Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(23)

“So his tactics will work.” Lance unlocked the glove compartment and removed their weapons. Guns were not allowed in the courthouse.

She accepted her handgun and fastened the holster onto her belt. “Yes. He’ll win cases simply because public defenders are overworked. The entire legal system is overburdened. Additional paperwork will not help matters. Either his ego is overinflated or he’s trying to prove himself with an aggressive conviction record.” Morgan took a deep breath. “There’s nothing I can do about a difficult ADA. Where do we go from here?”

“We need to see the sheriff. The medical examiner hasn’t returned my call, and we need to know the identity of the woman in my father’s trunk.”

“Oh, goody. Someone else who is not happy with me.”

“Do you want me to drop you at the office?” Lance pulled out of the parking space.

“No. I want to go with you.” Morgan settled into the seat. “The sheriff isn’t as bad as Esposito.”

“He’s the exact opposite. Esposito wants to create extra legal steps. Sheriff King wants to skip as many as possible and send everyone to jail without passing Go or collecting their two hundred dollars.”

Lance’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. “Speak of the devil. It’s King.” He answered the call. “Kruger.”

Morgan couldn’t make out the sheriff’s words, but whatever he said wiped all traces of humor from Lance’s face.

“No. My mother doesn’t leave her house. You’ll have to go to her.” A few seconds later, he ended the call. His fingers tightened around the phone, as if he wanted to crush it.

“What’s wrong?” Morgan asked.

He shoved his phone in the console cup holder.

“Sheriff King is on his way to interview my mother. I want to get there before him.” Lance pressed on the accelerator, and the Jeep surged forward. “I wonder if this means they’ve identified the body.”





Chapter Twelve

Lance sat across the kitchen table from his mother, relieved that he and Morgan had arrived before the sheriff. Dark circles hung beneath his mom’s eyes, and her skin was papery, as if she was dehydrated.

He glanced up at Morgan. “Would you get her a glass of water?”

“Of course.” Morgan filled a glass at the tap and brought it to the table. She sat next to his mother. “Have you eaten lunch today, Jenny?”

His mother nodded. “Yes. I ate lunch at noon. Today is Tuesday. I had a tuna salad sandwich.”

“Sheriff King is on his way here to ask you some questions about dad. Before he gets here, I have some news for you.” Lance reached across the table and covered her hand. “The skeleton in dad’s trunk wasn’t him. It belongs to a young woman.”

Shock filled her face for a few seconds. “Why would a young woman be in your father’s trunk? And where is he?”

“That’s what we’re all trying to find out,” Lance said. “Do you remember a woman by the name of—”

The doorbell rang.

Leaving Morgan with his mother, Lance went to the door and opened it. Sheriff King stood on the front stoop. Lance went out onto the step and closed the door behind him.

“My mother suffers from acute anxiety and agoraphobia.” Lance cut straight to the bone. “She hasn’t had a stranger in her house in years.”

King nodded. “Noted.”

Lance led the way into the house and back to the kitchen.

“Mom, this is Sheriff King,” he said.

In a gallant, old western gesture, the sheriff swept his hat from his head and held it in front of his chest. “Thank you for seeing me, ma’am.”

The sheriff took the chair across from her.

She shifted backward, her shoulders curling in. She glanced at the sheriff from behind a curtain of her white hair. “You look familiar. Have I seen you on TV?”

The sheriff nodded. “I do press conferences now and then.”

“You’re here about Vic.” His mother clasped her hands together in her lap, her arms tight to her sides, as if she could physically hold herself together.

“Yes, ma’am.” The sheriff’s tone softened. Maybe he wasn’t a total hard-ass. “When was the last time you saw your husband, Victor Kruger?”

“August 10th, 1994,” she said.

“And you’ve had no contact with him since? No phone calls, no e-mails, no letters?”

His mother shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Does the name Mary Fox ring a bell?” the sheriff asked.

His mother frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“This would have been from twenty-three years ago,” the sheriff clarified.

“I can’t say for sure,” his mom said. “I’m sorry.”

The sheriff’s upper body leaned an inch closer to the table. “Mary worked as a waitress at PJ’s.”

Lance stiffened. He’d been right. The remains were Mary Fox.

His mother’s brows dropped. “We used to go to PJ’s for burgers. Vic went more often than I did. He’d stop to have a beer with Stan and Brian a few times a week.”

Lance’s brain whirled.

His father had known the dead girl. Although the fact that she worked at his favorite restaurant meant that their connection could have been entirely innocent.