Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(31)

Morgan stood back, arms crossed over her chest, one flat shoe tapping on the ground.

“I see something.” Lance pushed his big shoulders into the bushes. Dried leaves crackled as something moved. “Ow. It’s a dog, and it just bit me.”

Morgan tugged him back. “Let me try.”

“Be careful.” Lance shook his hand. Blood welled from his finger.

Sharp leaned over to get a look at the wound. “Practically a paper cut. You’ll live.”

Morgan pulled a tiny packet of tissues from her bag and handed it over. Then she hiked up her skirt, got down on her knees, and crawled into the shrubs, talking in a soothing baby voice. “It’s OK. I won’t hurt you. That’s a good baby.”

A few seconds later, she backed out of the shrub with a small dog in her arms, a ridiculously tiny brown creature. A pink bow held the hair out of its eyes.

Sharp snickered. “It must weigh all of four pounds.”

“Still has sharp teeth.” Lance wrapped a tissue around his bleeding finger.

“It’s a Yorkie,” Morgan said.

Sharp let the little dog sniff his hand. It growled as he read her tag. “Her name is Sweet Pea Fox. She must be Crystal’s dog.”

Morgan set it on the ground. It took one step, dragging one leg, and she scooped it back up again. “She’s hurt.”

“Let’s see why Crystal’s dog is outside.” Sharp headed up the walk. There was no doorbell, so he knocked on the door.

Something scraped from the back of the house. Lance put a finger to his lips and took off in a jog around the corner. Sharp motioned for Morgan to stay put. Then he headed around the opposite side. A rickety chain-link fence defined the backyard. Sharp went through the open gate.

He heard the scraping sound again. Shoving aside the branch of a monstrous rhododendron, he saw a hooded figure drop out of a window and haul ass through the weeds. Sharp sprinted after him. He could still clock a six-minute mile and closed the distance between them rapidly. Reaching the fence, the figure put one hand on top and leaped over. His feet hit the weeds on the other side, and he turned on the speed. Sharp followed him over the fence and continued to gain ground. He heard Lance’s heavier steps and the rattle of the fence behind him. But Sharp focused on the hooded figure. He was tall and slim but clearly unconditioned. His strides were slowing.

As the man reached the end of the meadow at the edge of the woods, Sharp lunged forward, grabbing him by his hoodie and yanking him backward. Momentum worked with him. The man’s feet continued forward, his shoulders pitched backward, and he landed on his back on the grass.

“Don’t move.” Sharp put a foot on his throat, intending to pin him to the ground.

The man grabbed his foot, knocked Sharp backward, and scrambled to his feet. Sharp got a boot under his body and launched himself forward. He landed on top. He was in good shape for his age, but the man under him was younger and stronger. A wild fist caught Sharp on the jaw. Stars exploded in front of him. In two seconds, he found himself on his back with a weight on his chest and hands around his throat.

The kid leaned on his hands, cutting off Sharp’s air.

Sharp crossed his arms over his chest, using his elbows to bend his assailant’s arms and ease some of the pressure, just enough to suck in one breath.

As suddenly as the weight had landed on his chest, it disappeared. Sharp gulped oxygen, his lungs burning, as a shadow fell over him. Lance had the kid by the neck of his hoodie, the kid’s toes barely on the ground.

“What’s going on?” Lance asked. He wasn’t even out of breath.

Sharp looked up, wheezing and feeling old.

Lance shook the kid like a kitten. “Why were you running from Crystal’s house?”

The guy was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen. His wide-open, panicked eyes made him look younger.

“I didn’t do anything.” His arms flailed.

Lance eased the kid’s feet to the ground and released him. Sharp sat up and waited for the kid to spill his guts, but he clamped his mouth firmly shut. Sharp bet this was not the kid’s first B and E.

“If you try to run”—Sharp jerked a thumb toward Lance, whose bowling-ball-size biceps served as useful threats—“I’ll sic him on you again.”

The kid’s gaze darted back and forth between Sharp and Lance, then he nodded.

Sharp checked the kid’s pockets for weapons and found a wallet. He read the driver’s license. “Ricky Jackson. OK, Ricky, let’s go see what you were so anxious to run away from.” Sharp pushed him back toward Crystal’s house. He pocketed the wallet, just in case the kid managed to beat feet.

There were no houses in sight. The dilapidated farmhouse a quarter mile away was the closest neighbor. Ricky dragged his feet, but he was smart—or experienced—enough not to give anything away.

“Are you cops?” he protested.

“No,” Sharp said, keeping one hand on the kid’s arm.

The kid tried to twist away. “Then get your hands off me.”

“Walk.” Lance pointed toward Crystal’s place.

As they approached, Sharp studied the open window. Sharp caught a vibe—and a smell—that indicated bad shit had gone down. “I’m sure they’d love to know why you were climbing out Ms. Fox’s window.”