Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(53)

King stomped across the road, put his hand on his hips, and leaned in at Sharp. “What are you doing here, Sharp?”

Sharp shrugged. “I came to ask P. J. some questions about Mary.” He glanced at the medical examiner’s van parking at the curb. “Seems like someone didn’t want P. J. to talk.”

Sheriff King jabbed a finger at Sharp’s nose. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Sharp leaned on his car, folded his arms across his chest, and waited. His bicep burned like someone was holding it over a bonfire.

Twenty minutes later, the sheriff walked out of the house, tugging off his gloves. “I was supposed to interview P. J. in the morning.” The sheriff glared. “Tell me everything that happened.”

Sharp gave his statement again.

“Let me get this straight. You are not armed, yet you followed the shooter.” The sheriff shook his head.

“Yeah.” In hindsight, that hadn’t been a shining moment for Sharp’s common sense. “Adrenaline got the better of me.”

And anger and desperation. He’d been after this man for more than two decades. Tonight, he’d been obsessed with getting him, the man who’d killed Mary and Crystal—and maybe Vic too.

“What did the shooter look like?” King asked.

“I don’t know. It was dark. He was dressed in loose black clothes and a hat. His face was covered with a ski mask. He was too far away for me to get an accurate height or size. He was average to tall. Thin to normal weight.”

“The best you can do is average to tall, in dark clothes, not fat.”

“Yes.” Sharp ran the chase through his mind again. “Have you discovered anything about Mary that P. J. could have known? Something important enough to have gotten her killed?”

Sheriff King glared. “I’m not going to share information about an active homicide investigation. This is my case. Stay out of it.”

“Mary Fox’s death is tied to Vic Kruger’s disappearance,” Sharp said. His arm throbbed with its own heartbeat, and if he didn’t lie down soon, he might throw up.

The sheriff spun around and took two steps in the opposite direction. He propped his hands on his hips and bowed his head, his posture all give-me-strength. His entire torso inflated and deflated with a huge breath. He turned to face Sharp again. “If you get in my way, you and Kruger will both end up in a cell on impeding-an-investigation charges.”

“We haven’t impeded your investigation at all.” The pain in Sharp’s arm took the heat out of his argument, and he was starting to feel light-headed. “Don’t you want to know why P. J. Hoolihan and his wife were murdered before you had a chance to talk to him about Mary Fox?”

The sheriff’s answer was an angry huff and glare. “You look like you’re going to pass out. Do you need an ambulance?”

“No.” Which was a stupid thing to say. Of course he did.

King rolled his eyes. “Well, you can’t drive yourself to the hospital. Give me five minutes. I’ll get a deputy to drive your ass to the ER.”

“Thanks,” Sharp said, grudgingly.

“Leave your keys in your vehicle in case we need to move it.” The sheriff stomped away.

Sharp wanted to protest, but he didn’t. He was in enough trouble with the sheriff. No one was going to steal his vehicle from an active crime scene.

While he waited, Sharp called Lance.

“Where are you?” Sharp asked.

“Just left hockey practice. I’m on my way to the Roadside Motel,” Lance answered.

“Somebody shot P. J. and his wife.” Sharp summed up the last hour. “A bullet grazed my arm. I’m getting a ride to the hospital.”

“You were shot?” Lance shouted.

Sharp lifted the phone away from his ear. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Scratches don’t need to be treated at the hospital.”

“I need a couple of stitches,” Sharp admitted. “And a clean shirt.”

“I’m on my way.” Under Lance’s voice was the sound of tires grating on a road. An engine accelerated. Wherever he was, Lance was turning around. “I’ll meet you at the ER.”

Sharp ended the call. A deputy waved him over to a patrol vehicle. Sharp got into the passenger seat. He stared out the side window all the way to the hospital.

What had P. J. known?





Chapter Twenty-Six Lance pulled the ER curtain aside. Once he saw Sharp sitting up on the gurney, Lance breathed easier. A nurse was wrapping a bandage around Sharp’s bicep.

“What’s the damage?” Lance set the clean shirt he’d brought on the gurney.

“Fifteen stitches.” The nurse taped the gauze down and stepped away to strip off her blue gloves. “I’ll be back with your discharge paperwork.”

Wincing, Sharp reached for his shirt. Lance reached over and pulled the shirt over his arm and shoulder. Then he helped him into his black fleece jacket.

“Thanks.” Sharp picked at the hole in his jacket sleeve.

“That could have been your head,” Lance said.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Now what happened?” Lance asked.

Sharp told him about finding P. J. and his wife dead, chasing the killer, and getting shot. By the time he’d finished the story, the nurse had returned.