Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3) Page 22

  The hallways were quiet. No one even glanced at him. Cleaning staff was practically invisible. The nurse covering Jenny Kruger’s room and the one next to it was behind the counter talking on the landline.

  He walked past Jenny Kruger’s room. The blonde was still there. Didn’t she need to sleep at some point? He wasn’t getting into Jenny’s room. He needed another plan. He spied a supply cart parked just outside her door. A label on the front of the cart was marked with Jenny’s room number. And on top rested two large IV bags. Saline, he guessed from the size and the fact that they were out in the open. Medication was kept under lock and key.

  If he could just get to the front of Jenny’s room without anyone noticing him, he could slip the heroin into her saline. The extra time it would take for the drug to enter her system would give him the opportunity to slip away before any alarms were raised.

  The old man still occupied the next room. He went to the bedside. Slipping a syringe number one from his pocket, he slid it into the IV port and pushed the plunger. He was no medical professional, but an air bubble was the least of this old man’s problems. A few seconds later, he dumped the old man’s trash in his rolling can and left the room with unhurried strides.

  Mindful of the security cameras, he adjusted his posture accordingly to keep his face averted. He’d worn some padding under the baggy coveralls to disguise his body shape. No one gave him a second glance as he moved from room to room.

  He was three rooms down the hall when alarms sounded. A minute later, a Code Blue blared over the speaker. Footsteps rushed. He poked his head into the hallway to find that everyone else was doing the same. Scrub-clad bodies crowded the old man’s room, including the shared nurse. Staff hustled in and out of the room.

  Even the staff not involved with the code gravitated to the drama. He moved closer, stopping just before Jenny Kruger’s doorway to stand behind two short nurses. From here, he could see over their heads into the old man’s room. Someone climbed onto the bed to deliver chest compressions. Another readied a defibrillator. Injections were given. A man in blue scrubs watched the monitors and shouted orders. Well-organized chaos ensued.

  The crowd’s mood shifted as efforts to revive the old man failed.

  He glanced at the supply cart by Jenny’s door. The bags of IV saline still sat on the top shelf. Keeping his hands low, he eased sideways, pulled a second syringe from his pocket, and injected it into the self-healing orange port on the bag. Because the heroin would be diluted, he added another shot. That should do it. On top of everything else in Jennifer Kruger’s body, that should stop her heart.

  People began to drift away from the old man’s room, disappointment emanating from their postures and gestures. He backed away from the cart and retreated down the hall before the rest of the crowd dissipated. He pushed his trash can to the end of the hall and abandoned it in a utility room before hitting the silver square on the wall and exiting the ICU.

  The timing was a bit tricky. He didn’t know when the saline would be administered or how long it would take to drip into Jenny Kruger’s veins, but it didn’t matter. Before the night was over, Jenny would be dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Morgan warmed her hands in front of the dashboard heat vents. The temperature was dropping as the light waned.

  Lance followed directions to a small brick apartment building not far from the Grey’s Hollow train station. The building was divided into eight apartments. Four up and four down. Warren lived in a downstairs end unit. Morgan and Lance got out of the Jeep, crossed the sidewalk, and walked up the concrete path. Lance knocked on his front door. No one answered. Morgan wasn’t surprised.

  Turning, she scanned the parking area in front of the building. “I don’t see his truck.”

  Even if Warren were home, would he answer the door to them?

  Stepping into the grass, Morgan cupped her hand over her eyes and tried to peer through the front window.

  “See anything?” Lance asked.

  “No, the curtains are drawn.” She stepped back onto the path.

  Lance walked around the unit, but blinds covered the windows. At the front window, he angled off and tried to look through the half-inch gap between the curtains. “Can’t see anything.”

  A middle-aged man wearing blue coveralls came out of the apartment next door. Frowning, he raised a suspicious eyebrow at Lance.

  “Hello.” Morgan walked toward him, smiling while trying to look innocent.

  The man didn’t look convinced. “Can I help you?”

  Morgan turned up the wattage of her smile and reached into her pocket for a business card. “We’re looking for Warren Fox—”

  “We’re private investigators.” Lance put a hand on her arm, keeping it in her pocket. “Warren might have inherited some money. Have you seen him?”

  “Sorry.” The neighbor relaxed and shook his head. “I wish I could help, but I haven’t seen Warren today. You should try the county recycling center. I don’t know what time he gets off, but that’s where he works.”

  “Do you know Warren well?” Morgan asked.

  “No.” His curt tone implied that was by choice.

  “Do you have any idea where else he might be?” Lance asked. “He’s going to want to talk to us.”

  The neighbor adjusted the zipper of his coveralls. “You could try the Black Tavern. That’s his watering hole. You’ll have to excuse me. I have to get to work.” He turned and walked toward a sedan parked in front of the building.

  “Thank you,” Morgan called after him.

  They went back to the Jeep.

  “You lied to him.” Morgan closed her door with more force than necessary. “What if he tells the sheriff?”

  “I said might,” Lance clarified. “And that’s why we didn’t give him a business card or our names.”

  Morgan sighed. “The sheriff will know it was us. This is the kind of behavior that puts you on Sheriff King’s bad side.”

  “He’s impossible.”

  Morgan was sure the sheriff felt the same way about Lance.

  “I know you’re frustrated, but we have to pick our battles,” she said. “Like it or not, he is the law. There are some fights we just can’t win. It’s better to willingly give on some issues, makes you look cooperative.”

  “I know. You’re right, but people are dying.” Frustration sharpened Lance’s words. “My mother almost died, and we still have no idea what happened to my father.”

  “Why don’t we go see your mother now?” Morgan suggested.

  He consulted the map on his smart phone. “We’ll stop at the Black Tavern first. It’s just up the road, and the hospital is in the other direction.”

  He backed away from the curb. The tavern was only a half mile from the apartment. Warren could stumble home blind drunk. Remembering his breath on her face, Morgan thought the location was probably convenient for him.

  Lance parked, and they went inside. Clearly a neighborhood dive, the tavern was small, holding barely a dozen booths and the same number of stools at a worn bar. The air smelled like sour beer and lifelong disappointment. A chalkboard on the wall announced beer on tap was one dollar during happy hour. At five thirty, a handful of patrons took advantage of the special. They stared at a hockey game playing on a wall-mounted flat screen. Several slumped, already appearing intoxicated though happy hour had just begun.

  Two men on the end of the bar eyeballed Morgan. Lance changed sides, putting his body between her and the men. The gesture was unnecessary but appreciated.

  They went up to the bar. Grit on the floor crunched under Morgan’s feet.

  Below the short sleeves of his black T-shirt, the bartender sported two full sleeves of tattoos. “What can I get you?” he asked.

  Morgan leaned across the bar. “We’re looking for Warren Fox.”

  The bartender barely glanced at her.

  Lance rested his forearms on the bar. In a low voice, he said, “Warren might have inherited som
e money.”

  The bartender scratched a red bump on a tattoo of a robot on his wrist. There were more marks on the insides of his arms. Addict. A friendly smile wasn’t going to influence him. Addicts only cared about one thing, money to buy their next hit.

  Lance slipped a folded twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and set it on the bar. He held a second between his forefingers. That got the bartender’s attention. He pocketed the money and gave Lance his full attention. “I’d like to help, but I haven’t seen Warren today.”

  “How often does he usually come in?” Lance asked.

  “Almost every night.” The bartender pointed to the other end of the bar. “He’s usually on that stool by four thirty.”

  Warren hadn’t been at work, and he wasn’t at his usual hangout. Was he guilty, in danger, or simply drunk somewhere other than the bar?

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Lance asked.

  “Come to think of it, Warren wasn’t here last night either.” The bartender scratched his belly.

  His itchiness felt contagious. Morgan eased back a few inches.

  “Maybe he decided to drink at home.” The bartender shrugged. “Or he could be broke. That slut he was married to was after his paycheck. Maybe she got some of it.”

  Lance passed the second bill over the bar. “Do you know anywhere else Warren might hang out?”

  “Sorry.” The bartender took the cash. “As far as I know, he’s at work, here, or home.”

  “Thanks.” Lance steered Morgan toward the other patrons, keeping her tucked just slightly behind his left arm. He took another twenty from his pocket. “Does anyone here know where Warren Fox might be?”

  Morgan had little doubt that the other patrons had overheard Lance’s conversation with the bartender.

  “You could try his wife’s place.” An old drunk swayed on the closest stool. “He was trying to get back with her. Hated the bitch, but loved her too, if you know what I mean.”

  Not really.

  “Anyone have any better information?” Lance waved the folded bill.

  The other men sighed and turned back to their beers.

  Lance handed the old man the twenty, then steered Morgan out of the bar. The fresh air was cold but welcome.

  “Warren hasn’t been in the bar in two nights.” Morgan reached into her tote and pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer. She offered it to him.

  He shook his head. “You didn’t touch anything.”

  “I still feel dirty.” She rubbed a spot of gel between her hands. He was right, but the sting of Purell in her nose made her feel cleaner. “Nasty place. The bartender is an addict.”

  Lance nodded. “Which is why he gave us info on Warren for forty bucks without a hint of guilt.”

  They got into the Jeep.

  “We should call the sheriff.” Morgan smoothed her coat and fastened her seat belt. “Given the history of this investigation, Warren could be dead inside his apartment.”

  “As much as it pains me to admit it, I agree,” Lance said. “You call him.”

  Morgan sighed and made the call. She covered the speaker with her fingers. “No answer.” She left a message for him to call her about the case.

  “That works perfectly. We did our duty and didn’t have to deal with the sheriff.”

  “I still feel guilty.” Morgan lowered her phone to her thigh. “Should we call 911?”

  Lance steered the Jeep onto the on-ramp. “I suppose we can’t let ourselves in?”

  “No. Definitely not.” Morgan made the call, giving the dispatcher her name and asking for a welfare check at Warren Fox’s address. “They won’t rush a welfare check.”

  “If he’s dead, an hour or two won’t make any difference.”

  The hospital was a thirty-minute drive from the Black Tavern. It was nearly seven o’clock by the time Lance parked in the lot. “I’m sorry. We should have stopped for food.”

  “I’m fine.” Morgan pulled two candy bars from her tote and offered him one.

  He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

  She stashed one back in her bag and ate the other as they walked across the parking lot. They went through the automatic doors, collected visitor badges at the front desk, and took the elevator to the third floor. They walked down the hall toward the ICU. A lab tech was exiting, and they slipped in while the doors were still open.

  Morgan picked up on a somber energy the minute they walked into the ward. Staff talked in hushed, subdued voices. Lance’s steps quickened. He felt it too. Morgan took his hand in a strong grip.

  Someone had died.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Lance could feel the sorrow, as palpable as a drop in room temperature.

  They hadn’t called him.

  It can’t be Mom.

  He paused just before he reached his mother’s doorway, dread weighing his steps like his boots were filled with concrete. He and his mother had fought her mental illness for decades. Her demons had taken up permanent residence. But every time they’d advanced, she’d rallied and driven them back. Her whole life had been one battle after another. She won some and lost others. But overall, she’d been winning the war. Inch by inch, she’d chipped away at their advantage. She’d finally made real gains, only to fall victim to someone’s sick game.

  As he pushed forward for the last two strides, Morgan’s grip on his hand tightened.

  But everything in the room looked the same. His mother slept. The ventilator hissed. The heart monitor beeped in a steady rhythm.

  It’s not her.

  When he exhaled, he was light-headed for a few seconds.

  In the chair near the bed, Hannah Barrett looked up from her book. Her face was grim, her eyes sad. Lance glanced into the next room. The sheet had been pulled up over the patient’s head. Two women in scrubs were unplugging equipment and tubes, coiling the untethered ends onto the bed.

  The old man was dead.

  Equal amounts of relief and guilt flooded Lance. The old man was someone’s father or grandfather. Someone would be brokenhearted at the news.

  Hand in hand with Morgan, he went into his mother’s room. The nurse bustled in and hung a new IV bag. Her eyes and nose were red from crying.

  “How is she?” Lance asked.

  “She’s hanging in there.” She sniffed, then gave him an update on her vital signs. “Her kidney function showed some improvement today.” She flushed the IV port, attached the new bag of fluids, and pressed buttons on the infusion pump.

  The bed and medical equipment filled one half of the large room. A supply and computer station was built into the other. The wall that edged the hallway was made of glass, with a curtain that could be drawn across if needed.

  The nurse scanned the monitors and then went to the computer and typed. “Let me know if you need anything.” She left the room.

  Hannah stood and greeted them.

  “I can’t thank you enough for being here,” Lance said.

  “I don’t mind.” Hannah brushed a lock of short, spiky blonde hair off her face. “Do you have any idea who might have done this to her?”

  “We have a few solid suspects.” But not solid enough, thought Lance. “You’ve been here all day?”

  Hannah nodded. “Brody will be here soon to relieve me for the evening, and Stella said she’d take the night shift. One of us will be with her all the time.”

  “I’m grateful,” he said.

  “No one can be in two places at once.” Hannah moved toward the door. “Since you’re here, I’m going to stretch my legs and grab a cup of tea.”

  Morgan squeezed his hand. “Do you want a few minutes alone with her?”

  Lance nodded. Morgan and Hannah left the room.

  He went to the bedside and took his mother’s hand. Her fingers were freezing. He wrapped his hand around hers to warm it. The doctors thought she would survive, but would she? And if she did, what kind of permanent damage had her body sustained?

  The nur
se seemed satisfied with her progress, but Lance didn’t see any improvement. His mother’s face was lifeless, her skin colorless, almost blue tinted. Her lips had no color at all. In fact, she seemed to be fading as he watched.

  One of the machines beside the bed began to beep. The nurse appeared in the doorway, her mouth turned down as she watched the monitors. An alarm sounded.

  Lance startled. Sweat broke between his shoulder blades, and his stomach flipped over. “What’s wrong?”

  “Her heart rate is decreasing,” the nurse said. She pressed a button and the blood pressure cuff inflated.

  A doctor rushed into the room.

  “Heart rate and blood pressure are down.” The nurse rattled off numbers and readings. “Her vitals were all normal ten minutes ago.”

  More nurses hurried into the room. Someone nudged Lance out of the way. He stepped sideways, toward the doorway.

  “Fingernails are blue.” The doctor lifted his mother’s eyelids with his thumb. “Her pupils are constricted.” He went to the computer and scrolled. “If she wasn’t in the ICU, I’d say she is presenting as a new opioid overdose. Her original drug panel came back positive for opioids.”

  They’d been right.

  “Someone poisoned her,” Lance said. “This wasn’t a suicide attempt.”

  Could someone have sneaked into the ICU and given his mother a drug?

  “Was anyone else in this room?” Lance scanned the room, then the doorway. People rushed past. Medical personnel wore IDs. Visitors checked in at the desk in the lobby and received ID badges. But how hard would it be to sneak into the hospital? This was not the city. The community hospital gave excellent care, but they didn’t even have metal detectors. But even if someone did manage to get into the ward, Hannah said she’d been with his mother the entire day. That’s the whole reason she was here. Had she gone out for coffee or to use the restroom?

  The doctor shot a look at him. “Are you suggesting . . .”

  “Someone tried to kill her once,” Lance said. “I don’t know how they could have gained access to her here, but this is a busy place.”