Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(72)

Chapter Thirty-Six

If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.

But also, try harder.

And try smarter.

He pulled the green cap lower on his forehead. His gloved fingers gripped the rolling trashcan as he pushed it from room to room. He kept his chin down and made sure the security badge hanging from his belt loop faced backward. He looked nothing like the Hispanic janitor whose ID he’d stolen. With his attention on his task, his face was turned away from the surveillance cameras overhead.

The hallways were quiet. No one even glanced at him. Cleaning staff was practically invisible. The nurse covering Jenny Kruger’s room and the one next to it was behind the counter talking on the landline.

He walked past Jenny Kruger’s room. The blonde was still there. Didn’t she need to sleep at some point? He wasn’t getting into Jenny’s room. He needed another plan. He spied a supply cart parked just outside her door. A label on the front of the cart was marked with Jenny’s room number. And on top rested two large IV bags. Saline, he guessed from the size and the fact that they were out in the open. Medication was kept under lock and key.

If he could just get to the front of Jenny’s room without anyone noticing him, he could slip the heroin into her saline. The extra time it would take for the drug to enter her system would give him the opportunity to slip away before any alarms were raised.

The old man still occupied the next room. He went to the bedside. Slipping a syringe number one from his pocket, he slid it into the IV port and pushed the plunger. He was no medical professional, but an air bubble was the least of this old man’s problems. A few seconds later, he dumped the old man’s trash in his rolling can and left the room with unhurried strides.

Mindful of the security cameras, he adjusted his posture accordingly to keep his face averted. He’d worn some padding under the baggy coveralls to disguise his body shape. No one gave him a second glance as he moved from room to room.

He was three rooms down the hall when alarms sounded. A minute later, a Code Blue blared over the speaker. Footsteps rushed. He poked his head into the hallway to find that everyone else was doing the same. Scrub-clad bodies crowded the old man’s room, including the shared nurse. Staff hustled in and out of the room.

Even the staff not involved with the code gravitated to the drama. He moved closer, stopping just before Jenny Kruger’s doorway to stand behind two short nurses. From here, he could see over their heads into the old man’s room. Someone climbed onto the bed to deliver chest compressions. Another readied a defibrillator. Injections were given. A man in blue scrubs watched the monitors and shouted orders. Well-organized chaos ensued.

The crowd’s mood shifted as efforts to revive the old man failed.

He glanced at the supply cart by Jenny’s door. The bags of IV saline still sat on the top shelf. Keeping his hands low, he eased sideways, pulled a second syringe from his pocket, and injected it into the self-healing orange port on the bag. Because the heroin would be diluted, he added another shot. That should do it. On top of everything else in Jennifer Kruger’s body, that should stop her heart.

People began to drift away from the old man’s room, disappointment emanating from their postures and gestures. He backed away from the cart and retreated down the hall before the rest of the crowd dissipated. He pushed his trash can to the end of the hall and abandoned it in a utility room before hitting the silver square on the wall and exiting the ICU.

The timing was a bit tricky. He didn’t know when the saline would be administered or how long it would take to drip into Jenny Kruger’s veins, but it didn’t matter. Before the night was over, Jenny would be dead.





Chapter Thirty-Seven

Morgan warmed her hands in front of the dashboard heat vents. The temperature was dropping as the light waned.

Lance followed directions to a small brick apartment building not far from the Grey’s Hollow train station. The building was divided into eight apartments. Four up and four down. Warren lived in a downstairs end unit. Morgan and Lance got out of the Jeep, crossed the sidewalk, and walked up the concrete path. Lance knocked on his front door. No one answered. Morgan wasn’t surprised.

Turning, she scanned the parking area in front of the building. “I don’t see his truck.”

Even if Warren were home, would he answer the door to them?

Stepping into the grass, Morgan cupped her hand over her eyes and tried to peer through the front window.

“See anything?” Lance asked.

“No, the curtains are drawn.” She stepped back onto the path.

Lance walked around the unit, but blinds covered the windows. At the front window, he angled off and tried to look through the half-inch gap between the curtains. “Can’t see anything.”

A middle-aged man wearing blue coveralls came out of the apartment next door. Frowning, he raised a suspicious eyebrow at Lance.

“Hello.” Morgan walked toward him, smiling while trying to look innocent.

The man didn’t look convinced. “Can I help you?”

Morgan turned up the wattage of her smile and reached into her pocket for a business card. “We’re looking for Warren Fox—”

“We’re private investigators.” Lance put a hand on her arm, keeping it in her pocket. “Warren might have inherited some money. Have you seen him?”