Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(45)

“That Sophie must be a handful.” His mom dipped her spoon into her soup.

“She is.” Lance finished his grilled cheese without tasting it.

“I’d love to meet your children,” Jenny said to Morgan.

Lance tossed his napkin onto his empty plate. His mother depended on routine. Morgan’s oldest two girls were predictable, but Sophie was a freight train full of chaos. Could his mother handle it?

He studied the lift of her chin and stubborn set to her jaw. Maybe. Just maybe she could. She seemed determined to improve her life.

But it was too soon to speculate about the future. First, they had to get through the current crisis.

“About those e-mail and phone records the sheriff wanted.” His mom got up and fetched a slip of paper and a pen from a kitchen drawer. “As you know, my phone and e-mail are both with my Internet provider. Here’s the log-in and password to my account.” She handed him the paper. “The sheriff can sift through my personal e-mails until his eyeballs cross from boredom. I did not give him access to my professional accounts. He’ll have to get a subpoena for those. I will not compromise my clients’ privacy.”

Sometimes his mom’s intelligence got lost in all the craziness of her life. A trip to the grocery store was beyond her capabilities, but she could design and maintain websites, detect cyber security issues, and teach computer science.

Lance took the paper, hoping the information satisfied the sheriff.

“Don’t worry. He won’t find anything in my e-mails,” his mother said.

Lance hoped she was right.

He turned to Morgan. “Let’s take this information to the sheriff and get back to work.”

They’d uncovered their first big break in the case. It was time to find Warren Fox.





Chapter Twenty-Two Morgan sat in the passenger seat of the Jeep, talking to Sharp on the speakerphone. She kept one eye on Lance in the driver’s seat. He gripped the steering wheel like he was going to rip it out of the dashboard.

Morgan leaned closer to the speaker. “We dropped Jenny’s e-mail and phone account information with the sheriff.”

Which was one of the reasons Lance looked ready to snap off a head.

“We have two possible suspects.” Morgan summed up the information Abigail Wright had given them on Crystal’s husband, Warren Fox, and Mary’s mysterious client, Mr. Joshua. “We plan on visiting Abigail at the Roadside Motel at seven. Until then, there’s Warren Fox to check out.”

“You two go talk to Warren,” Sharp said. “I’m on my way to PJ’s now. Come to the office when you’re done with Warren, and we’ll compare notes.”

Morgan ended the call and Lance drove to the Randolph County recycling center. An eight-foot-tall chain-link fence surrounded the property. Lance turned in at the gate. A sign posted the hours as Monday through Friday, seven a.m. to three p.m. Lance pulled up in front of a small building labeled OFFICE. Behind it was a row of dumpsters. Several other outbuildings were scattered around the property. The only vehicle in sight, a black Chevy pickup truck, sat alongside the office. Morgan made a note of the license plate.

They got out of the car. Morgan’s heel sank into the rutted gravel, and she instantly regretted not taking the time to change from her suit to more durable clothing.

Lance peered in the shed. “He’s not in there. I’m going to look around.”

He turned and walked around the building.

“I’ll be right there. I need to change my shoes before I break an ankle.” She leaned into the vehicle and brought out the pair of black flats she always carried in her tote. With one hand on the open vehicle door, she changed her shoes. Straightening, she was struck with the sense of being watched. Unease spread through her as she slowly turned in a circle.

A man stood in the doorway to one of the nearby buildings. He wore olive-green coveralls and a leer that disgusted Morgan from ten feet away. She closed the Jeep door and faced him. “I’m looking for Warren Fox.”

He stepped into the sunlight and crossed the gravel to stand in front of her. “I’m Warren.”

The sour smell of alcohol emanated from his every pore, as if he’d been pickling in gin for weeks.

“Morgan Dane.” She offered him her card.

He inspected it, his face transforming from leer to rage.

“Another fucking lawyer.” With one motion, he grabbed her by the bicep and dragged her closer. “You can tell my fucking bitch of a wife that she ain’t getting anything from me.”

His finger dug in to her arm. Nerves—and anger—surged through Morgan’s veins.

That answers my question about whether Warren would hurt a woman.

“Take your hand off me. Now.” Morgan slid her hand inside her coat to find the handgun just behind her right hip. She’d had enough of being threatened this week. Warren would never try to manhandle Lance, but because Morgan was a woman he assumed he could intimidate her, the same way Esposito had.

Warren’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t paying that bitch a cent.”

Either Warren didn’t know Crystal was dead or he was one hell of an actor.

“So you said, but I’m not here about money. Let go of me before you are very sorry.” She slid the Glock from its holster.

“Why? Are you gonna sue me? I ain’t got squat. Fucking Crystal kicked me out of my own fucking house, then she has the nerve to ask for fucking money.” His grip on her arm tightened, his finger digging in to her flesh. “I’m not signing any fucking divorce papers, and I’m not giving her a fucking nickel.” He leaned closer, getting right into her face, his breath smelling flammable. A lit match would send him up in flames like too much lighter fluid on a charcoal grill. “You bitches all stick together.”