What I've Done (Morgan Dane #4)(13)

Morgan had never heard him addressed by his first name. Everyone called him Sharp.

“Please.” Eliza’s voice broke. “I’m so worried about my daughter.”

“Let me see what I can find out.” Morgan turned toward the reception counter. Behind it, deputies and administrative staff worked phones and computers.

The sheriff’s watchdog, Marge, approached the counter, lowered her reading glasses from her nose, and hooked them in the neck of her gray cardigan. In her sixties, Marge had worked for the sheriff’s office longer than anyone else in the department.

“You’re here to represent Haley Powell?” Marge asked with a pitying look at Morgan’s face.

When her eye went full black, people were going to be able to see Morgan’s injury from fifty yards away.

“Yes,” Morgan said. “I need to see my client, and I’ll need to speak with the sheriff as soon as he has a moment.”

Marge nodded with what appeared to be approval.

Interesting.

“The sheriff is in right now,” Marge said. “Considering all that’s going on this morning with the search for the missing woman, there’s no guarantee how long he’ll be here. I’ll take you back to see him first, if that’s agreeable to you.” Marge gestured to the corridor that led to the sheriff’s office.

“Yes. Thank you.” Morgan followed her. While she was anxious to see Haley, she didn’t want to miss what might be her only opportunity to see the sheriff. She needed to know what specific charges were pending against Haley and why.

The sheriff stood when Morgan entered. Sixty-year-old Henry Colgate was just months away from retirement. He shoved a harried hand through the few wispy gray hairs left on his head.

“Ms. Dane.” Colgate gestured to the chair that faced his desk. Papers, file folders, and pink message slips littered the surface. “Please close the door.”

Morgan pushed it shut, then took a seat.

Narrowing his eyes at her face, he said, “I heard about what happened at the courthouse.”

Of course he had. In addition to regular law enforcement for all of Randolph County, the sheriff was in charge of the county jail and courthouse. It was an immense responsibility for a man who had publicly declared he no intention of running for the office.

“It looks worse than it is,” Morgan lied. Her face pulsed with pain. “I’m representing Haley Powell.”

Nodding, Colgate settled behind the desk. Technically, Colgate was the acting sheriff. He’d been the chief deputy when the prior sheriff had died back in November. Colgate had stepped into the position. The job was obviously wearing him down. The bags under his eyes were deep and dark.

Morgan reaching into her bag for her legal pad and a pen. As she leaned over, the room did a quick spin around her. She clutched the armrest and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

“Ms. Dane? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Morgan straightened. “Are you aware that my client has a serious medical condition?”

“No.” His mouth twisted in a skeptical frown. “She didn’t look sick when I talked to her, and she wasn’t wearing a medical alert bracelet.”

“Her mother was here this morning. She left a message for you.” Morgan gave the clutter on Colgate’s desk a pointed stare.

He sifted through the stack of messages. “I don’t see it.”

“Haley requires medication daily. She’s been without it for two days.” Morgan had no time to waste arguing. She made a note and moved on. “Has she been formally charged?”

Colgate shook his head. “Not yet, but I’ve been communicating with the prosecutor’s office. I have no doubt murder charges will be filed later today.”

“How long has she been here?”

“Since one p.m. Saturday.”

“And you questioned her personally?”

Colgate leaned back in his chair. The springs squeaked. “I did.”

“Without a lawyer present?”

“She didn’t ask for a lawyer.” He folded his hands on his small paunch. “And she didn’t say anything about being sick or needing medicine either,” he added in a defensive tone.

“How many times did you interview her?”

“Three,” he said. “At the scene, here immediately after we brought her in, and again this morning.”

Morgan checked her watch. “You brought her here at one p.m. on Saturday, and she sat in your holding cell for nearly two days. Did anyone else question her during that time?”

“No.” Colgate flushed. “We’re looking for a missing woman. We have limited resources.”

A number of deputies had quit in the four months following the former sheriff’s death. Colgate was shorthanded, and he was juggling two major cases. Any sheriff would likely have done the same under the circumstances. The rules for holding a suspect no longer than forty-eight hours were customarily extended when the time spanned a weekend. Technically, he could hold her another day.

Colgate hadn’t done anything illegal. But Morgan still wasn’t happy about the situation. Her young client had been sitting in a filthy cell without her medication for far too long.

The sheriff squirmed. “Haley Powell murdered Noah Carter. The arrest warrant will be here any minute.”