administrative assistant with Portland when he worked there, and offered her condolences.

  Mr. Tate insisted on maintaining his own records. Based on what Mr. Gehman forwarded, this appears to be the kind of ledger Portland Financial advisors kept during its earlier years, and the writing looks like Mr. Tate’s. The left hand column would be dates, then the investment name, then anything bought or sold. The last column would be gains or losses.

  It fit with what she and Cole had hypothesized, and matched what Mr. Gehman said. She kept reading.

  I didn’t follow Mr. Tate when the companies merged, so I can’t speak to how Metropolitan handled these records. My supposition is the data were computerized at Metropolitan, and for whatever reason, Mr. Tate kept the originals. I hope this answers your questions. Feel free to contact me if you have others.

  With the whine of the power saw and the pounding of nails in the background, Morgan reread the message. Nothing new, just confirmed what Mr. Gehman said. But, if the ledgers were how records were kept at Portland, what about the spiral notebooks? The sheet in Uncle Bob’s pocket? Were those drafts that he’d copied into the ledgers? Or copied from them?

  Where had she put them? In her bedroom closet.

  Morgan collected the ledgers, then moved boxes from the kitchen table to the counter to make room to work. She opened a ledger, checking the columns against what Uncle Bob’s admin had told her.

  Austin joined her. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not sure. Trying to see if these pages of numbers in these ledgers are the same or different from the ones in this notebook.”

  “Can I help?”

  Four eyes were better than two. “Sure.”

  She tore the sheets out of the spiral notebook and handed Austin half, plus one of the ledgers. “See if you can find any pages in the ledger with the same numbers at the top for starters.”

  Austin, tongue peeking from between his lips, took a notebook sheet, studied it, then turned pages of the ledger. Seemed like a workable system, so she took another sheet and did the same with her ledger.

  “I found one,” he said a couple minutes later.

  Morgan scooted over to look.

  Sure enough, what she’d been told were client code numbers at the top matched. She ran her finger down the columns on the ledger sheet, comparing them to the ones on the notebook page.

  According
to what Uncle Bob’s admin said, the first column was dates, the second the investment. The ledger and the notebook matched there, but the other columns were different.

  Morgan grabbed her phone, took pictures of both pages, and sent them to the woman for an explanation.

  The back door opened, and Bailey scooted in, followed by Cole, dark circles under his eyes, a thick shadow of stubble at his jaw.

  Hangover? She didn’t know whether to be relieved he was all right or angry because he hadn’t let her know.

  Chapter 42

  “SORRY I’M LATE.” THE aroma of fresh coffee drew Cole straight to Morgan’s coffee pot. He raised the carafe from the warmer. “May I?”

  “Help yourself. You know where everything is.”

  He couldn’t begrudge the irritation in her tone. By the time he’d finished at the station, it was after two, and three by the time he’d rolled into bed. He’d managed a few hours of restless sleep before letting Tom know he’d been stuck at work and was running late. Better to face Morgan in person. After another hit of caffeine.

  “Good morning, Mr. Patton.” Austin looked up from papers he and Morgan were going over.

  Cole poured his coffee and took a reviving sip. “Good morning, Austin.”

  “Last night was really cool. You caught that bad guy and didn’t shoot anybody.”

  Cole tried not to smile. “I told you before, just because cops have guns doesn’t mean they want to shoot people. I tried to find a better way to keep everyone in the restaurant safe. I had help from a few other people.”

  “Yeah, like that fat man sitting on the bad guy. I’ll bet he didn’t like that.”

  Cole shot a glance Morgan’s way. She was focused on her laptop, not intervening in the conversation, so he guessed he was on steady ground. Austin wasn’t showing signs that last night had traumatized him.

  He’s holding up better than you are.

  Cole leaned on the counter, waiting for the caffeine to hit his bloodstream.

  “You can let the others know they’re welcome to come in for coffee,” Morgan said.

  “I’ll do that.” He scraped a thumbnail across his stubble. “Look, about last night.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m sure you had a good reason for not letting me know you were all right.”

  Austin seemed to shrink into himself.

  Cole shot Morgan a glance, chinning toward the boy. She must have understood that Austin picked up on the tension.

  “I meant to say thank you for watching Bailey,” she said.

  “Not a problem. He’s a good dog. Everything work out on your trip?”

  Morgan nodded. “I think so, yes.”

  He stepped close enough to see that she and Austin had been looking at the ledger and notebook pages. “Find anything?”

  “I did,” Austin said. “We were matching numbers, and I found a page that almost fit.”

  “Austin’s got sharp eyes,” Morgan said, squeezing the boy’s arm. “I heard from a woman who worked with my uncle, and she explained that they are probably what we thought. Financial reports.”

  There was more, but he’d let her decide when the time was right to fill him in.

  “I should get to work,” he said. “Maybe we can catch up on my lunch break.”

  “Sure. If I’m around.” Her tone said she would make a point of not being here.

  He’d wasted the I’m sorry card when he’d walked in apologizing for being late, instead of for not letting her know he was all right. “Okay,” was the best he could do.

  She ran her thumb across her fingertips. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check my email. Austin, how’s your playlist coming? Will you need any new sheet music?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “After I try them at Mr. Detweiler’s house, I’ll be able to tell.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Now, you need to get your school assignments done.”

  He huffed, but went upstairs. Was sending Austin out of the room Morgan’s way of telling Cole she was ready to talk?

  She busied herself with her laptop while he hid behind his coffee mug, pondering the best way to open a discussion.

  “When did you plan to tell me about the bones?” she asked. “Why did I have to find out from Tom?”

  Problem solved. He set his mug on the table and sat beside her. She didn’t flinch or move away, a good sign. “I didn’t want to interrupt. I knew you were busy, and it was an emotional time for you. There was nothing you could have done except worry, and I didn’t want that.”

  Cole explained what had happened, from Bailey digging up the first bone to the opening of a Pine Hills case, to the excavation process, to what Kovak and Detweiler had found, to waiting on DNA results.

  He dragged both hands through his hair. “I was going to tell you. I didn’t think you needed to hear it at three in the morning, though.”

  “What about what happened at Burger Hut?” she asked, her tone coated in frost. “You shooed everyone outside, and then you didn’t call. Or text. With or without capital letters and punctuation.”

  His eyebrows shot up. Okay, he should have been in touch, but why was she critiquing his texts?

  “First, the rabbit took my cell phone, too, and I didn’t get it back until I was at the station dealing with reports and statements.” He rested his fingers on her thigh.

  There came the flinch.

  He removed his hand. Her blazing eyes bore no resemblance to a cute fawn’s.

  “You could have been killed. What were you thinking, rushing that guy all by yourself?”

  “It’s my job, Morgan. Protecting people, remember.” He exhaled a lungful of air. “When I saw you and Austin in the restaurant, my heart stopped. I did the only thing I could think of. Get you—and everyone—to safety, which meant getting rid of that threat and getting you all outside so I could deal with the next threat.”

  “I saw it online. Why didn’t you just grab a cell phone and call 911 once you overpowered the gunman? That fat man and the other people had him secured. Why put yourself at more risk?”

  “I didn’t know who else was in the kitchen. I had to remove that threat first. I was lucky. There was only one accomplice, and he was incapacitated. It could have been more, and they could have come out shooting.”

  “At you,” she snapped.

  He kept his voice lowered. “But not at you, or Austin, or anyone else in the restaurant.”

  He couldn’t find the words to mention that part of the reason he hadn’t slept was because he realized that despite Morgan’s aggravating quirks—or maybe because of them—he loved her. You couldn’t say that to somebody you’d known for only a week. Particularly while said somebody was reaming you a new one.

  Her silence sliced through him like a sleet-filled winter storm.

  MORGAN KEPT HER GAZE averted, unable to meet Cole’s eyes or trust her voice. This wasn’t the time to tell him how she felt. What it had been like, sitting there in the semi-darkness, seeing him walk into the restaurant seconds after the man in the Easter bunny mask had taken over the room. How afraid she’d been, that the man might have known Cole was a cop and shot him right there. How she’d wished Cole hadn’t been there at all, but was relieved that he was. How her emotions were all over the place, but deep down, she knew she loved him.

  How could you love someone you’d met a week ago?

  This wasn’t a Hallmark or Lifetime movie. This was real life.

  Her email chimed an incoming message.

  Thankful for the distraction, she ignored Cole’s presence—or tried to—and checked the screen. From the woman who’d worked with Uncle Bob.

  Morgan opened the message, skimming through the opening pleasantries, hunting for the meat.

  I’m concerned about the reports you sent. I don’t want to jump to conclusions based on a single example, and it’s hard to believe Mr. Tate would be involved in anything fraudulent. Please forward the rest of these duplicates to me. These could be i
nnocent errors, but it’s critical they be checked out.

  Uncle Bob involved in fraud?

  “Something wrong?” Cole’s voice reminded her he was still there. And that he was a cop. Of course, even though his job didn’t venture into the world of finance, he’d be a stickler for doing the right thing.

  With a sigh, she pushed away from the table and found the rest of the sheets from Uncle Bob’s notebook. As she snapped the pictures, Cole repeated his question.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Uncle Bob’s associate from way back when needs to see them.” She turned the laptop so Cole could read it.

  “Out of my area of expertise,” he said.

  “Mine, too. Let the pros handle it. They know what they’re doing.”

  As she spoke the words, she realized that’s what Cole had been doing last night. His job. As a professional. It meant he was willing to put his life on the line for people he didn’t know.

  Could she love someone who risked his life every day—even when he wasn’t working?

  The heart wants what the heart wants.

  Hearts didn’t look at someone’s job. Loving Cole and making a life with him were two separate pieces. And there was the little matter of whether or not he loved her.

  No time for love, real or imagined. She had Austin to think about, and that meant keeping her distance from Cole.

  She sent the emails. Cole’s freshly showered scent did nothing to help keep her distance. “I should see if Austin needs help with his homework.”

  “I’d better find out what Tom wants me to do today. I’ll let them know about the coffee.”

  After Cole left, Morgan put off going to check on Austin—he’d call if he needed help—and fetched three mugs from the cabinet, filled a cereal bowl with sugar and a measuring cup with milk and set them beside the coffee maker, along with some spoons. Once Tom said they were done in the kitchen, she’d unpack and have a standard sugar bowl and creamer.