“Neither are these high-capacity magazines,” Lance said. The sheer volume of weaponry was also highly suspect. “We should tell Stella.”
“How do we explain finding them?”
“Good point,” Lance said. “We’ll have to find a way around that. She’ll need to coordinate with the ATF.”
The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives would be interested in the possible illegal trafficking of firearms.
“You’re right,” Sharp admitted with a sigh.
Lance led the way out of the basement, blinking at the daylight. The overcast day felt bright compared to the darkness underground. They locked the bulkhead doors and returned to the Prius.
“Maybe my mom will turn up some dirt on Mr. Olander.” Lance slid into the passenger seat. He took his phone out of his pocket and checked his messages. He’d missed a text from Morgan. He’d been so focused on the search, he hadn’t felt his phone vibrate.
“He’s neck-deep in something.” Sharp started the engine.
Lance read Morgan’s message. His belly tightened. “Mr. Olander is at the office.”
“Shit.” Sharp turned the vehicle around. “I don’t like her being alone with him.”
Neither did Lance. He called Stella and put the call on speakerphone. “Hey, I need to tell you something as a confidential informant.”
Her sigh was audible over the connection.
“Would you rather me call from a pay phone?” he asked. Could he even find one that worked?
“Just tell me.” Weariness edged her voice.
“There are trunks full of guns and ammunition in the Olanders’ basement,” Lance said.
“And how do you know this?” she asked.
“An anonymous source told us,” Lance suggested.
Stella snorted. “Never mind. I don’t want to know the details. I assume you found no evidence of Olivia there?”
“None,” Lance answered.
“OK,” Stella said. “I’ll call the ATF office in Albany.”
“I have a contact there,” Sharp said. He had contacts everywhere in local law enforcement. “Do you want me to call him?”
“Who’s your contact?” Stella asked.
“Ryan Abrams,” Sharp answered.
“I’ve heard of him,” Stella said. “But we’ve never met.”
Ryan was a fifteen-year ATF veteran. He and Sharp had worked two cases together involving illegal gun sales while Sharp was with the SFPD.
“OK,” Stella agreed. “You call. Try to stay out of trouble.” Her tone suggested she didn’t have much faith that they would.
“We’ll try.” Lance glanced at Sharp, who was gripping the wheel with white knuckles. If Olivia wasn’t found soon, keeping Sharp out of danger was going to get harder.
The connection broke off, and Lance lowered his phone. “Maybe the ATF will send an agent.”
“They’ll need more than an anonymous claim that some guns were seen at a private residence to establish enough probable cause to obtain a search warrant,” Sharp said. “Other than the guns, we haven’t turned up any dirt on the Olanders.”
“I can’t think of any legitimate reason for a dairy farmer to have trunks full of guns and ammo.”
“Could he be an illegal arms dealer?” Sharp suggested as he drove away from the house.
“I don’t know. The guns seem to have been there awhile. I wouldn’t think a dealer would want to hang on to them for long periods of time.”
Sharp turned onto the main road. “Maybe he’s a collector.”
Lance jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the rear window. “That is not a collection. That is an arsenal.”
Chapter Fifteen
Morgan reminded herself that she was armed, and even if she wasn’t, she came from a family of cops. She’d been taught to defend herself at a young age. She didn’t believe in taking careless risks, but she certainly didn’t need to take this man’s abuse.
She summoned her cross-examination face and assessed Mr. Olander.
His face was flushed, and a vein on his temple throbbed. But there was no sign of wildness in his eyes. Instead, they were focused and sharp.
Calculated.
He was a bully, plain and simple.
Morgan no longer saw any sign of the devastated father and husband who had talked his way into her office. Mr. Olander was a skilled manipulator. He’d used her empathy for him against her. She would not allow that to happen again.
“Mr. Olander, I think it’s time for you to go.” Morgan stood. In her heels, she was nearly six feet tall, and she leveled him with a firm gaze.
But he didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned forward, slapping both palms on her desk. He was obviously accustomed to using his bluster to browbeat people. But in her prosecutor years, Morgan had been threatened by hardened killers, and she’d dealt with men much more intimidating than Mr. Olander—which was why she wore a Glock on her hip.
Her previous client attack in the courthouse had been a bizarre and isolated event. The man had had mental issues. He’d been unable to control himself, even knowing surveillance cameras would capture the entire scene. Mr. Olander was smarter.
Their gazes locked for four heartbeats as Olander sized her up. Morgan didn’t blink.
One giant hand swept toward her.
Morgan moved backward as Mr. Olander struck out. Her hand went automatically to the weapon on her hip under her blazer. But the blow hadn’t been aimed at her. Instead, he swept the contents of her desk toward the wall. Morgan’s notepad and blotter skidded across the floor. The ceramic mug hit the whiteboard and shattered. Coffee dripped down the dry-erase board.
The childishness of the act sent a burst of anger through her.
Keeping her gaze on his, she chilled her voice and put on her best interview-an-alleged-killer face. When she had faced accused murderers as a prosecutor, the suspects had been handcuffed to a table and law enforcement officers had been watching her back. As a defense attorney, she had no protection. “This meeting is over.”
His gaze fell to her hand, still hovering over the butt of her weapon. He backed off, his weight shifting backward, but his scowl said his temper had not defused.
Mr. Olander studied her for a few heartbeats; then his mouth pressed into a disdainful line. “Fine. Bitch.”
With a curt nod, he spun on the heel of his work boot and stomped out of her office. Morgan wiped her palms on the sides of her legs. Relief loosened the muscles of her thighs. Needing air—and wanting to be sure he left the building—she followed him into the hall.
Lance was in the hallway, leaning on the wall just outside her office door. His posture was deceptively relaxed. His eyes practically bored holes into Olander as he passed. Olander quickened his steps and skirted around Lance. As a former cop, Lance was trained in defense and arrest tactics, and every inch of him was poised to attack. Lance was the alpha male, and Olander recognized his own inferior status in an instant.
But when the older man went out the front door, he slammed it hard.
“You’re back.” Morgan took a deep breath. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Mr. Olander?” Lance asked.
“Yes.” She turned to Lance, warmth filling her. “How long were you out here?”
“Long enough.” He assessed her, then leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. “We got back about five minutes ago.”
“You were listening at the door.” Morgan went back into her office, crouched, and began picking up broken pieces of ceramic. Lance brought the trash can closer and fetched napkins from her credenza. They cleaned up the mess together.
They stood, and Lance slung an arm around her shoulders. “Normally, I wouldn’t eavesdrop, but I was concerned. He was a belligerent ass.”
“I know.” Morgan tossed the shards into the trash can. She appreciated that he respected her ability to do her job.
“But the sound of shit literally hitting the wall was too much. I was this close to bargi
ng in and throwing him out of the building.” Lance demonstrated his patience by pinching his forefinger and thumb nearly together.
“I appreciate your self-control, and the fact that you stood outside the door.”
“I had my ear pressed to it,” he admitted. “But you handled him just fine.”
Sharp peered into the office. He looked bleary-eyed. “Is everything OK?”
“Mr. Olander came to see me,” Morgan said.
“Get anything interesting out of him?” Sharp squeezed his eyelids shut a few times, as if to clear his vision.
Morgan summed up her meeting in a few sentences. “The most interesting part of the conversation was that while Erik’s mother professed her son’s innocence, Mr. Olander never made the claim. Not once.”
“I don’t know if innocence is all that important to Mr. Olander.” Lance filled Morgan in on what they’d found at the farm.
Goose bumps lifted on Morgan’s arms. She was so disturbed, she didn’t even admonish them for breaking and entering. “If the weapons were illegal, maybe Erik’s wife knew about them. Maybe that’s why she was killed.”
“That would make sense,” Lance said. “Sharp left a message for his contact at the ATF.”
Morgan picked up her coat and bag. “Now I’m going home, but I won’t be long.”
“Thank you.” Sharp exited her office.
Lance’s gaze followed him. “He looks dead on his feet.”
“He needs sleep.” Morgan’s phone buzzed. She read the screen. She needed to schedule Lance’s wedding present for delivery. The wedding—and all the last-minute details that needed to be addressed—hadn’t entered her mind since Olivia had disappeared.
“Everything all right?”
She turned the phone away from him. “Yes.”
His brows lifted.
“Maybe you’re not the only one keeping a secret. Are you going to tell me where we’re going on our honeymoon?”
“Nope.”
Morgan shoved the phone into her pocket. “Then I’ll see you soon. Take care of Sharp. Text me if you need anything from home.”
Morgan needed energy. On the way home, she detoured to the bakery for fresh donuts. Fifteen minutes later, she was in her foyer, being happily bombarded by three kids and two dogs. Kisses and hugs with all five of them improved her mood. Since it was Saturday, Ava and Mia were still dressed in their pajamas. Ava took the box of donuts and ran. Sophie, clad in her Halloween costume, leaped into Morgan’s arms.
Settling her youngest on her hip, Morgan walked into the kitchen. “No donuts until after breakfast.”
“Yay. The pancakes are done.” Sophie pushed away from her mother, and Morgan set her on the floor.
Grandpa stood at the stove, using a spatula to remove pancakes from the new griddle. Bacon sizzled in another pan. The girls scrambled onto stools at the island, and Grandpa set plates of pancakes in front of them. “Easy on the syrup, girls.”
Hoping the kids would be sloppy, Snoozer and Rocket took up strategic positions beneath the kids’ stools.
Grandpa met Morgan’s gaze, his eyes asking the question he wouldn’t voice with the children in the room. Morgan shook her head, and he frowned.
Gianna sat at the island. Her face was pale.
“How do you feel?” Morgan poured a mug of coffee.
“OK. I can cook.” She shot Grandpa a look.
“Just sit there and take it easy.” Grandpa ate a piece of bacon and passed the platter to Morgan. “I enjoy cooking now and then.” Grandpa sat down to his own breakfast.
Having given up nagging him about his diet, Morgan took a slice of bacon. Her phone chimed with an email. It was from the caterer. Morgan had forgotten to call her the day before. She couldn’t even think about the wedding today.
“What’s wrong?” Gianna asked.
Morgan set down her phone. “Nothing. Just a few calls I was supposed to make about the final wedding details.”
“I can make the calls for you.” Gianna buttered a slice of toast. “It’ll give me something to do, since Art won’t let me cook.”
“Are you sure?” Morgan asked.
“Positive.” Gianna bit into her toast.
“Well, you did plan half of the reception anyway. You have a real flair for party planning.”
“I loved every minute of it.” Gianna sighed wistfully.
“All right, then,” Morgan said. “The caterer needs a final head count. I’ll make a list of everything else.”
Morgan was relieved to delegate the reception details to Gianna. And Gianna seemed equally as happy to accept the responsibility.
Would they even want to go through with the wedding if they didn’t find Olivia in the next two weeks?
Morgan ate, spending a precious thirty minutes with her family—and downing two more cups of coffee—before heading for the shower. The meal and a fresh suit revived her. When she returned to the kitchen, Grandpa was scanning the leftover donuts.
“The kids and Gianna are watching cartoons.” He selected a chocolate cruller and dunked it in his coffee.
“Great, because I could really use your help today.” Morgan summarized their investigation. “Would you read the trial transcript and case files for an old murder?”
Morgan would concentrate on Erik Olander and let her grandfather pick through Cliff Franklin’s case.
“I’d be happy to. Email me everything you have.”
Morgan removed her laptop from her tote and opened her email.
What would she do without Grandpa?
Morgan’s father had been killed in the line of duty as an NYPD detective. Morgan’s older brother had been in college at the time, but her mother had moved her three daughters out of the city. She’d claimed the move was to get away from the violence, but everyone knew she’d been running away from memories. Grandpa had moved to Scarlet Falls with them. Mom had died shortly after, and Grandpa had stepped in to finish raising them.
Years later, when Morgan’s husband had died in Iraq, she had quit her job as a DA and moved back in with Grandpa. He’d been her rock.
His hand trembled as he opened his iPad and confirmed receipt of her email. His hair was pure white, and he needed a cane to walk. The thought of him aging twisted her insides into knots.
“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Morgan stood, rested a hand on his shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek.
“You would be just fine. You’re stronger than you know.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Aw, don’t cry. I’m not dead yet.” He patted her hand. “I have no intention of going anywhere anytime soon. But someday in the distant future—very distant—you will have to manage without me. I have no doubt you’ll make me proud.”
“I know.” She swiped a fingertip under her eye. “I’m just wired.”
“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” he said. “My body might be giving out, but my brain still works.”
Grandpa had decades of experience as a detective. He’d helped with several cases over the past year.
“I will.” Morgan packed up her laptop. “I have to go back to the office.”
Stepping into her pumps, she gathered her coat and bag. After a quick stop in the family room to kiss the girls goodbye, Morgan went outside and hopped into the Jeep.
She checked her messages. Neither Olivia’s agent nor her editor had responded yet. Frustrated, Morgan headed for the office. How would they find Olivia if no one would talk to them?
Sharp had dealt with a lot of tragedy and trauma in his life. It had taken him decades to let a woman into his life. If the worst happened, Morgan sensed he would not recover from losing Olivia.
Chapter Sixteen
Screech.
Startled, Olivia woke to a sprinting pulse. She had a moment of déjà vu, wondering if she’d been awoken by a noise or if it had been her imagination. She had no idea how long she had been underground or why he had taken her. Had he sen
t her parents a ransom demand? They didn’t have much money.
When she heard nothing for several breaths, she slowly stood. Her legs were wobbly. Pain blasted through her foot, but she limped across the room and back. She needed to move.
She stood on one foot and leaned on the wall, breathing hard. The effort of walking had stolen her wind. She tried to draw in a deep breath and failed. The effort triggered a wheeze.
No. Not just the effort.
Her asthma had been triggered by the cold air. The temperature had fallen last night, and the cellar was damp.
This was not good. Not good at all. She had no medicine. She needed to find a way out.
She caught her breath, leaned on the wall, and drank some water. Tremors burst through her and she coughed, choking on the water. Liquid dribbled down her chin. She wiped it on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The cold drink set off another bout of shivers. She’d already consumed two full bottles of water and one protein bar. Not knowing how long she’d have to survive on her meager supplies, she was rationing.
How long had she been in the ground?
She’d examined every inch of the cellar. There was no way out other than the double doors. The cellar had been designed to store food over the winter. Carrots and potatoes didn’t need an emergency exit.
Above her, something squeaked.
Her skin prickled with alarm, and she listened intently. The high-pitched squeal of rusty hinges sliced through the quiet. She flinched at the harsh fingernails on blackboard tone. Fear catapulted her heart into her throat. Footsteps on gravel approached. Her heart rate spiked. Her lungs tightened, making her breathing rapid and shallow. Her grip on the water bottle tightened.
A little voice—one that sounded a lot like Lincoln’s—said, Don’t show him your fear.
She focused on deep breathing and let her imagination conjure up a picture of his steady gray eyes. But it wasn’t enough. Fear still dried her throat and drove her to the back of the cellar. Her hand touched her swollen cheek, remembering her captor’s blow.
The crunch of shoes on dry dirt came closer. On the other side of the doors, it sounded as if something heavy was being moved. With another squeak, the doors opened, revealing a dark silhouette against a pale-gray sky.
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