Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3) Page 18

  Behind the determination in her blue eyes were purple smudges of exhaustion.

  He scooped her into his arms and carried her to his bedroom. He lay her gently on the bed and stretched out alongside her. “Are you sure you want to deal with the chaos of my life?”

  “I thought I’d made myself clear.”

  “Crystal. Just making sure.” Despite the horror of the last few days, a smile pulled at his mouth. His hand skimmed the feminine curve of her hip.

  He’d been waiting to tell her he loved her. His excuses included not wanting to overwhelm her or scare her off. Now he realized he’d been protecting his own heart in fear that she didn’t return his love, waiting for her to say it first. He’d rather face bullets than lose her.

  But no more being an emotional coward for him. She deserved better.

  He brought her hand to his lips. “I love you. Heart and soul. Body and spirit and any other stupid you-complete-me cliché you can think of.”

  She took his hand and interlaced their fingers. “Then we’ll get through this together.”

  “I don’t know how I ever thought I could do it alone.” He’d been an idiot.

  She’d given him some of her strength. He felt like a starved man who’d accidentally stumbled into a buffet.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” She brushed her fingertips along his temple.

  “Not now.” He rolled to his back.

  Morgan leaned on his chest, again forcing contact with him when his instinct was to pull away.

  He was going to have to break that habit.

  “Now I have something to tell you,” Morgan said. “When I got home tonight, there was a package waiting for me.”

  The story she told him wiped away the numbness and replaced it with raging fire.

  “I want to find Tyler Green and beat him senseless.” He stuffed a pillow behind his shoulders and looked her in the eyes.

  “We can’t do that.” She lay her head on his chest and spread her fingers over his heart. “We’re not even positive that it’s him.”

  But Lance disagreed. “Tyler is a scumbag. He’s already assaulted you. He deserves a good beating.”

  “Now you sound like Sheriff King, going rogue and dispensing your own brand of justice.”

  “That’s not a flattering comparison.”

  “But it’s a fair one,” Morgan said. “Our legal system might not be perfect, but we need to work within its framework. You cannot punish a man if you have no real evidence he’s guilty.”

  Lance snorted. She was right, but he didn’t like feeling helpless. He wanted to slay all the dragons for Morgan.

  “Everyone is protected for now, and Stella is working on identifying my stalker. The best thing we can do tonight is put it out of our minds and try to get a few hours of sleep.”

  But Lance stared at the ceiling, unable to think of anything else. He was certain of only one thing. He would not let her out of his sight until he’d dealt with Tyler.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sharp stepped into Jenny’s house. A dark-blue sedan pulled up to the curb. Stella and her partner, Detective Brody McNamara, climbed out and hurried up the walk. Sharp held the door open for them.

  Brody crossed the threshold. “Heard you were shot tonight. You all right?”

  “It was minor,” Sharp lied. His arm was killing him, the stitches on fire and pulling with every movement. But urgency kept him going. “Thanks for coming.”

  He went through to the bedroom. Stella and Brody followed him.

  “What can we do?” Stella asked.

  Medical paraphernalia littered the carpet. His mind’s eye replayed the horror of the evening. The paramedics working on Jenny. Lance standing just behind them, his hands linked and pressed to the top of his head, his eyes lost.

  His heart broken.

  Sharp pushed away the pity.

  “Something is wrong here,” he said.

  Stella and her partner exchanged a look.

  Sharp raised his hands. “I know I’m too close to the case to be objective, which is why I asked you to come. But I know Jenny.”

  He could feel it, a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. His instincts were waving a frigging red flag at him.

  What did I miss?

  “Two people involved in this case have died this week,” Sharp said. “One appeared to be a robbery. The other looked like a suicide. Jenny would be number three. Coincidences give me hives.”

  “That’s why we’re here.” Stella reached into the pocket of her black jacket for a pair of purple nitrile gloves. “Someone sent my sister threatening photos yesterday afternoon.”

  “What?” Sharp asked.

  Stella told him about Morgan’s package. “It seems whoever left the box knew about the security cameras at the house. They left it on the neighbor’s porch in the afternoon when no one was home.”

  “That’s smart,” Sharp said. “Do you think it’s Tyler Green?”

  “We’re going to talk to him in the morning,” Stella said. “I just thought you should know.”

  “Thanks.” Sharp sighed. “Keep me updated?”

  “Will do.” Stella pivoted, taking the room in. “Now, let’s find out what happened to Jenny.”

  There was nothing to suggest this was anything other than a suicide attempt, but they’d come at his request.

  Brody gloved up too. “Tell us about her.”

  They knew her basic stats. Sharp needed to fill in the personal information.

  Sharp rambled on about Jenny’s issues as he scanned the room, trying to see the evidence with fresh eyes. “Jenny keeps a strict routine to her days. She used to be a hoarder, but now she overcompensates with OCD neatness.”

  Her bed was made. Two cats slept in the center of the comforter. The nightstand and dresser were tidy as always. No clutter in sight. It was as if having one item out of place would put her at risk for free-falling back into chaos.

  Sharp wandered to the bathroom doorway. “There were two prescription bottles in the sink, both empty. The paramedics took them to the hospital with her.”

  Why the sink?

  Sharp pulled on a pair of gloves. With the edge of a finger, he opened the medicine cabinet. Personal products stood in neat rows. Brody walked up behind him.

  “They’re in alphabetical order,” Brody said over Sharp’s shoulder.

  “I told you she has OCD tendencies,” Sharp said. “Why would she drop her empty bottles in the sink? The trashcan is right there.” He pointed to the wastepaper basket tucked between the vanity and toilet. “And I don’t see a cup in here. If she took the pills in the bathroom, she would have needed water.”

  “Maybe she took the glass to the kitchen,” Stella suggested.

  “But we found her on the bathroom floor, and if she had time to go to the kitchen and back, why didn’t she throw away the pill bottles? For that matter, why didn’t she go lie down in bed?”

  “She could have returned to the bathroom because she felt sick.” Stella opened the three vanity drawers and checked the cabinet under the sink. She crouched and looked through the trash in the can. Frowning, she straightened. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

  “Me either.” Sharp left the bathroom. “But every time I’ve seen Jenny lose it, she wasn’t cognizant enough to plan a suicide. She was incoherent, wild. Her eyes were dazed and glazed. Utterly terrified beyond comprehension. She’d literally crawl into her closet.”

  “But you don’t know what she was like before she hid?” Stella asked. “Or how long the attack lasted before she took action? Or if this time was completely different.”

  Good point.

  “No,” he admitted. “But in the early days of her illness, there was a great deal of trial and error with medications. Lately, things have been better.”

  “What were her triggers?” Brody opened the closet.

  Jenny’s clothes were sorted by type and color. They hung in their usual, evenly spaced order. There wa
s no sign that she’d moved anything aside to make a hiding place.

  “Once it was the loss of electricity during a winter storm,” Sharp said. “The schools closed. Lance came home early and found her in the closet in an almost catatonic state. He was twelve.”

  Lance had stayed with Sharp until Jenny got out of the hospital a week later. Then Sharp had installed a generator in their house so that would never happen again.

  “About a year later, she had another episode when Lance was two hours late coming home from hockey practice. Another parent was giving him a ride. The car broke down, and they had to wait for a tow truck. Jenny had convinced herself that he was dead.” She’d called Sharp, and he’d found Lance and brought him home, but by then she’d been too far gone. “She hasn’t had an episode like that for a long time. The doctors said that fluctuating hormones had made her medications hard to balance. The last ten years she’s been more stable. Not normal, but stable.”

  “But she was upset by the discovery of her husband’s car this week,” Brody said.

  “Yes.” Sharp followed Stella and Brody into the kitchen. “But she was taking the news better than I had expected.”

  Sharp scanned the kitchen. “That chair pulled away from the table is very unlike Jenny. She likes everything in its place.”

  He went to the sink. Empty. Sharp opened the dishwasher, his focus zooming in on two dessert plates standing on the upper rack. “This is wrong.”

  Stella came to stand next to him. “What?”

  Sharp pointed. “Jenny would never put a dish on the top rack, only glasses and mugs.”

  “Do you think someone else was here?” Brody asked.

  “Yes,” Sharp said. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

  There were too many little things out of place.

  Excitement hummed through Sharp’s veins. No matter how upset Jenny was, she would never, ever change the way she loaded the dishwasher.

  “Would Jenny let a stranger into her house?” Stella asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Sharp said. “But I can’t be sure.”

  “Does she run her dishwasher every day?” Stella asked.

  “Yes,” Sharp said. “Without fail.”

  Stella pointed to the interior. “I see two coffee cups on the top rack.”

  She lifted a cup and turned it over. Dried coffee residue was stuck to the bottom of the cup.

  Sharp peered over her shoulder. “Jenny thoroughly washes her dishes before they go into the machine. Someone else put those cups in here.”

  “Let’s bag these cups as evidence,” Stella said.

  “Since there are two dessert dishes here as well,” Sharp said, “it’s possible she had company.”

  “We’ll take the plates as well,” Brody said from across the room.

  Sharp went to the refrigerator and opened it. There was nothing unusual inside.

  Brody went to the garbage can and stepped on the foot pedal. “There are pie scrapings in the trash. Looks like a whole slice.”

  “Pie is Jenny’s favorite food. Why would she cut herself a slice and then throw it away?” Sharp asked. “And for that matter, where is the pie? I don’t remember if Lance brought her one this week, but if he did, the box should be on the counter or in the trash.”

  “No box in the trash,” Brody said.

  “I’ll go check the garbage can outside.” Stella took a small flashlight from her jacket pocket and walked out of the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later. “No pie box.”

  “So where did it go?” Sharp asked.

  Brody scanned the kitchen. “Maybe her guest brought it and took it away.”

  “This whole thing just doesn’t feel right.” Sharp’s wound ached. He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket to give his arm a rest. “Jenny doesn’t get visitors.”

  “Staging a suicide is very unlikely. But then, so is having two back-to-back suicides related to the same case.” Brody’s gaze roamed the room before returning to Sharp’s face. “But if you’re right . . .”

  “Then she’s in danger,” Sharp finished. He knew he was right. He knew Jenny better than anyone else, maybe even better than Lance did. She clung to her routine like a rock climber dug in to handholds, as if letting go of any small part of her routine would send her plummeting into another downward spiral. The more anxious she was, the more she would insist on following her rituals.

  “Let’s get a forensic team in here,” Brody said. “I want the house printed. We’ll get the cups, plates, and pie scrapings tested.”

  “We should also get the doctors to run a full drug panel,” Stella said, “in case she was given something other than her own prescriptions.”

  “I need to get someone into her room to protect her.” Sharp froze. “Can you spare an officer?”

  Brody shook his head. “There’s no way the chief would approve putting a guard on Jenny. We don’t have any real evidence this was a crime, and the hospital will be watching her closely in the ICU.”

  “Not closely enough.” Sharp paced across the small room and back. “I wish I could be in two places at once.”

  “Give me a minute. Let me see what I can do.” Brody took out his phone and stepped into the next room. He came back in two minutes. “Hannah will go right over to the hospital and stay with Jenny.”

  “Hannah?” Sharp asked. “Is she a cop?”

  Brody shook his head. “No. Hannah Barrett is my girlfriend. She’s a lawyer, but she had a unique upbringing. I promise you; no one will get past Hannah. She will keep Jenny safe.”

  “Why would someone try to kill Jenny?” Stella asked.

  “There’s only one reason I can think of,” Sharp said. “It must be related to Victor’s disappearance. She must know something.”

  Chapter Thirty

  She wasn’t dead.

  How could he have miscalculated?

  He’d estimated her body weight. He’d counted the pills and crushed them into powder, then mixed some into her coffee and some into her pie. He’d even added a shot of heroin to her pie for good measure. He’d been worried she’d taste the drugs, but she’d eaten every bit. He’d rinsed the damned plate and put it in the dishwasher himself.

  She should not have survived.

  How was she still alive?

  Tugging his baseball cap lower on his forehead, he slipped into the secure ICU wing with another visitor, falling into step beside him. He lowered his chin, hunched his shoulders, and averted his face from the ceiling-mounted cameras.

  The ICU hallway bustled with bodies. Gathered around a doorway marked with the number three, nurses and doctors suited up as if they were going to Mars. Full body gowns, face shields, double gloves. An alarm clanged, the light above the door flashed. Doctors shouted orders. More than a dozen medical personnel crowded the fishbowl room.

  He kept walking, kept his distance.

  Blended in.

  The hospital staff was busy trying to stop someone from dying. They paid him no attention. Even the staff not involved with the critical patient were distracted, watching the life-and-death drama unfold.

  He continued to room eight, walking right past, barely slowing to look inside, and stopped in front of the next room. He stood in the doorway, pretending to watch a shrunken old man sleep, all alone. The curtains over the glass walls of Jenny Kruger’s room were open. He could see inside.

  Jenny lay still. Wires and tubes snaked around her. Liquid dripped into an IV line in her arm. A ventilator at the bedside puffed in a steady rhythm, and a bank of monitors kept track of every heartbeat and every breath. Sometimes, medical personnel grew too dependent on those monitors and didn’t come into rooms often enough. He’d been hoping to sneak in during a lull in the nurse’s attention. He nearly flinched as he spotted a woman sitting beside Jenny’s bed, a book open in her lap.

  The woman stood, glancing around, as if sensing his scrutiny. She did a quick scan of Jenny’s equipment, then sat back down. Her interest in her book seemed to wa
ne. Her gaze strayed to the door, watchful. In jeans and boots, she was tall, with short blonde hair and a sharp face. A slight bulge under her sweater suggested she might be armed. The suburban hospital didn’t have metal detectors.

  Who was she?

  She didn’t look exactly like a cop, but she didn’t look like she’d take any crap from anybody either.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he considered his options.

  A janitor in green coveralls pushed a large, wheeled trash receptacle down the hallway. The janitor stopped at each doorway, ducked into the room, and emptied the nonmedical waste into his cart. Coughing into his fist to cover his face, he stepped aside as the janitor emptied the old man’s trashcan.

  His fingers closed around the syringe in his pocket. Heroin. Injected into the muscle, it would take some time to work. He would be long gone before Jenny Kruger began to react to the drug in her system. Her body was already compromised. She’d be dead in a few hours. No one would suspect she’d been given an overdose of heroin while lying in a hospital bed.

  His plan had been to wait until no one was watching, then slip in and give her the injection. It would take a minute or two, at best. There were always codes and other emergencies that distracted the ICU staff, like the one up the hall. But the blonde woman’s presence screwed up everything.

  He could wait until she left the room. She’d have to step out at some point. She must eat.

  But that would take time he didn’t have.

  He had things to do. People to see. Not that any of them were as important as Jenny.

  The minute she opened her eyes—and her mouth—his game was over.

  He’d kept his secret for twenty-three years. He sure as hell wasn’t giving up now.

  She appeared to be in some sort of coma. There was a chance she could still die without his interference. He couldn’t kill Jenny and the blonde at the same time, not without attracting attention. Especially if the blonde was armed.

  An ICU death had to be silent, swift, and stealthy. It needed to look like an unfortunate complication of Jenny’s overdose.