Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(25)

But Lance had already discovered his memories were less than accurate. Were his mother’s equally faulty?

If his mother had already begun her mental spiral in 1994, she might not have noticed if his father strayed. Her illness consumed her. It ate away at her interest in the outside world, taking giant bites and devouring them. Maybe his father had been lonely.

“I’m going to call Kevin.” His mother stood. Her gaze landed on Morgan, then Lance. “Please find out what happened. Don’t try and cover it up. I need to face the truth, no matter how difficult it might be.”

She walked out of the kitchen, her gait slow, almost painful, as if she’d aged twenty years since the sheriff had arrived. Her office door closed with a soft click.

“So far, I’m impressed with the way she’s handling all this.” Lance stared at the empty doorway.

“She certainly seems determined,” Morgan said. “What now?”

“Now we find out everything we can about Mary Fox.”

“I’ll call Sharp.” Morgan pulled out her phone as they walked out of the house. She made the call while Lance locked the house. They climbed into the Jeep, and Lance started the engine.

Morgan ended the call. “Sharp wants us to talk to Stan Adams and Brian Leed, but he wants to be in on the interview with Mary’s mother. He says he’ll meet us there later.”

“OK.” Lance drove away from his mother’s house, but he couldn’t escape the uneasy feeling in his chest as he left her behind.





Chapter Thirteen

“Should I call Stan and Brian?” Morgan asked, checking the time on the dashboard. “It’s only three o’clock. They might be at work.”

“No.” Lance shook his head. “Let’s surprise them. If they’re not home, we’ll come back. We can start with Stan. His house is the closest.”

As he drove, Morgan read from her copy of Sharp’s original interview notes and gave Lance the highlights. “Stanley Adams is fifty-eight years old. He’s a founder of the accounting firm of Adams & Booker and a Scarlet Falls native. Ten years ago, he married Abigail Snyder. She is thirty-six years old. They don’t have any children.”

Lance turned into a new development and parked in front of a McMansion. “Looks like Stan has done well for himself.”

A late-model black Mercedes occupied the driveway. They got out and walked up to the front door. Black iron railings flanked red paver steps. Ornamental plants and precisely trimmed shrubs screamed professional landscaper.

Morgan reached for the doorbell, but the high-pitched yapping of small dogs announced their arrival before she pressed the button.

The front door opened. A slim, fit man in his late fifties scooped up a tiny mop of a dog. “Quiet, Ginger.” He raised his eyes. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Lance Kruger,” Lance said.

“Oh.” Stan’s eyes widened. He swept a hand into the house. “Please come in.”

A second dog darted from behind his legs and snapped at Lance’s pant leg. Stan blocked it with his foot, then picked it up with his other hand. He stepped back and gestured with his head for them to come in. “I’m sorry about that. Let me put them in the other room. Go on into the den and have a seat.” He waved a dog toward an open archway and then disappeared down the hall. They heard a door shut.

Morgan went through the arch into a formal sitting room. On top of a thick white area rug, two white couches faced each other over a glass coffee table. Delicate glass sculptures filled wall niches. Everything in the room was lovely—and expensive. Stan definitely didn’t have small children.

Morgan settled on one of the sofas and took her small notebook and a pen from her tote. Lance circled the room, impatient.

Stan returned in a minute. “My wife loves those dogs.” His frown said that he did not. He offered his hand to Lance. “So you’re a private investigator now.”

“Yes.” Lance shook his hand. “This is my associate, Morgan Dane.”

“Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?” Stan asked.

“No, thank you.” Lance joined Morgan on the sofa. “Thanks for seeing us. We didn’t know if you’d even be home.”

“I try to take time off when I can.” Stan sat on the couch across from them. “Once tax season starts, I’ll be too busy.” He smiled at Lance. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to ask you some questions about my dad,” Lance said.

Stan leaned back, crossing one ankle on top of the opposite knee. His posture was relaxed and open. “I wish I could help, but as I told Detective Sharp multiple times over the years, I don’t know what happened to Vic. I wish I did.”

“There’s some new information that wasn’t available back then,” Lance said.

Stan tensed. “Really?”

“Did you see the news yesterday?” Morgan asked.

“No.” Stan shook his head.

“They pulled my father’s car out of Grey Lake,” Lance said.

“What?” Stan straightened. His foot hit the floor with a thud and his mouth gaped for a few seconds, as if he didn’t know what to say.

Lance shifted forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “Apparently, that’s where the car has been all these years.”