Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(2)

Something he’d have to work to control. He couldn’t repeat tonight’s disaster. He’d been lucky in too many ways.

But now it was done. He took a deep breath, the first he’d managed in hours. The scents of summer night, pine, and lake water filled his lungs, cool, damp, and refreshing.

He turned back toward the lake.

The surface was smooth again, the ripples faded, with no sign of the earlier disturbance. No sign of what was hidden beneath the murky water.





Chapter Two

Twenty-three years later

Some secrets were better left hidden.

Lincoln Sharp stood on the shoulder of the road overlooking Grey Lake. He sucked in a hiss of air. The bitter cold pricked his lungs like a thousand icy pins. It was only the middle of November, but winter had hit New York State like a frozen sledgehammer.

Fifty feet from the shoreline, a sheriff’s department dive team boat bobbed on the quiet water. Around the vessel, the lake’s smooth surface reflected the leaden sky like a mirror, hiding everything within its murky depths.

The answer to a decades-old question lay just ahead of him, yet Sharp’s boots remained rooted in the snow-dusted weeds.

What was wrong with him? He’d been waiting for a break in this case for more than twenty years. Now that it was here, he almost wished it would sink back beneath the water and stay there forever.

The ripples of this discovery would spread in ever-widening circles, stirring up waters that had long ago stilled.

Waking voices time had silenced.

Disturbing lives that had finally found peace.

Unease stirred in his belly.

But there was nothing he could do to prevent the fallout. Maybe, just maybe, everything would work out, the case would be solved, and the family given closure. He exhaled, his breath pluming like smoke.

The high-pitched squeal of metal on metal carried across the open space, the harsh sound pricking his eardrums and lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. Sharp turned toward the activity on the shore. The winch on the back of a tow truck hauled the rusted carcass of a sedan farther up the bank, leaving a drag trail through the tall reeds. A group of law enforcement personnel swarmed the vehicle as soon as it stopped.

Sharp’s breath froze in his chest.

A mid-1980s Buick Century sedan.

The same make and model car Victor Kruger had been driving twenty-three years ago when he went out for groceries and vanished, leaving a wife and ten-year-old son behind. Sharp, then a detective for the Scarlet Falls PD, had been the lead investigator. He’d worked and reworked the case right up until he’d retired from the police force five years ago and opened his own private investigation firm. There had been no sign of Victor.

Until today.

Sharp trudged past a pair of news vans. Just outside the ribbon of crime scene tape strung around a handful of isolated pine trees, two reporters talked into microphones. The sheriff’s department activity behind them provided a dramatic backdrop for their stories.

A young deputy stood as sentinel.

“Lincoln Sharp,” Sharp said. “I need to talk to the sheriff.”

The deputy shook his head. “The sheriff said not to let anyone through.”

“He’s going to want to talk to me.” Sharp crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t budging. This case was too important. “I’ll wait here.”

The deputy thought about it for a second, then walked back to talk to his boss.

Sheriff Paul King stood literally head and shoulders above the rest of the men, and his charcoal-gray cowboy hat added some height to his six-foot, three-inch stature. He bowed his head to listen to the shorter deputy, then the sheriff’s gaze snapped around to focus on Sharp. The sheriff frowned, irritation dragging his face down like the jowls on a bad-tempered basset hound.

The deputy trudged back to his post. He cleared his throat. “The sheriff said you can go on through, but don’t fuck up his scene.”

No doubt the last few words were a direct quote.

“Thanks.” Sharp ducked under the yellow tape and walked through the thick weeds.

Thin patches of ice and snow crunched under his boots. He approached the recovered vehicle. Rust coated the surfaces it hadn’t eaten. Although heavily corroded, the Buick was in surprisingly good condition considering how long it had likely been sitting at the bottom of the lake.

The sheriff leveled an accusatory look at him. “Who called you, Sharp?”

“Word is out all over town.” Sharp nodded toward the reporters, implying that’s where he’d gotten the information rather than outright lying. He wasn’t giving up his buddy in the sheriff’s department who’d called him with the news. Twenty-five years on the force had given Sharp loyal contacts in every law enforcement agency within a twenty-mile radius.

“Did you call your partner?” The sheriff turned back to the Buick.

“Working on it.” Sharp glanced at his phone, but his young partner, Lance Kruger, hadn’t replied to his message.

“So he doesn’t know we found his father’s car?”

Where are you, Lance?

“No.” Sharp scanned the clearing. He didn’t want Lance to see this story on the news. “How did you verify it’s Victor Kruger’s car?”

“The diver brought up a license plate before we even pulled the car out.” The sheriff pointed to the license plate on the ground next to the rusted car, the letters and numbers still legible on the corroded metal. “I recognized the name and looked up the case. Wasn’t surprised to see you listed as lead detective. It wasn’t the sheriff department’s investigation, but I vaguely remember when it happened.” The sheriff had been chief deputy at the time.