Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Read online

  That she shouldn’t feel guilty for allowing herself to be happy.

  King glanced away, his expression conflicted, his movements awkward. He got up abruptly and paced the floor behind his desk. His long legs ate up the space with two strides in each direction. He looked like a frustrated predator trapped in a too-small cage. “I don’t want to jeopardize our investigation.”

  “How many leads has your department turned up?”

  He stopped. His face hardened. “We both know that most missing adults leave because they want to, and they eventually turn up on their own.”

  “And you have limited resources. I understand.” Morgan used his argument against him.

  “I assure you that Chelsea Clark’s case is a priority for this department.”

  “Look, Sheriff, I don’t want to step on any toes.” But she would if she had to. “I understand your position completely.” She shifted her weight, as if ready to leave. “I can always put Tim Clark and his two babies on the news and appeal to the public for help. I’ll leave it up to you to explain where you are in your investigation to the press.”

  Which would publicly highlight his department’s lack of progress on a case he’d managed to keep relatively low-key up until this point.

  He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and sighed. “We have found no sign of foul play at this time.”

  “Fingerprints in the car?” Morgan settled back into the chair.

  “Sure. Mrs. Clark’s and others, but no criminal matches yet.”

  “You’re submitting the prints to local, state, and federal databases?” she asked. In addition to the FBI’s national IAFIS system, state and local agencies kept their own records. Typically, it was most efficient to begin with a local search and expand geographically.

  “Of course.” The sheriff turned to face Morgan head-on. “And the seat was in an expected position for a woman of Chelsea’s height.”

  “Do you really think she was taken or she went willingly?”

  “We don’t know for certain. There was no blood in the vehicle, and her purse was gone.”

  “So no sign of a struggle,” Morgan said. “What did you find out about the husband?”

  “We found nothing suspicious in his background, and his cell phone records indicate his phone was where he said he was last Friday night.” King eased a hip onto the side of his desk. “We checked out the friend Chelsea was supposed to meet, and Chelsea’s boss. They both have clean records as well. Both seemed upset by Chelsea’s disappearance.”

  “What about the area around her car?”

  “We walked a grid. Came up empty. My deputies knocked on doors down the road. Nobody saw anything. According to the surveillance video at the train station, only two people got on the train at the station that night. Neither of them was a young blonde woman.”

  “Could we have a copy?”

  “No.”

  Morgan opened her mouth to protest, but the sheriff raised a hand to silence her.

  “But I will let you view it here,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Morgan said.

  If Tim had been arrested and charged in the disappearance of his wife, Morgan would have been entitled to all the sheriff’s evidence via the discovery process. But without any formal charges, Morgan would have to accept whatever crumbs the sheriff was willing to toss her way.

  “I assume you entered Chelsea in the NCIC?” Morgan asked.

  The National Crime Information Center was an FBI database of criminal justice information that included details on everything from fugitives to stolen property to missing persons. If a body or incapacitated person meeting Chelsea’s description turned up anywhere in the country, law enforcement would be aware that she was missing.

  “I did.”

  “Did you run a check on similar crimes?”

  The sheriff held up a hand. “Of course I did, but there weren’t many details to enter. We have no proof a crime was even committed.”

  “Tim said you brought in a dog.”

  “Yes. But the dog didn’t pick up a scent either, so if she was at the scene, we assume she left by vehicle.”

  “But you don’t know that she was ever there. If someone abducted her, he could have taken her somewhere else and then dumped the car near the train station.”

  “Or Chelsea had someone pick her up,” King added. “It isn’t a crime to walk away from your family.”

  “Why would you think Chelsea walked away from her family? She has two children.” Even as Morgan said the words, she knew the weakness in her argument. People did unexpected things all the time.

  Terrible, cruel things a normal person couldn’t fathom.

  “The husband admitted his wife was having a rough time with the second baby, and that he didn’t give her much help. I spoke with her parents out in Colorado. Both said how tired their daughter has been, how often she cried over the phone. And her best friend, Fiona West, painted a less rosy picture of Tim and Chelsea’s marriage than Tim did.”

  Morgan put Fiona at the top of her interview list, and doubts about Tim’s innocence nagged at her.

  “I know it must be hard for you as a devoted mother to think about a woman abandoning her children.” The sheriff’s tone softened. “But it happens.”

  Morgan had no difficulty imagining women doing far worse things to their children. She’d prosecuted enough monster mothers. A shudder rippled through her as she remembered a few horrific cases. “You’re right. Not all women were born with maternal instincts.”

  King continued. “Chelsea was feeling neglected and exhausted. Maybe she needed a break and wanted to teach Tim a lesson.”

  “Let’s hope that’s the case.” Morgan finished the water, tossed the empty bottle in the trash, and stood. “Because I’d like nothing more than to have her show up safe and sound.”

  “I’ll have someone pull up the train station surveillance video so you can watch it before you leave. It won’t take long. There’s so little activity, you can fast-forward through most of it.” Leaning forward, the sheriff tugged the scarf away from Morgan’s neck. His eyebrows shot up as the corners of his mouth went down. “Are those from this morning?”

  “They look worse than they feel.” Morgan turned toward the door. “Thank you for your help. I’ll call you if we learn anything.”

  “Same here.” King nodded. “You should be more careful. It would be a damned shame if someone wrung that pretty neck.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Lance rounded the desk in his mother’s home office and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Of course.” His mom tapped her keyboard, blackening her computer screen, then she swiveled her chair to face him. “I like to feel useful.”

  What had she been doing that she felt necessary to hide?

  File in hand, Lance hesitated. Would the case be too much stress for her? The smile on her face didn’t resonate in her eyes. She tucked a lock of shoulder-length gray hair behind one ear. Had she lost weight? Her fragile-thin frame couldn’t spare an ounce. But since Lance saw her every day, he didn’t always notice slight changes, and he couldn’t quite quantify what was wrong today.

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze. Her blue eyes seemed paler, her skin flushed, and her attempt to smile more transparent.

  He scanned the tidy room. “No boxes today?”

  The modern world of online shopping was an agoraphobic hoarder’s dream come true. Lance and his mom had an agreement. She ordered things she didn’t need every day. If she wanted to keep a purchase, she had to dispose of an item of equal size. Lance returned or donated the rest. The system was bizarre, but it kept Jennifer Kruger’s home relatively sane and safe. Lance would not allow her to live in a firetrap ever again.

  “No.” She took the file from his hand and spun away from him.

  Strange.

  But maybe be was being paranoid. With good reason, he was hyperaware of her behavior.

  Clut
ching the edges of her thick cardigan together, she set the folder on the blotter. “Tell me about the case.”

  Again, Lance hesitated. Chelsea’s disappearance had brought back painful memories for him. How would his mother handle the parallels? Over the years that followed his father’s disappearance, she’d retreated into an eggshell of an existence. Her world was self-contained, easily shattered, and impossible to make whole.

  “We’re looking for someone,” he said vaguely. “We need thorough background checks for the people on this list, and we need you to review the missing woman’s computer and phone files.” He set Tim’s USB drive on the desk.

  She scanned the first few pages of their suspect list. “This is about that young mother who went missing, isn’t it?”

  Shit.

  “You know about her?” Lance asked.

  His mother turned a page. “It was on the news.”

  His shut-in mother taught online computer science courses and designed and maintained websites. Since she only left her house to go to therapy, she literally lived online. Coverage of Chelsea’s case had been limited, but his mom hadn’t missed the story.

  “Maybe I should do the background checks,” Lance said.

  “No.” His mom put a possessive hand flat on the file as if he were going to snatch it away. “Do you want me to do a deep dig on the husband?”

  His mom’s precarious mental state often camouflaged her intelligence. She knew Tim would be a suspect despite the fact that he’d hired them.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Hi, Jennifer.” Morgan walked into the room. She’d come with Lance but had been in the kitchen putting away groceries they’d brought. Knowing Morgan, she’d also taken stock of mom’s supplies.

  Lance’s mom’s face went as bright as the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. He needed to have a talk with her. She was clearly building up unreasonable expectations about his relationship with Morgan.

  How could he ever have a real life? There were too many variables to predict his mother’s reaction.

  Damn it.

  He should never have introduced them. His intentions had been good. Morgan would give his mother another person to interact with besides him and Sharp and the package delivery man.

  Now if things didn’t work out between him and Morgan, his mother was going to be disappointed. Who knew how she would handle it? And what if she got her hopes up about having grandchildren and that didn’t pan out. Could she even handle grandchildren?

  Why was he thinking about giving her grandchildren?

  Suddenly hot, Lance pulled at the neck of his T-shirt. The room felt small. Morgan already had three kids.

  Three.

  Her life was a 24/7 power play to the kids’ advantage. Would she want more? Why was he even thinking about this?

  His mom stood, leaned over the desk, and touched Morgan’s arm. It wasn’t quite a hug, but it was the most physical contact his mom had had with a human other than him or Sharp in a long time.

  Morgan returned the touch, as usual letting his mother set the boundaries. “I hope you don’t mind. I started a pot of coffee, and we brought apple pie.”

  Mom beamed. “Of course I don’t mind. I love pie.”

  That, at least, was the truth.

  Dropping back into her seat, his mom waved at the file in front of her. “This is just a list of names. Tell me more about the case. Did Chelsea Clark really just disappear into thin air?”

  Like his dad.

  “We don’t have enough information to say yet.” Morgan smiled.

  His mom nodded, her face grim.

  “I could really go for some pie.” Morgan shot Lance a worried glance. “Why don’t we talk in the kitchen?”

  Morgan and Lance took twenty minutes to fill his mom in on the necessary details of the case. His mother ate an entire slice of pie, which eased his mind. Anxiety dampened her appetite. So her being able to eat was a good sign.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind doing those background checks?” he asked his mom.

  “I want to do them. I get bored.” She kissed him goodbye and then shooed them toward the door.

  Outside, Lance stood on the front step and stared at the closed door. The he dug his phone from his pocket and called Sharp. “Would you mind stopping in to see my mom?”

  “Tonight?” Sharp asked.

  “It’s not an emergency.” Lance glanced back at the house.

  “But—”

  “She seemed . . . off.” Lance wanted another opinion. Sharp was less paranoid.

  “I’ll go tonight,” Sharp said.

  “Thanks.” Lance ended the call. He would check on his mom later too.

  “What’s wrong?” Morgan asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.” Unease filled Lance’s gut.

  “She seemed happy. She ate her pie.”

  Lance turned and started toward the Jeep. “I know.”

  “But you’re afraid the case will remind her of your father.” Morgan fell into step beside him.

  “Yes.” Though his mom had seemed off even before he’d brought up the case.

  “Do you want to stay with her? I can handle the interview with Fiona.”

  He glanced at her. The scarf around her neck hid the bruises, but he knew they were there, darkening by the hour. After today’s incident, he wanted to keep Morgan close. Rationally he knew Tyler Green was safely in custody, but Lance’s feelings for Morgan weren’t always rational.

  “No,” he said. “I’ll come back tonight and make sure she’s all right.”

  They got into his Jeep, and Morgan read him the address of Fiona West’s apartment.

  She fastened her seat belt. “How do you feel about working on a case so similar to your father’s disappearance?”

  Lance almost brushed off her question then changed his mind. “I can definitely relate to how Tim’s feeling right now.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  He backed out of the driveway and turned the Jeep back toward town. “I still haven’t opened Sharp’s case file on my dad’s investigation.”

  A few weeks before, Sharp had turned over the information, saying that it was now up to Lance if he wanted to know the particulars of his father’s disappearance.

  Morgan didn’t say anything, but she reached across the console and took his hand.

  “I’m afraid I’ll be sucked in,” Lance said. “Or that my mom will somehow find out. The last thing she needs is anything to bring back memories of those years.”

  “Do you know any of the details?”

  Lance sighed. “I know the basic information. I was only ten when it happened. Sharp shared as much as he thought I could handle. Frankly, there wasn’t much to share. Not many leads ever turned up. Those were the days before cell phones, before surveillance cameras were everywhere, before E-ZPass and GPS made it hard to disappear. People still used cash in the nineties.”

  “So why would you dig in to the case?” Morgan asked. “Was there DNA or other physical evidence that could be analyzed with more precision now?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Her fingers squeezed his. “Sharp is a good detective, and you said he worked your father’s case for years. I doubt he would have overlooked anything.”

  “I know.” But did he? Lance wouldn’t know for sure unless he reviewed the file.

  “If anything, there will be less evidence now. Memories fade over time. People will have left their jobs. Twenty-three years is a long time.”

  “You’re right.” But could he live with not even trying? Uncomfortable, Lance turned the conversation back to the case. “Tell me about Fiona.”

  Morgan opened a file. “Fiona West is twenty-six years old. She works as a fitness instructor and teaches yoga. She’s lived in Scarlet Falls all her life. We don’t have our full background check yet, but the sheriff said they found nothing alarming in her history. King wasn’t the most forthcoming member of law enforcement I’ve dealt with.
I have no doubt he held back information on the case, but I don’t think he’d outright lie.”

  “Right,” Lance agreed. “King is cantankerous and tight-lipped, but he’s always been a straight shooter in my dealings with him.”

  A few minutes later, Lance turned into the entrance to Fiona’s apartment complex and parked. He and Morgan walked to a door on the first floor of a plain brick building. Morgan had called ahead. Fiona was home and expecting them.

  She opened her door on the first knock. “Come in.”

  The apartment was a square. A small eat-in kitchen opened to a living room. A hallway presumably led to the single bedroom and bath. Through sliding glass doors, a tiny patio overlooked a strip of grass and the parking lot beyond. No fancy views.

  The best word to describe Fiona was cute. Dressed in yoga pants and an oversize shirt, she was a little thing—maybe an inch over five feet tall—perky and fit, with big brown eyes and curly brown hair cut short.

  After offering them coffee, which they declined, she sat on a futon-type sofa and curled her legs underneath her body in a way that made Lance’s knees hurt.

  Morgan sat on the futon with Fiona while Lance eased carefully into a modern, metal-framed chair that looked as if it might snap shut at any moment.

  “Where did you meet Chelsea?” Morgan started.

  Fiona shifted her position and hugged her knees to her chest. “At the yoga studio. I teach there a few nights a week.”

  Lance leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “How often did Chelsea come to class?”

  “Before she had William, she came three times a week. She practiced right up until she gave birth,” Fiona said. “But afterward, she was a mess.”

  “Babies are a handful,” Morgan commiserated. “And I hear William is particularly difficult.”

  Fiona’s lips mashed flat. “Especially if your husband makes no attempt to help. I don’t understand why Chelsea put up with him. She did everything.”