Save Your Breath

by Leigh, Melinda

  Lance eased onto the chair next to Morgan, as if unsure whether the delicate structure would hold his weight. “We have three kids. I couldn’t imagine living in an apartment, although this one is bigger than I expected.”

  Kim clasped her hands together. Her nails had been chewed ragged. “I grew up in the country, but I fell in love with the city.” Leaning forward, she rested her forearms on her knees. “I had no idea Olivia was missing, or I would have returned your call immediately. Since you’re here, I assume there’s been no sign of her?”

  “None,” Morgan said. “We’re very concerned.”

  The crow’s-feet around Kim’s eyes creased. “Her parents must be frantic.”

  “You spoke to Olivia earlier in the week?” Morgan prompted.

  “Yes.” Kim nodded. “I called her.”

  “Can you tell us what you discussed?” Lance leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs.

  “I don’t know.” Kim hesitated. “I shouldn’t discuss Olivia’s business without her permission.”

  “We would love to have Olivia’s permission too,” Morgan agreed. “But she’s been missing for more than two days now. She didn’t show up to take her mother to the doctor on Friday.”

  Kim’s eyes widened, and she sat back. “That’s not like Olivia.”

  “Her family is worried,” Morgan pressed.

  Kim nodded. “I’ll tell you in general terms, which is all I know anyway. We talked about her next book—more specifically, her next book proposal. Her editor wanted it weeks ago.”

  “But you don’t know what she’s going to write about?” Lance’s clasped hands fell between his knees.

  “No.” The agent hesitated again. “Other than she was focusing on several crimes committed in upstate New York, she wouldn’t give me any specifics about which cases she was considering. And believe me, I pressed. Her editor has been calling me daily.”

  “Her editor was pressuring her?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes. The publisher bought her first manuscript at auction. They paid a lot for it. They want to get her next title into their lineup for the following year, but in order to do that, they need a proposal from Olivia. Ideally, they’d have her second book available for preorder when her first is released.” The agent exhaled hard. “I’m afraid I’ve been applying pressure too. A film studio has expressed interest in her first book. They talked about a movie or a true crime miniseries, something along the lines of Making a Murderer. I want to get Olivia a film deal and a nice fat advance on a second book while the market is still hot for her. It’s possible her first book won’t even be a bestseller. It won’t release for another eighteen months. A lot can happen between now and then. The market changes every day.”

  “You think she was stressed?” Lance asked.

  “I do,” Kim said. “She even told me she’d stopped responding to her editor’s emails. She couldn’t deal with him anymore. I told him to give her some space, but he refused. I know she’s thorough with her work. Olivia doesn’t half ass anything. It can be frustrating because I’m trying to do right by her career, but at the same time, I have to respect her professionalism, which is exactly what I told Jake Riley.”

  “Do you know why she wouldn’t share her research with you or her editor?”

  “No, but she promised I’d have a proposal next week.”

  “Her calendar says you’re meeting tomorrow at a restaurant in Redhaven,” Morgan said. “That’s a long drive for you just to have lunch.”

  Kim smiled. “My parents still live in Redhaven. I usually stop and see them before I meet with Olivia.”

  “Do you see them often?” Morgan asked.

  Kim frowned. “I drive up at least every other week. I tried to move them closer to me after Dad’s stroke. I got them into a senior community, but my father will not leave Redhaven. Olivia has the same issues with her parents. She stressed about her mother’s blood pressure. Her mom was very upset over Olivia’s sister’s separation. I understood because my mother freaked out about mine. We’ve been separated for two months, and when I talk to her, that’s all I hear.” She paused, picking at her cuticle. “Olivia would never have missed that appointment.”

  “We’re lucky,” Morgan said. “My grandfather lives with us. It makes it easier. Plus, one of my sisters is nearby. Do you have any siblings to help you?”

  Kim shook her head. “My brother helps as much as he can.”

  “Support is important.” Morgan thought about support. “Is Olivia close to any other authors? Anyone she might have discussed her book research with?”

  “Not that I know of.” Kim frowned. “I get the impression she’s a loner. I offered to take her to publishing parties, but she always declined. She told me she’d rather go home, put on pajamas, and have a cup of tea.”

  Which was Morgan’s idea of a perfect evening.

  “Do you know where her editor would be today?” Lance asked. “We’d like to speak with him.”

  “I usually reach him by cell phone. He’s been working from home a few days a week. He mentioned some sort of family emergency last time I talked with him.” She picked up her cell phone from the black coffee table. “Do you have his number?”

  “I think so.” Morgan checked her own phone and read the last few digits of the number they’d taken from Olivia’s contact list.

  “That’s it.” Kim lowered her phone and stood. “Please let me know if you find her, or if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

  “We will.” Morgan gathered her tote and got to her feet.

  She and Lance thanked Kim and left her apartment.

  Outside, they walked back to the garage where they’d left the Jeep. Lance handed the parking attendant their ticket, and the man disappeared inside.

  “So Olivia’s editor and agent were both hounding her for her book proposal,” Lance said as they waited.

  “Yes.” Inside the garage was colder than the street. Morgan shivered. “Kim looked upset.”

  “She said she’d been sick.”

  “That would explain her dark circles,” Morgan agreed. “But her nails were bitten to the quick, and she was picking at them when she admitted pressuring Olivia.”

  “Maybe she regrets giving Olivia a hard time.”

  Once they were in the vehicle, Lance turned the heater on full and aimed the vents at her.

  Morgan pulled out her notepad. She wrote a few notes on the interview with Holgersen, then moved on to scan the editor’s background report. “Olivia’s editor, Jake Riley, is thirty-four. He was born in New York, went to college in New York, and currently lives in Brooklyn.” She plugged the address into the GPS for directions.

  It took thirty-five minutes to drive the nine miles through Lower Manhattan and over the Brooklyn Bridge. On the other side, Lance cut off a taxi with a feral smile, then continued onto Middagh Street into Brooklyn Heights.

  Morgan pointed to an upcoming intersection. “There’s the street on the left.”

  Lance turned left and slowed down in front of an old brownstone. “Keep your eyes open for a parking spot.”

  They drove around three blocks, like a shark circling for prey, before Morgan spotted a space. Lance parallel parked the Jeep, practically kissing the bumper of a MINI Cooper.

  They walked back to the brownstone, and Lance led the way up the stone steps to the front stoop. He pulled on the handle of the double doors, but they were locked. Morgan shaded her eyes and peered through the glass panes. The building had a tiny foyer with a staircase running up one side. The paint was peeling, and the dark stain of the wooden steps and banister was worn through.

  “It’s a walk-up.” She saw a resident carrying what looked like a racing bike down the steps. He wore an aerodynamic helmet and skintight cycling clothes. She backed up to scan the call buttons next to the door. There were eight apartments listed, two per floor. Morgan pressed the button for 4-B.

  The cyclist opened the door.

  Lance grabbe
d the handle and held it open while the man tipped the bike onto its rear tire and maneuvered it outside. It sounded like he was wearing tap shoes. “Thanks. Who are you looking for?”

  “Jake Riley in 4-B,” Morgan said with a smile.

  The man shook his head. “He’s not home. Haven’t seen him much lately. Try Riley’s Place.” He gave them directions. “It’s only about a half mile. You can walk from here.” His shoes clicked on the concrete as he lifted the bike down the steps, set it on the road, and pedaled off.

  Morgan and Lance followed his vague directions and walked up Hicks Street to Atlantic Avenue. The sun came out from behind the clouds, and unlike in Manhattan, its warm rays actually reached the street in Brooklyn.

  Ten minutes later, they approached Riley’s Place, which appeared to be a dive bar. They passed the narrow alley that ran next to the building.

  “Morgan.” Lance stared down the alley.

  In the back, the front end of an old black muscle car stuck out from behind a dumpster.

  “Hold on.” Lance jogged down the alley and back. His eyes were bright. “It’s a Chevy Nova.”

  “It was Olivia’s editor who knocked on her door Thursday evening.” Excitement flushed warmth through Morgan. Could this be the lead they’d been looking for?

  Lance nodded. “It’s only a three-hour drive.”

  They walked to the door of the bar.

  Morgan glanced at her watch. “It’s ten thirty. I don’t see the hours posted. Do you think they’re open?”

  Lance looked through the glass. “I see people at the bar.”

  “Kind of early.”

  “Hard-core,” he agreed.

  Inside was dark, and the floor felt vaguely sticky underfoot. The wooden bar formed a letter J. A dozen tables were lined up along the wall. An upright piano was squeezed into the space between the bar and the doorway that led to the restrooms and back office.

  Despite the early hour, several people sat on wooden stools, lifting tumblers of amber-colored liquid. The bartender dried glasses with a towel at the back. Morgan headed for him. Some of the attention that turned on her felt inexplicably hostile. As if he sensed it too, Lance deftly slid around her to place himself between Morgan and the patrons, as usual.

  The bartender set the glass on the bar. “What do you want?”

  “We’re looking for Jake Riley.” Morgan smiled.

  The bartender didn’t return the pleasantry. “You look like a lawyer.”

  He said the word lawyer as if it were synonymous with Satan.

  Morgan glanced down. Her suit and heels were not the sort of attire she’d normally wear to a dive bar. But then, she’d expected to interview a literary agent and a book editor. Professional attire had seemed best.

  “I am a lawyer.” She slid a business card across the bar. “I just want to talk to Mr. Riley.”

  The bartender’s gaze dropped to her card for two seconds. “I ain’t seen him.”

  A footstep scuffed on the hardwood to Morgan’s right. Next to her, Lance stiffened, and she turned her head. An old man stood in the doorway between the back rooms and the bar. Artificial light from the room behind him fell on the shotgun he pointed at Morgan and Lance.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sweat trickled down Lance’s back. The old man with the shotgun was swaying like a maple tree in a nor’easter. The old guy was bald and pale, with sunken eyes that suggested a terrible sickness. Jeans and a sweatshirt bagged on his skeletal frame.

  “What do you want?” He stepped closer. The fingers that clutched the gun were as thin as talons. “To serve me with another subpoena?”

  “No. We just came here to talk.” Lance raised his hands, simultaneously sliding his shoulder in front of Morgan. But he didn’t dare step in front of her for fear of setting off the old man. He debated pulling his own weapon. But he couldn’t clear the holster faster than the old man could pull the trigger. The guy looked desperate and shaky, not a stable combination. Lance couldn’t take the chance. A handgun wasn’t accurate outside of eight or ten feet, but a shotgun at that range was deadly.

  Morgan held her hands in front of her chest, palms out, in the classic hands up position.

  A younger man hurried through the doorway behind him. “Dad! Put that down.”

  “No.” The old man gestured toward Lance and Morgan with the gun barrel. “I won’t have one more fucking lawyer trying to get a piece of us. I’m dying, for crying out loud. I don’t have anything to lose.”

  Lance shifted an inch sideways, putting more of his body in front of Morgan.

  “Dad, come on.” The younger man put his hands over his father’s and tipped the barrel of the shotgun to the floor. Then he gently eased it away. He ducked into the back room and reappeared a few seconds later without the shotgun.

  Lance glanced at Morgan. She lowered her hands. Behind her, the patrons shot them disapproving frowns.

  “Can’t you people just leave them alone?” the bartender snapped. “Can’t you wait until he’s in the ground to take his bar?”

  “We’re not here to take the bar,” Morgan said softly.

  “Are you from the bank?” the younger man asked.

  Morgan shook her head. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The younger guy seemed more exhausted and frustrated than hostile, but Lance kept his body between him and Morgan just in case.

  But Morgan stepped in front, offering the younger guy her business card. “I’m Morgan Dane, and this is my associate Lance Kruger. We’re looking for Jake Riley.”

  The young man took the card and read it. “Which Jake Riley, junior or senior?”

  “The book editor,” Morgan clarified.

  “That’s me.” The tension in Jake’s shoulders eased. “I’m a junior.” The young man reached for his father’s arm. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get you back to bed.”

  “No.” His father jerked his arm away. Then he sagged and collapsed onto the piano bench. “Buddy! Pour me a whiskey.”

  The younger man frowned. “Dad, you can’t—”

  “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m gonna die no matter what.” The old man plinked at a few keys, then spread his hands over the keyboard. His hands trembled too hard to play. “I just want five fucking minutes of normal.”

  The bartender poured two fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler and set it on the bar. The old man pushed himself off the piano bench and shuffled to a stool. He eased onto it and pulled the glass closer, his shoulders slumping over his whiskey. His eyes closed as he sipped. He swallowed, coughed, and set down the tumbler. “Son of a bitch. Can’t play my piano. Can’t drink my whiskey. Might as well kill me now.” He took another sip, this time barely wetting his lips. “That’s better.” He eyed Morgan and Lance. “You’re not here from the bank?”

  “No, sir.” Lance walked over to the piano and sat down.

  “May I use the restroom?” Morgan asked.

  Jake gestured to the doorway at the back of the bar, and Morgan walked through it.

  Lance stretched his fingers over the keyboard. “I’m a little rusty, but . . .” He started into the opening notes of “Piano Man.” He hadn’t touched a piano in six months, not since his house and the piano in it had burned to the ground. But he’d played most of his life. Music calmed him. It helped him think. And during all the stressful years after his father’s disappearance, it had been his escape. Maybe someday he’d figure out a way to squeeze one into Morgan’s house. Sophie had showed interest—and talent.

  Twenty seconds into the song, muscle memory took over, and his fingers sorted themselves out. He started singing without thinking, and for the next few minutes, he lost himself in the song.

  Morgan returned as the final notes faded. The old man finished his whiskey and set the glass down on the bar with a solid thunk. “You wouldn’t want to come and do that Friday and Saturday nights, would you?”

  Lance shook his head. “Sorry. Just a hobby for me.”


  “Ah, it was worth a shot.” The old man shrugged.

  His son scanned the line of patrons watching them and listening to their conversation. “Let me grab my jacket. We can talk outside.”

  He took a jacket from behind the bar and led them to the door. They walked out into the sunlight. Lance, still sweating from the shotgun incident, removed his jacket.

  “Thanks for that. I haven’t seen him that relaxed in a long time.” Jake leaned on the brick exterior wall and lit a cigarette. “You’d think watching my father die of lung cancer would encourage me to quit. Maybe when he’s gone, I’ll be able to.”

  “I’m sorry your father is sick.” Morgan shoved her hands into the pockets of her wool jacket.

  “He has two months, at best.” Jake sighed. “This place isn’t much, but it’s all he has left. It’s what got him through my mother’s death. It’s what’s getting him through his own. After he’s gone, the lenders can have the fucking bar. I don’t want it.” He took an angry drag of his cigarette, then sighed again.

  “I saw the Nova out back. Sweet car. Is it yours?” Lance asked.

  Jake shook his head. “Belongs to our bartender.”

  Convenient, thought Lance. “We’re here to ask you about Olivia Cruz.”

  Jake sucked in another lungful of smoke. “What now?”

  “She’s missing.” Lance watched him for a reaction.

  Jake flicked ashes off the end of his smoke. “How do you know?”

  “She hasn’t been seen since Thursday evening,” Morgan explained. “She isn’t answering her cell phone or returning messages. We’re concerned.”

  “I wouldn’t be too alarmed.” Jake sounded irritated. “Olivia isn’t exactly prompt with returning messages. Maybe she’s just avoiding you.”

  “Has she been avoiding you?” Lance asked.

  Jake didn’t answer the question, but Lance saw the flash of truth in his eyes.

  Jake exhaled a plume of smoke. “I’m not going to give out personal information on her just because you say you’re looking for her.”