Save Your Breath

by Leigh, Melinda

  “Today’s meeting was a free consultation.” Morgan wanted nothing from the poor woman.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Olander rose and tucked her purse under one arm. “You could have taken the case and run up a huge bill, but you were honest with me. I do appreciate that.”

  She turned and walked out of Morgan’s office with the stiff, painful gait of a beaten woman. Needing air, Morgan escorted her into the hall.

  The door to the next office was open. Lance sat behind his desk. He took in Morgan’s face and the client’s in one glance, no doubt also reading the hopelessness in Mrs. Olander’s body language.

  Morgan saw the woman out. When she closed the door and turned around, Lance was leaning in his doorway. Six two, blond, and buff, he wore tactical cargos, a snug black T-shirt, and a Glock. He looked more like a SWAT team member than a PI. Despite his badass appearance, his blue eyes were soft and concerned as they met hers.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  Morgan nodded. She rented office space from Sharp Investigations. Since her cases often required the services of an investigator, the arrangement was convenient. The PI firm occupied the bottom half of the duplex. The firm’s founder, Lincoln Sharp, lived upstairs.

  Morgan headed for the kitchen at the rear of the building. She poured a glass of filtered water from the pitcher in the fridge. She turned and leaned against the counter. The window that overlooked the backyard was open, and cool air wafted into the room, bringing with it the scents of falling leaves and woodsmoke.

  “You look like you need something stronger than water.” Lance turned and leaned next to her. Their arms touched, his contact grounding her as always.

  Morgan’s husband had been killed in Iraq a few years before. She’d spent two years burrowed under depression and grief. Last year, she’d reconnected with Lance, whom she’d dated briefly in high school. Their reconnection had blossomed into a relationship filled with love and respect. He’d asked her to marry him last spring. She was grateful every single day that she’d been given a second chance at love.

  Morgan sighed. “That was a rough one.”

  “What did she want?”

  Morgan summed up the meeting in a few sentences. “I could have taken the case. It would have required a marathon of overtime, but I’m capable of filing an appeal. I would have charged her a fraction of what an appellate lawyer at a big firm would cost.” Doubt crept into Morgan’s chest.

  As a former prosecutor, she was still adjusting to being on the defense side of the courtroom. When she’d first opened her practice, she’d been skeptical. Her years as a prosecutor had convinced her that almost all suspects were guilty. But her attitude had shifted. She’d proven a number of people innocent who had been charged with serious crimes. She could think of few things worse than going to prison for life for a murder one didn’t commit.

  “We both know it’s unlikely that prejudice from one juror could cause an innocent man to be found guilty,” Lance said. “It takes all twelve jurors to convict. They have to reach a unanimous decision.”

  “This is true,” Morgan agreed. “I felt terrible for Mrs. Olander, but I didn’t see an appeal going anywhere.”

  “You were honest with her. You are a trial lawyer—and a damned good one at that. You don’t need to take every case you’re offered. You have other clients.”

  “None of those are very challenging at the moment.”

  “Every case doesn’t have to make headlines. That high school senior facing a month in jail for vandalism needs your help too. You need to listen to your instincts. If the case doesn’t feel right, there’s probably a reason.”

  “You’re right.” Morgan finished her water and set the cup on the counter. “I have total control over which clients I accept, and routine cases are wonderful. I have no desire to work a hundred hours a week.”

  “Damn right.” Lance turned to face her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “That’s the best part of being self-employed. I like being home for dinner with the kids.”

  “So do I. Family dinners are important.”

  Lance’s house had burned down six months before. He’d moved in with Morgan’s family and had bonded with her three young daughters. The girls had embraced him as their soon-to-be stepfather. Lance had even become the preferred bedtime story reader. He put serious effort into voice-acting every character, sometimes sending the girls into giggling fits that didn’t exactly encourage sleep.

  The children didn’t miss their biological father the way Morgan did. Only her oldest, at age seven, had even the faintest memory of him. Morgan was glad her kids were happy. The thought of them not remembering their father made her sad, but she kept it to herself.

  Lance let his fingertips slide down her arms until he was holding her hands. “We’re getting married in just over two weeks. We don’t have time for a long and complicated case.”

  “No, we don’t.” Morgan put aside her morning meeting. She deserved to enjoy every moment of pre-wedding excitement. “Now tell me where we’re going for our honeymoon. I need to pack.”

  “It will be warm.” Lance laughed. “And that’s all I’m telling you. The rest is a surprise.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Your sister will make sure you are adequately prepared.” Lance’s smile turned smug.

  Before Morgan could protest about their secret honeymoon destination, the sharp, unmistakable sound of a gunshot came through the open window.

  Chapter Four

  The gunshot sent Lance’s hand to his sidearm. Pulling the weapon was a reflex. Tucking Morgan behind him was just as automatic. His brain knew she didn’t require his protection, but his heart didn’t care.

  Morgan dropped to one knee and ducked her head below the level of the countertop, her own gun in her hand. She whispered, “Could you tell where the shot came from?”

  Lance shook his head, duckwalked to the window, and peered over the ledge. The small rear yard appeared empty and quiet. Reaching up, he closed and locked the window. Then he turned and jogged in a crouch out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Morgan was right behind him.

  “Sharp!” Lance called.

  “In here.” Sharp’s voice came from his office. Lance and Morgan slipped into the room. The original living room of the duplex, Sharp’s office had a large window that overlooked the street. Lance’s boss, PI Sharp, was peering around the window frame, gun in hand, his lean face grim. As a result of a strict exercise regimen, a green and crunchy lifestyle, and pure stubbornness, the fifty-three-year-old retired police officer was in better shape than most college kids.

  “Could you tell where it came from?” Lance asked.

  “Out there.” Sharp nodded toward the street. “See anyone out back?”

  “No.” Lance angled his body on the opposite side of the window. The tree-lined street was empty. “Have you seen anyone?”

  “All I see is that van parked across the street in front of the accounting firm.”

  Lance focused on the white minivan parked at the curb. Sunlight reflected off the windows. “I can’t see if anyone is inside the vehicle.”

  “Should I call 911?” Morgan asked. “Are we sure it wasn’t a car backfiring?”

  Sharp’s lean face creased. “Sounded like a gunshot to me, but it’s possible.” He headed for the door. “Let’s check it out.”

  Lance followed Sharp. Looking over his shoulder at Morgan, he said, “Stay here and keep watch. Someone needs to be able to call the police.”

  She nodded and took a position at the edge of the window.

  In the hall, Sharp turned toward the back of the house. “We’ll go out the back door and circle around.”

  In case there was a shooter outside, they wouldn’t want to walk out the front door.

  They went into the kitchen. Lance checked the rear yard. Still empty. He moved into position behind his boss. Lance’s pulse throbbed in his throat as Sharp slipped out the door. They crept across the b
ack porch and jumped over the railing into the side yard. Moving quickly, they jogged in the shadow of the house to the front corner.

  Shoulder to shoulder, they pressed their backs against the siding.

  Sharp peered around the corner. “Looks clear.”

  “I’ll cross to the tree at the curb.”

  Sharp nodded, stepping into position to provide cover.

  Lance darted around a low trimmed shrub and then ran in a crouch across the front yard. He stopped at the oak tree, pressing his back into the bark and scanning the street in both directions. He listened intently, but adrenaline—and the echo of his own heartbeat—drowned out most external noise.

  His gaze fell on the minivan parked on the opposite side of the street. The sun’s reflection turned the windows into mirrors. Lance looked back at Sharp, then motioned toward the minivan. Sharp tapped his own chest and pointed toward the tree. Lance waited for Sharp to cross the lawn and join him at the tree before jogging across the blacktop. He circled the van, angling off onto the lawn of the accountant’s office.

  From his position, the sun no longer bounced off the vehicle windows, and Lance had a clear view inside. A figure was slumped over the steering wheel.

  He moved closer, peering into the front and back seats. Rounding the rear of the van, he cupped one hand over his eyes and looked through the tinted glass. The cargo area was empty.

  Lance headed for the front of the minivan. His initial inspection had concentrated on looking for threats. Now that he knew the rest of the vehicle was clear, he turned his attention back to the driver.

  Even after hearing the gunshot, the sight still shocked him.

  The inside of the driver’s window and front corner of the windshield were splattered with blood and gore. Lance moved around to the passenger-side window for an unobstructed view.

  It was the woman who had just left Morgan’s office. There was a hole in her temple, just above her right ear. Her right arm lay on the seat next to her thigh. Her open fingers extended just beyond the seat of the van. On the floor was a Glock 43.

  “GSW. Call 911.” Using the hem of his T-shirt, Lance tried the vehicle door. Locked. He ran around to the driver’s side. Also locked. The windows were all closed.

  Sharp jogged across the street, his phone pressed to his ear. He gave the dispatcher the address, then held the phone away from his face. “Could she still be alive?”

  “Doubt it.” But the possibility, even if it was a long shot, trumped preservation of evidence. Lance turned his gun in his hand and used the butt end to break the driver’s side window. Reaching inside the vehicle, he pressed two fingers to the woman’s neck. “She’s dead.”

  Sharp relayed the information on the phone, then turned and walked a few feet away.

  Lance holstered his gun, took his phone out of his pocket, and began taking pictures. If questions arose regarding the death, he wanted his own records. The police didn’t always want to share, and once law enforcement arrived, the vehicle would be off-limits.

  Crouching, he squinted at the spatter of gore on the inside of the windows. Along with blood, bits of bone and brain matter were stuck to the glass. Lance bent lower to get a better view of her face and head. Her eyes were open and empty. He checked the passenger-side windows but saw no sign that a bullet had been fired into the vehicle.

  On the passenger seat, a brown purse sat open. The Glock 43 on the floor was a lightweight, compact 9mm—a solid choice for concealed carry. Had the woman taken her handgun from her purse?

  Lance went cold from the inside out. Mrs. Olander had likely been carrying that gun during her meeting with Morgan. A shoe scraped on the pavement behind him. He turned to see Morgan standing a few feet away. She rubbed her arms. Her slim gray skirt and silk blouse offered little protection against the morning chill. Her long black hair was coiled at the nape of her neck.

  “Who is it?”

  He stood and blocked her view of the body. “The woman who just left your office.”

  “Is she all right?” She tried to look around him.

  He shifted, putting a hand on her arm. “No. There’s nothing anyone can do. She’s dead.”

  Morgan’s face froze in horror for a few seconds. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know why that’s a surprise. We heard the gunshot.”

  She’d been a prosecutor for years, and they had worked several murder cases together after she’d opened her own criminal defense firm. She had seen dead bodies before. She didn’t need to be sheltered, but doing so was a reflex for him.

  He dropped his hand, and she walked around him. He watched her steel herself as she examined the body and vehicle. Sadness creased her face. Morgan never lost her empathy. Her refusal to be hardened to violence and its impact on the innocent made her job tougher, but it also gave her the passion to fight for her clients.

  Her mouth flattened. “Suicide?”

  “Probably.”

  She shot him a glance.

  “This is not your fault,” he said.

  “I know.” But responsibility was all over her face. The heart didn’t always believe what the brain told it.

  “I mean it.”

  “She killed herself within minutes of leaving my office.” Morgan hugged her waist. “She said I was her last hope, and I refused to take the case.”

  “This is not your fault,” Lance repeated in a stronger voice.

  A siren sounded in the distance, and he put his phone in his pocket.

  Sharp lowered his phone too. All three of them stepped a few feet farther from the vehicle. A Scarlet Falls PD patrol vehicle parked a few yards from the minivan.

  Officer Carl Ripton climbed out. Lance and Sharp had worked with Ripton on the SFPD. Carl verified the victim was dead, then approached Sharp, Lance, and Morgan. “What happened?”

  “We heard a shot.” Sharp gave Carl a quick summary of the discovery of the body.

  Carl returned to his patrol vehicle to make calls. A few minutes later, he returned with a small notepad and pen. He separated Morgan, Lance, and Sharp, took a statement from each of them, and asked them to wait on the sidewalk.

  “The ME is on his way.” Carl retrieved a camera from his vehicle and began taking pictures and notes.

  A half hour passed before the medical examiner and Morgan’s sister, Detective Stella Dane, arrived. Stella and the ME examined the body and conferred with Carl. The ME’s team unloaded a gurney from the back of the van. It was already outfitted with an open black body bag. Neighborhood looky-loos were gathering on the sidewalk. People craned their necks, trying to see the body.

  Stella glanced at the gawkers, then turned to Morgan, Sharp, and Lance. “Can we go inside to talk?”

  “Certainly.” Sharp led the way through the front door. “I’ll also pull the surveillance camera feeds for you.” He turned into his office.

  “Perfect.” Stella followed Morgan and Lance back to the kitchen.

  Stella sat down at the table next to her sister and produced a small notebook from her pocket. “Tell me about your client.”

  “Mrs. Olander wasn’t my client,” Morgan corrected. She detailed her meeting with Mrs. Olander. Lance corroborated Mrs. Olander’s arrival and departure times.

  “So no one saw her after she walked out the door,” Stella clarified.

  “That’s correct.” Morgan nodded.

  Sharp returned with his laptop and set it on the table. “It’s all here.”

  He tapped on the keyboard to wake the computer. The screen came to life, and Sharp clicked “Play.”

  On the screen, Mrs. Olander walked out of the office, crossed the street, and got into her minivan. Once she closed the vehicle door, her figure became a blur behind the glass. She seemed to sit still for a while. Lance imagined her staring through the windshield, full of hopelessness. Then her shadow moved.

  The silent splatter on the inside of the window made them all flinch. Lance’s stomach turned over. No one spoke for a few heartbeats.


  Sharp cleared his throat, then pointed to the screen. “Both cameras in front of the house actually cover the minivan, but the other one is at a bad angle. All you can see is the reflection of the sun. I’ll give you both videos, though.”

  “Did you watch any more of the video?” Stella asked. “Does anyone approach or leave the van?”

  Sharp clicked on “Fast-Forward.” “As you can see, there’s no one on the video until we find her. In the download I included the entire time period until Carl arrives.”

  “OK.” Stella sighed and nodded. “That makes my job much easier.”

  It didn’t get much clearer than having the suicide caught on video.

  “I’ll make tea.” Sharp filled the kettle and then lit the burner under it. He dropped a mesh tea ball into his ceramic pot. When the kettle whistled, he filled the pot and brought it to the table, along with four mugs.

  Morgan didn’t argue, even though Lance knew she’d rather have coffee. But then, maybe she was as queasy as he was. Besides, they all knew when Sharp went into mother-hen mode, there was no stopping him. Sharp was not satisfied with living his own neo-hippie lifestyle. He wanted to pawn it off on everyone around him.

  Sharp poured.

  “Thank you.” Stella added a teaspoon of sugar to her cup.

  Sharp’s phone rang, and he excused himself, leaving the room to answer the call. His voice faded.

  Stella wrote a few notes, then pocketed her notepad. “Considering the video and other evidence, Mrs. Olander’s death appears to be a suicide. I don’t see any sign of foul play.”

  “The woman was clearly despondent about her son’s conviction,” Morgan added, her voice riddled with guilt. Lance covered her hand with his, and she gave him a small smile of appreciation.

  “I’ll let you know when the ME finishes the autopsy and issues an official cause of death.” Stella’s cell buzzed, and she glanced down at it. “I have to go. So much crime. So little time.”

  “Where’s Brody?” Lance asked.

  Stella was one of two detectives in Scarlet Falls.

  “He’s on vacation,” she said. “He and Hannah are drinking rum on a beach in Aruba.”