Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3) Read online

  He wanted the man who hurt his mother locked up.

  He wanted to know what happened to his father.

  He wanted justice.

  Stan’s office door was open. Lance closed it after he and Morgan were inside. In khaki trousers and a blue button-down, Stan looked like he was headed for the golf course. He glanced up from his computer screen as they walked in. Standing, he extended his hand across the desk. Morgan and Lance shook his hand and sat in the two chairs facing his desk.

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Morgan began.

  “You said you had some follow-up questions.” Stan rocked back in his chair. “I don’t have much time.”

  “I hope it’s nothing serious,” Morgan said.

  “No.” He waved off her concern. “Just a last-minute request from a client.”

  “Nice of you all to scramble to accommodate him.”

  “He’s one of our biggest clients,” Stan explained. “These things happen.”

  The small talk was giving Lance heartburn. He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, 100 percent of his attention on Stan’s face. “My mother overdosed last night.”

  “Oh, no.” Stan’s head shifted back. “I’m so sorry. Is she . . . ?”

  “It’s still touch and go,” Lance said. “Did you talk to her this week?”

  Stan’s hand dropped to his blotter. He toyed with a paper clip, rolling it around on his fingertips. “I called her yesterday.”

  “You didn’t stop and see her?” Lance asked.

  Stan shook his head. “No. I offered, but she said she didn’t accept visitors.”

  That, at least, was true. But how could Lance believe a single word Stan said? He’d already caught him in a lie.

  “Why did you call her?” Morgan asked.

  “After we’d talked, I felt guilty.” Stan watched the paper clip spin. “I was your dad’s friend, and I let him down. I didn’t look after his family. I didn’t check on you. I didn’t make sure your mother was all right.”

  “Where were you again that night?” Lance forced the question out of a tight throat.

  “I already told you. I was with Brian at the ball field.” Stan licked his lips. He spun the paper clip in nervous circles.

  His khakis should have self-combusted.

  Tension built in Lance’s chest, and he quelled the urge to reach across the desk and choke Stan with his own collar.

  “That’s interesting”—Morgan shifted into her cross-examination tone—“because we know that Brian was lying about that night. He wasn’t with you.”

  Stan dropped the paper clip, but he remained silent.

  “Why did you lie to the police?” Morgan asked.

  Stan contemplated her question for a few seconds, his fingers finding the paper clip on the blotter. Was he deciding whether to tell the truth or another carefully phrased lie?

  How would they ever know? Lance straightened, planting his hands on the armrest, occupying them in case he was overcome with the desire to wring Stan’s neck.

  Thankfully, Morgan was here. She grounded him.

  “Because Brian asked me to,” Stan admitted, his tone shifted to disgust. “I assume you know where he was?”

  “With Mary Fox.” Morgan nodded.

  “He didn’t want Natalie to find out about Mary.” Stan dropped his paper clip, clasped his hands, and rested them on the blotter. “You have to understand. At the time, no crime had been committed. Brian didn’t see why he should destroy his marriage for nothing.”

  “My father was nothing?” Lance asked.

  Stan winced. “I didn’t mean your father was nothing. But we didn’t think anything bad had happened to him. He’d been under a great deal of pressure. We thought your dad just lost it and went somewhere to decompress for a couple of days. Vic was my good friend.”

  “Not good enough for you and Brian to give the police accurate information,” Lance said.

  “You covered for Brian so he could cheat on his wife,” Morgan pointed out.

  Stan bowed his head over his clasped hands. “I can’t argue with that, but Brian’s marriage was his business, not mine. I didn’t think it had anything to do with your dad.”

  “And afterward?” Lance’s mouth tasted bitter. “When my father never came back?”

  Stan’s shoulders sagged. “Once we’d told the police detective one story, we could hardly change it. I had no idea where Vic was. I only knew where Brian was and who he was with that night. At the time, there were no connections between your dad and Mary.” He lifted his chin and met Lance’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Too little, too late.

  “Where were you this afternoon?” Morgan asked.

  “I was here, all day.” Stan gestured toward his closed door. “The receptionist can vouch for me.”

  “So where were you the night my father went missing?” Lance asked.

  “Home. Alone.” Stan glanced away for a fraction of a second. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.

  Liar.

  “That’s the best you can do?” Lance’s fingers curled around the armrests.

  “We know why Brian lied,” Morgan said. “But I seriously doubt you would falsify a statement to the police just so your friend’s wife wouldn’t find out he was with a hooker. We’ve already established you’re not the most loyal friend. If you lied to the police, you were also up to something that night.”

  Stan’s lips mashed flat, as if he wouldn’t speak another word.

  “Did you see Brian and Mary that night?” Lance asked.

  No answer.

  “Were you at PJ’s?” Lance pressed.

  “I have nothing else to say.” Stan gestured toward the door. “Please leave. Don’t come back.”

  “We won’t.” Lance stood. “The next person you’ll be talking to is the sheriff.”

  Lance couldn’t wait to sic Sheriff King on Stan.

  Morgan held him by the arm all the way out the door. Lance didn’t remember taking the elevator or walking across the lobby. The next thing he knew, the cold air was slapping him in the face.

  “He was lying.” Lance headed for his Jeep. “He wasn’t home alone.”

  “Probably not,” Morgan agreed. “What was Stan doing that was worth lying to the police about? And how do we find out where he was twenty-three years later?”

  “He wasn’t married, so he wasn’t hiding a woman.” Lance put a hand on the door handle and talked over the roof of the Jeep. “Maybe he was with a married woman.”

  “Maybe, but after all these years, would he still lie about that?” Morgan asked. “In my mind, he was doing something illegal, something that might still affect his life if the truth came out.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Morgan settled in the driver’s seat, the steering wheel freezing under her hands. “If Stan has an alibi for today, he couldn’t have been at the hospital.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Lance’s breath fogged in front of his face like a personal storm cloud. “He’s lying about the night my dad disappeared. I’ve no reason to believe anything else he says.”

  “But he has witnesses for today,” Morgan pointed out.

  “He has employees who will say what he wants them to say. The hospital is a fifteen-minute drive from here. He could have slipped out and done the deed. With driving time, it would have taken less than an hour. The receptionist must take a lunch break.”

  “I still feel like we’re missing something.” Morgan drummed her fingers on the wheel. “Our only suspects are Brian and Stan, yet both had alibis for at least some of the recent murders.”

  “What if they were working together?” Lance asked. “Their original false alibi was joint.”

  “It’s possible. But what was their motivation? If Brian killed Mary because she was going to tell his wife, how did Stan get involved?”

  “Brian called him for help disposing of the body,” Lance suggested.

  “It’s possible, but I feel like we’re
still missing a key piece of information.” The theory wasn’t ringing true to Morgan. “It’s one thing to cover for your pal, but quite another to help him commit murder.”

  “And it doesn’t explain what happened to my father.” Lance closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with both hands.

  “Unless Vic saw Brian kill Mary.”

  “And my father wouldn’t help them cover it up.” Lance dropped his hands into his lap. “Even though I know Brian and Stan both lied, I still have a hard time believing they would have killed my father.”

  “What do we do?” Morgan asked.

  “We get comfortable.” Lance cracked his neck. “I have no ideas other than good old-fashioned surveillance. Stan is our best lead at this point. I want to stick with him and see where he goes after work.” He glanced at Morgan. “He might be late. Do you want me to take you home?”

  “No.” Morgan glanced sideways.

  Lance seemed to have gotten his temper under control, but she didn’t trust him to go off on his own.

  She reached behind the seat for her tote and pulled it onto her lap. Unzipping it, she dug for the case file and handed it to Lance. “Stan drives a black Mercedes. Let’s find it in case he goes out the back door.”

  Lance read off the license plate number. Morgan started the engine and turned on the heat. She drove the Jeep up and down the rows until they spotted Stan’s car. She parked in the darkest spot she could find several rows away.

  Turning off the engine, she fished her leftover candy bar from her bag. She tore the wrapper and waved it at him. “Want half?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t eat that.”

  Too late.

  She chewed and swallowed. “It has peanuts in it. Nuts are healthy.”

  Lance was always prepared for an impromptu stakeout. He kept his Jeep stocked with emergency supplies. He opened the console and took out two protein bars. From a bag behind his seat, he removed two water bottles and offered her one.

  She took it but didn’t open it. Who knew how long they’d have to wait? After three pregnancies, it was safest to minimize fluid intake on stakeouts of indeterminate length.

  She fished gloves from her pockets and turned up her collar. He handed her a protein bar, but she put it aside as well. The chocolate would keep her going for a while. It could be a long night. They’d have to ration their supplies. She settled lower in her seat. Lance did the same.

  Time passed with a creeping slowness that reminded her of Salvador Dali’s melting clocks.

  Just after eleven p.m., Stan exited the building.

  Morgan perked up. “There he is.”

  Hunching his shoulders against the wind, Stan hustled across the parking lot and slid into his Mercedes. The headlights turned on. A minute later, he drove out of the lot.

  Morgan followed him. With the roads nearly deserted, she eased off the accelerator and stayed well back. When Stan turned into his development, she drove past, then turned around to double back.

  “Kill the headlights before you make the turn,” Lance said.

  Exterior lights blazed in the new development, eliminating the need for headlights.

  Two blocks away, she slid the Jeep to the curb, choosing the darkest place between street lamps. They watched Stan park in his driveway. Lights shone in the front windows of the big house. Stan got out of his car. Closing the door, he stopped and scanned the street. Did he feel them watching him?

  Stan went into the house. The first-floor windows went dark a minute later.

  “Maybe he’s going straight to bed,” Morgan said. That’s what she would do.

  “It’s late,” Lance agreed.

  “Do we continue to watch him? If he was going anywhere else, he wouldn’t have driven straight home.”

  “Unless he saw us.”

  “If he saw us, we might as well leave. He won’t lead us anywhere if he knows we’re watching.”

  Lance shifted in his seat. “Drive around the next block.”

  Morgan cruised past Stan’s house and turned left three times.

  “Pull over here,” Lance said. “Under that tree.”

  Morgan parked at the curb around the corner from Stan’s house. “It’s so bright here. I feel exposed.”

  Not only were the lots covered in landscaping lights, but the houses were close together. There were no dark places to hide.

  “It’s the best we can do in this neighborhood,” Lance said. “From a home security perspective, I applaud the lack of dark shadows for burglars to lurk. But for our purposes tonight, it’s damned inconvenient.”

  They climbed out of the Jeep. They locked the vehicle’s doors manually and closed their doors as softly as possible.

  “Hold my hand.” Lance reached toward her.

  She slid her hand into his.

  Lance tugged her onto the sidewalk. “We’re just a nice couple taking a stroll.”

  For a minute, that’s exactly what she wished they were. The crisp night air chilled her face, but her coat blocked the worst of the cold, and the heat of his body penetrated her thin leather glove. A snow flurry drifted down, slow as a feather, and landed on her arm.

  If they weren’t on a stakeout, their walk would be romantic.

  Tires crunched on asphalt.

  “Look casual.” Lance pulled Morgan closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

  Morgan glanced over her shoulder. “Uh-oh.”

  A black-and-white sheriff’s vehicle pulled up to the curb a few feet ahead of them. Sheriff King climbed out of his car, crossed the strip of grass next to the curb, and stepped onto the sidewalk, blocking their way. “What are you doing here?”

  “Taking a walk,” Lance said.

  “Don’t smart-ass me.” The glare of the streetlamp overhead cast the sheriff’s face in harsh, angry shadows.

  Waves of animosity—and testosterone—shimmered between the two men.

  “Stan Adams called me to say you have been harassing and stalking him,” the sheriff said.

  Morgan squeezed Lance’s hand. “Don’t say anything.”

  The sheriff propped his hands on his hips. “Didn’t I tell you both to stay away from this case?”

  Lance said, “My mother is lying in a hospital bed—”

  “Stop. Talking,” Morgan said in a louder voice.

  The sheriff pointed at Lance. “You should listen to the lawyer.”

  But Lance’s temper had obviously kicked his sense out of the way. “I have every right to protect my family.”

  “You don’t have squat.” The sheriff paused after each word for effect.

  Morgan nudged an elbow in between the men and tried to defuse the situation. “We just found out that Stan Adams called Jenny Kruger yesterday, but you knew that, right? You have access to her phone records.”

  The sheriff’s lips mashed flat. She couldn’t tell if he knew or not.

  Lance leaned forward, as if he was going to speak. Morgan tugged him back.

  “Jenny was poisoned with opioids,” she said. “Tonight at the hospital, someone tried to do it again.”

  “Do you have proof of that?” Sheriff King asked.

  “It just happened,” Morgan said. “Her saline solution was spiked. The Scarlet Falls PD has just begun their investigation.”

  “So you just thought you’d take matters into your own hands?” King asked.

  Lance shook his head. “And this is why we didn’t want to call you.”

  “I’ve had it with you.” The sheriff’s finger stabbed in the air toward Lance. “The only way I’m going to keep you both out of my way is to put you in a cell. You’re both under arrest.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Lance took a step forward.

  So did the sheriff. “I don’t make jokes.”

  It was true. The sheriff had no sense of humor.

  “Just do what he says.” Morgan gripped Lance’s bicep. The muscles were hard and tense under her fingers.

  “Both of you, hand ove
r your weapons.” King held out an empty hand.

  They slid their guns from their holsters and offered them butts first.

  The sheriff took both. “Put your hands on top of your heads. Lace your fingers.”

  Lance tensed, but he followed instructions.

  “Now you first, Kruger.” The sheriff crooked a forefinger at Lance. “Give me your coat.”

  Lance slid out of his leather jacket and handed it over. “You can’t arrest us.”

  “I most certainly can. Remember the last time you went off half-cocked?” The sheriff tossed Lance’s jacket over the hood of his car. “You almost got yourself and Ms. Dane killed. Now turn around.”

  Lance complied.

  Pulling Lance’s hands down one at a time, Sheriff King snapped handcuffs onto his wrists. He gave Lance a thorough pat-down, emptying the many pockets of Lance’s cargos and piling the contents on top of Lance’s jacket. Pocketknife, a fully loaded magazine for his Glock, and a handful of plastic zip-ties. The sheriff guided him into the back of the police vehicle.

  “Now you, counselor.” The sheriff pointed to her. “Let’s have your coat.”

  Morgan took off her coat and handed it over. The cold air swept through her, and she shivered as she turned around.

  “Turn out your jeans pockets,” he said. “Use two fingers.”

  She turned her jeans pockets inside out and handed him the keys to the Jeep. The rest of her belongings were in her tote bag, which she’d left in the Jeep. The sheriff handcuffed her and gave her a cursory pat-down, skipping the more intimate areas of her body, something she was positive he would not do when arresting a female stranger. He was being a gentleman while he arrested her, a fact that was ridiculous all on its own.

  “What are the charges?” Morgan asked.

  “I’m starting with loitering, harassment, stalking, and impeding an investigation,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll think of some more during the drive.”

  With a solid hand on her arm, he guided her to the back door of the vehicle. Then he put a gentle hand on the top of her head as she slid into the vehicle.

  Scooting across the bench seat in handcuffs was harder than Morgan anticipated. The door closed. The physical restraint of the handcuffs and the cage separating the back and front seats felt claustrophobic. She glanced over her shoulder and watched the sheriff going through their coat pockets. Lance’s jacket held his cell phone, a miniature screwdriver, and a small flashlight. From Morgan’s coat, the sheriff pulled her phone, a wad of tissues, a lip balm, and two lollipops. The second lollipop was sticky and covered in lint, having been licked and rewrapped when Sophie had discovered she didn’t like green apple. With a disgusted sneer, the sheriff wiped his hand on the thigh of his uniform, then bagged their personal possessions.