Secrets Never Die (Morgan Dane #5)(33)

“Maybe the shooting was an accident,” Colgate suggested. “Accidental shootings happen to experienced gun handlers. By Mrs. Knox’s own admission, Evan is a beginner.”

Lance pictured the position of Paul’s body. The shot to his abdomen had to have come first. The heavy bleeding indicated that Paul’s heart had been pumping after he’d been shot. He’d definitely been alive. The bullet to Paul’s head had hardly bled at all. That had likely stopped Paul’s heart. Plus, the centering of the shot indicated the killer was close. Lance envisioned the killer standing over Paul, watching him bleed, and firing the head shot at close range while Paul lay helpless. The belly shot could have been an accident, but there was no way the head shot was unintentional. That had been a cold act, one that put Lance in mind of an execution or a hired killer.

This had been nothing short of murder.

“Do you really think a sixteen-year-old kid could have shot Paul in the head?” Lance asked.

“I’ve seen worse.”

Sadly, so had Lance.

The sheriff tapped the manila file folder with a finger. “Maybe Paul and Evan got into a fight when Evan missed curfew. He’d ignored Paul’s texts and calls. He was angry with his father and transferred that anger to Paul. The Glock was out because Paul had been cleaning it. Evan picked it up and shot Paul. He has a history of impulsive behavior.”

“But I know this kid. He didn’t do this.” Lance paced the length of the table and back.

“You’re letting your personal feelings interfere with your objectivity. If you were one of my deputies, I’d pull you from the case. You can’t ignore evidence.” Colgate’s voice was calm and reasonable, the exact opposite of the emotional turmoil in Lance’s head.

But Lance’s instincts were screaming that they were missing the biggest part of the case, and Colgate was focusing on the pieces of evidence that supported his narrative.

The sheriff continued. “Paul was killed with a 9mm bullet, which is the same caliber as his own Glock. Paul’s weapon is still missing, so we don’t know if he was shot with his own gun or simply another gun of the same caliber.”

“9mm is a common caliber,” Lance argued. “If there aren’t two guns, then why is Evan bleeding too?”

“We don’t know that Evan was shot. You saw the broken glass in the kitchen. Maybe Paul and Evan got into a physical fight. Evan could have no more than a bloody nose.” The sheriff studied Lance for a few seconds. “Why do you think Mrs. Knox is holding back information? She didn’t tell me about the fighting between Evan and Paul. She also forgot to mention her father is a recently released felon.”

“She didn’t think either one of those things was related to Evan’s disappearance.”

The sheriff’s head-tilt and eyebrow-lift said he didn’t believe Lance’s answer. “Or she is worried that her son is guilty, which would also explain why she called you before she called the police when she found Paul’s body.”

Lance had no comment. Most people would have called 911 first.

“She knew you’d bring a criminal defense attorney.”

“Tina had no way of knowing that when she called me,” Lance said.

“It was a good bet. You and Ms. Dane live and work together. You always support each other.” The sheriff gathered his papers, indicating their discussion was over. “Finding Evan would be a hell of a lot easier if Mrs. Knox didn’t make me drag every bit of information out of her.”

Lance left the conference room more frustrated than when he’d gone in. The sheriff was right on all counts. Evan was a natural suspect. He’d been at the house at the time of death, which gave him opportunity. Paul’s gun provided the means, and the argument with Paul was motive.

But Lance couldn’t believe Evan capable of murdering Paul. The boy was an impulsive hothead, not a cool, cunning killer. Anything Evan did would have been unplanned and sloppily executed.

Which actually described the sheriff’s theory of Paul’s murder perfectly.





Chapter Thirteen

Sharp’s feet hit the pavement in a sloppy rhythm. His stride felt sluggish. He’d waited until the sun went down to run. Why the hell did he feel like he’d been run over by a bus?

The heat wasn’t helping. Well into the evening, the temperature was still above eighty degrees, and humidity hovered somewhere around 1,000 percent. He felt like he was jogging through soup.

He passed the bank and turned right. His duplex sat in the business district of town. He loved the convenience and small-town ambience. Old houses lined the streets. Branches of mature trees arced overhead. Before he’d been injured back in March, he’d run a brisk five miles every day and hit the gym a few times a week for strength training.

But he’d been cleared for a short jog only a few weeks ago, and strength training was limited to his twice-weekly supervised sessions with his physical therapist. At first, the restrictions had irritated him, but now he was more concerned that he couldn’t exceed them if he wanted to.

His strides slowed at the next intersection. From the corner, he could see Olivia Cruz’s little white bungalow at the end of the block. Olivia had provided a few key pieces of information in their last case. In turn, Morgan had granted her an interview for the true crime novel Olivia was writing about one of Morgan’s previous clients, with the client’s permission of course.