Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Read online

“I am.” Morgan reached for a bottle of water on her credenza. She chased the antacids down with two ibuprofen tablets from her desk drawer. “Let’s go find this bastard before he hurts anyone else.”

  Sharp reappeared in the doorway. “Too late.”

  Morgan’s belly clenched.

  “A woman named Karen Mitchell was reported missing this morning. She left her parents’ house to go for a run in the state park. She never came home. She’s young. And she’s blonde.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “So, what have you been up to, Kirk?” Lance asked.

  Inside the fish-bowl conference room at Speed Net, Morgan sat at Lance’s left. Kirk Armani and Elliot Pagano, who insisted on being present, had taken seats across from them.

  Lance leaned back in his chair and tried to act casual.

  But apparently, he wasn’t a very good actor.

  Kirk Armani held his upturned skateboard in his lap and spun the wheels with trembling fingers. The kid looked like hell. His clothes were wrinkled. He refused to make any eye contact at all.

  He and Morgan had knocked on Kirk’s apartment door. When no one answered, they’d driven over to Speed Net to talk to him.

  Lance scanned the main room through the glass. Despite it being a Saturday afternoon, Speed Net was humming with activity.

  Elliot crossed his arms over his chest. “What is this all about? I thought Chelsea had been found.”

  “We are not law enforcement officers. Kirk is under no obligation to talk to us,” Lance said. “But another woman went missing.”

  Elliot straightened. “That’s terrible, but I’m still confused as to why you are here this morning. Are you still working for Tim?”

  “We are. Tim and Chelsea want to know who kidnapped her,” Morgan said. “And last night someone broke in to my home and threatened me and my family. We think it might have been the same person who kidnapped Chelsea.”

  “I’m sorry,” Elliot said. “That must have been terrifying.”

  “Yes. It was.” Morgan interlaced her fingers on the table. “Kirk, we know about the restraining order that was filed against you.”

  Kirk paled. “I didn’t mean to harass her. I wasn’t stalking her. I promise.”

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. He stopped spinning the skateboard wheels and gripped the edges of the board with both hands.

  “It’s OK, Kirk,” Elliot soothed. “This is old news. Kirk didn’t mean any harm.”

  Kirk shook his head almost violently. “She never asked me to stop talking to her. I didn’t know.”

  “He was working here at the time?” Lance asked.

  “Yes. He was really upset. I helped him sort it all out.” Elliot’s mouth tightened. “The young woman gave Kirk hints that she wasn’t interested in him. Kirk didn’t read those hints. When he asked her out on a date, and she turned him down by saying she had to clip her cat’s toenails, he took her at her word.”

  “I didn’t know.” Kirk’s breaths came harder and faster.

  “Calm down, Kirk. It’s fine.” Elliot leveled a hard glare at Lance and Morgan in turn. “Kirk has trouble with social cues. If the young woman had just told him she didn’t like him, he would have backed down. But she didn’t. She was snarky and sarcastic—two things Kirk has trouble interpreting well. He kept asking her out, thinking eventually her schedule would clear.”

  Disappointment flashed through Lance. Not that he wanted this kid to be guilty. He felt bad for Kirk. But he wanted to find the man responsible.

  “We’re so sorry we brought this all up, Kirk,” Morgan apologized. “I’m frightened for my children. I’m just trying to keep them safe.”

  “I’d never hurt a kid. I like kids.” Kirk sniffed and wiped the back of his hand under his nose. “Kids are nice to me.”

  As opposed to adults . . .

  And Lance felt like he’d just kicked a kitten.

  He rubbed his sternum, where frustration burned like a bad case of heartburn. Another dead end.

  “Besides, I was here all night.” Kirk finally lifted his gaze and briefly let it connect with Lance’s, like a moth bouncing off a hot light bulb. “Me and the team worked late. We ordered pizza and played Overlook most of the night. I fell asleep on the couch.”

  “You’ve been here all night?” Lance clarified. “With your team members?”

  Kirk nodded.

  “I’m so sorry we bothered you.” Morgan stood. “Thank you for clearing that up for us.”

  Elliot escorted them to the lobby. “Next time you want to talk to me or one of my employees on corporate property, you’ll have to go through my attorney.”

  He watched them exit. The door closed behind them with a solid and final thud. Lance and Morgan stepped out into the parking lot. The temperature had dropped since they’d gone inside.

  “Well, I feel like a total bully.” Lance unlocked the Jeep.

  “Me too.” Morgan climbed into the passenger seat. After he settled behind the wheel, she said. “This case has me feeling all sorts of terrible. Since when am I willing to harass law-abiding citizens or ignore the law?”

  “Since the threat became personal.” Lance started the engine and drove out of the lot. “That kid will be OK. You did what you had to do. Surely, you were hard on witnesses and defendants when you were a prosecutor?”

  “When necessary, yes.” She pushed her hair off her face. “But their involvement in the case was always established beforehand. For the most part, I already knew what they were going to tell me.”

  “The police sorted through the witnesses for you. This is what it’s like when you’re chasing down leads.”

  “Yes. You’re right. As an ADA, I didn’t get involved in cases until arrests were made.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “This is frustrating.”

  “You haven’t slept. You haven’t taken a break. You didn’t even finish that protein shake Sharp made you, and now it’s lunchtime.” Lance glanced over, worried. The circles under Morgan’s eyes were dark enough to match the bruises around her throat. Her home had been invaded, her family threatened, and then she’d spent the night in the hospital waiting room.

  Lack of sleep was making him punchy, she must feel ten times worse.

  “Have you checked in on your grandfather?” he asked.

  She pulled her phone out of her enormous bag. “I haven’t heard from Stella for a while. I’ll call her.”

  She pressed the phone to her ear and conferred in a low, anxious tone for a few minutes before lowering the cell to her lap. “There’s no change in his condition. He hasn’t woken up yet.”

  “Do you want to stop by and see him?”

  Morgan nodded. “Yes. We’re at an impasse with this investigation. The SFPD is watching Harold Burns. I haven’t heard from Tim, but there’s a county sheriff’s deputy assigned to protect Chelsea. I don’t know what else to do at this point.” Her voice broke. “And I think I should see him, just in case.”

  The break in her voice implied “in case it’s my last chance.”

  Lance drove toward the hospital. He dropped Morgan at the door, then parked the Jeep. When he caught up with her in the ICU waiting area, she was talking to her worn-out and wrinkled sister.

  Stella’s eyes were red-rimmed, and her nose was red, as if she’d been crying. She handed Morgan a book, a popular crime fiction paperback. “I don’t know if he can hear me, but I’ve been reading to him.”

  Morgan took the paperback and smiled sadly. “He loves to criticize police procedurals.”

  “I was hoping he’d wake up and rant about all the errors.” Stella hugged her sister. “I’m going to have a shower and a nap. Then I’ll be back.”

  “Still nothing from Ian?” Morgan asked.

  “No.” Stella took her keys from her pocket. “But Peyton got on a flight a few hours ago. She should be here by dinnertime. So maybe she can take over the night shift.”

  Stella left. Morgan and Lance were buzzed through the doubl
e doors into the ICU. They went into Art’s glassed-in room. He looked small, and the machines surrounding him were intimidating.

  Morgan went to his side, leaned over to kiss his cheek, then found his hand under the blanket and gave it a gentle squeeze. A tear rolled down her cheek. She sniffed and brushed it away.

  A nurse came in and checked his vital signs. “Try not to panic.”

  “But he hasn’t woken up,” Morgan said, her face pale enough to break Lance’s heart.

  “His body needs rest.” The nurse wrote on his chart. “We haven’t seen a repeat of the blood pressure issue or heart arrhythmia that occurred during the surgery. He’s been stable all day. Give him some time. At his age, his body won’t bounce back from the injury or the anesthesia quickly.”

  “Thank you,” Morgan said.

  “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.” The nurse left. Grandpa’s room was across from the nurses’ station.

  Morgan settled in a chair by the bed. Lance pulled a chair up next to hers. She opened her giant bag and pulled out a stack of files.

  “You’re not going to read to him?”

  “I’ll read him our case notes. That’ll interest him more than anything else.” She handed Lance a stack of reports. “Maybe he’ll wake up and point out a clue we missed.”

  The sheer volume of information was staggering. But four hours later, they’d reviewed most of their case notes and found nothing.

  Her phone vibrated. “It’s Stella.” She answered the call. The conversation was brief. She ended the call with an angry stab to her phone screen. “The SFPD has been ordered to stay away from Harold Burns. His lawyer filed a harassment suit against the township.”

  “Now he can do whatever he wants without anyone knowing about it.”

  “Yes.” Morgan lowered the phone and paced the hospital room. “The DA had no choice but to rein Horner in, especially after the disaster last month.”

  Morgan’s neighbor had almost died in jail after being falsely arrested and imprisoned.

  “The press was relentless on the DA and Horner,” Lance said.

  “They don’t have any options.” Morgan stopped pacing and pressed her palms to her eyes. “There’s no evidence against Burns. None.”

  “Morgan?” A low voice came from the doorway.

  Though he’d never met Peyton, Lance had no doubt the young woman who entered the room was Morgan’s younger sister. Peyton had the same black hair and blue eyes as Morgan and Stella, though she was a head shorter. Age-wise, at thirty-two, Peyton was sandwiched between her sisters. She wore dark jeans, knee-high boots, and a black sweater.

  The sisters hugged, teary-eyed.

  Morgan introduced them, and Lance felt Peyton’s scrutiny. The third Dane sister might not be a cop, but as a forensic psychiatrist she was no less assessing.

  Peyton went to her grandfather’s side. She kissed his cheek, then stood back and scanned the monitors before picking up his chart and flipping through the pages.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” Morgan stood next to her sister. “The doctor should be in soon. You’ll understand the medical terms better than me.”

  “I checked at the desk,” Peyton said. “He’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

  Morgan peered over her sister’s shoulder. “How does he look?”

  “The fact that he’s been stable is a good sign.” Peyton took her grandfather’s hand. “I miss him.”

  “He understands.” Morgan rubbed her sister’s shoulder.

  “I know, but that doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t seen him in ages.” Peyton shook her head and turned to Morgan. “You look terrible. Go home. Have some dinner. Get some sleep. I’ll stay with him tonight. I promise I will text you immediately if there’s any change in his condition.”

  “All right.” Morgan stepped back and gathered her files, stuffing them into her big bag.

  They said their goodbyes, then Lance escorted her down the hall and through the secure doors to the main hallway. They didn’t speak until they were in his Jeep.

  Darkness had fallen. At seven in the evening, the parking lot was bathed in the white glow of overhead lights.

  “You need to eat.” Lance had eaten a couple of protein bars in the hospital, but Morgan had refused.

  Morgan’s phone buzzed. “It’s Tim.”

  She answered the call. “How’s Chelsea?”

  Lance could hear Tim’s response over the connection. “She just woke up. I’m sorry. I missed your earlier message. I had to give Chelsea a sedative. She freaked out as soon as we pulled into the driveway.”

  Where she’d been abducted . . .

  “How is she now?” Morgan asked. “We’d like to stop by and ask her a few questions.”

  “Hold on.” A pause suggested Tim was asking his wife. A moment later he came back on the line. “She says yes.”

  “We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” Morgan ended the call. “Let’s go see what Chelsea remembers.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions.” Morgan studied the Clarks over the coffee table in their living room. Dressed in a cozy sweater and yoga pants, Chelsea held her baby in her arms. Tim and Bella flanked her on the sofa. Bella curled up into her mother; Tim’s shoulder pressed into his wife’s.

  Their connection went beyond physical touch. Morgan could feel their bond, their unity, from across the six feet of space that separated her and Lance from the family.

  “Bella, it’s time for your bath,” Chelsea’s mother called from the doorway and held out her hand toward the little girl. Chelsea’s father stood behind his wife, looking lost, as if he didn’t know what to do.

  Bella hesitated, looking up at her mother, and Morgan’s heart bumped in her chest. The poor child was confused and vulnerable.

  Chelsea gave her daughter a one-armed hug. “Go with Grandma. I’ll read you a story after your bath.”

  The little girl obeyed, casting a reluctant glance back at Chelsea as she left the room with her grandmother.

  “Dad, would you take William?” Chelsea asked.

  “Of course. He’s starting to like me.” Her father seemed relieved to have a task. He took the baby. “We’ll hang out with Bella and Grandma.”

  After her father and son had left the room, Chelsea turned back to Lance and Morgan. “We’re taking it one day—sometimes one moment—at a time. I’m grateful to be home.”

  The damage to Chelsea’s body was easy to assess. Every inch of exposed skin was mottled with swelling, healing abrasions, and bruises in varying shades of purple and green. But despite her damaged face, behind the fear and anger, determination shone from her eyes.

  He’d beaten her body, but not her spirit.

  “Reporters were outside when we came home.” Tim reached for his wife’s hand. “The sheriff made them leave.”

  For once, Morgan appreciated Sheriff King’s intimidating and unyielding nature.

  “I want him caught. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder,” Chelsea said. “I don’t know if I can take that.”

  “You should invest in a good security system,” Lance said. “We can give you some recommendations.”

  “Please,” Tim said.

  “We might want to move.” Chelsea’s gaze wandered to the window. “I don’t know if I can stay here after . . .”

  After she’d been abducted from her own driveway.

  Chelsea shook her head. “Now what do you need to know? I’ll try to answer the best I can.”

  “What do you remember about the man or the place you were held?” Lance asked.

  “I was in a storage container.” Chelsea described finding a nail, picking the lock on her chains, and escaping through a rust hole in the roof. “The container was in a clearing, but there were tree branches overhead and a cabin or small house nearby.” Chelsea closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry. It was dark. Once I was out, and I heard him comi
ng after me, I just ran.”

  “How about sounds?”

  “I heard a dog barking.”

  “No traffic sounds?” Lance asked.

  “No.” Chelsea drew her knees up under her chin. She curled her body into a defensive ball. “I wish I could tell you more. I feel useless.”

  “Don’t. You did exactly the right thing. You got away,” Morgan said. “Can you tell us anything about your captor?”

  Chelsea stared down at her knees. “He wanted to train me. To teach me to be submissive. If I obeyed, he fed me. If I didn’t, he punished me.”

  “What did he look like?” Morgan asked.

  “He wore a mask, so I didn’t see his face,” Chelsea’s brows lowered. She gave them a very basic description of an average-size, white male. No distinguishing accent. “He was strong.”

  “So probably not too old,” Lance said. “How about visible tattoos or scars?”

  Chelsea shook her head.

  “Did he wear cologne?” Lance asked.

  “I was so scared; I wasn’t paying attention.” Chelsea froze. “Wait. There was a smell. Something . . . sharp. Almost oily.”

  “Was it motor oil?” Lance asked.

  “No. It wasn’t that strong.” She shuddered. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” She pressed a fist over her mouth, clearly fighting for control.

  Morgan changed the topic. “Your boss said you wanted to talk to him about something. What was it?”

  “One of my clients has statements that don’t reconcile.” Chelsea tilted her head. “I can’t give you his name, but he can’t possibly be connected to this. It’s a tax issue, and he would have no way of knowing that I’m aware of it.”

  And this was obviously not the crime of a tax evader.

  “But it was important enough that you didn’t want to e-mail your boss or explain the problem over the phone?” Lance asked.

  “I don’t have a secure server at home, and the baby was always crying. The last time I talked to Curtis over the phone, I could barely hear him,” she explained. “I thought it would be easier to discuss the problem in his office.”

  Morgan stood. “If you remember anything else, please call us right away. It doesn’t matter how small of a detail it is. You never know where it might lead.”