Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(73)

“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 some 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.