Bones Don't Lie

Morgan ended the call and Lance drove to the Randolph County recycling center. An eight-foot-tall chain-link fence surrounded the property. Lance turned in at the gate. A sign posted the hours as Monday through Friday, seven a.m. to three p.m. Lance pulled up in front of a small building labeled OFFICE. Behind it was a row of dumpsters. Several other outbuildings were scattered around the property. The only vehicle in sight, a black Chevy pickup truck, sat alongside the office. Morgan made a note of the license plate.

They got out of the car. Morgan’s heel sank into the rutted gravel, and she instantly regretted not taking the time to change from her suit to more durable clothing.

Lance peered in the shed. “He’s not in there. I’m going to look around.”

He turned and walked around the building.

“I’ll be right there. I need to change my shoes before I break an ankle.” She leaned into the vehicle and brought out the pair of black flats she always carried in her tote. With one hand on the open vehicle door, she changed her shoes. Straightening, she was struck with the sense of being watched. Unease spread through her as she slowly turned in a circle.

A man stood in the doorway to one of the nearby buildings. He wore olive-green coveralls and a leer that disgusted Morgan from ten feet away. She closed the Jeep door and faced him. “I’m looking for Warren Fox.”

He stepped into the sunlight and crossed the gravel to stand in front of her. “I’m Warren.”

The sour smell of alcohol emanated from his every pore, as if he’d been pickling in gin for weeks.

“Morgan Dane.” She offered him her card.

He inspected it, his face transforming from leer to rage.

“Another fucking lawyer.” With one motion, he grabbed her by the bicep and dragged her closer. “You can tell my fucking bitch of a wife that she ain’t getting anything from me.”

His finger dug in to her arm. Nerves—and anger—surged through Morgan’s veins.

That answers my question about whether Warren would hurt a woman.

“Take your hand off me. Now.” Morgan slid her hand inside her coat to find the handgun just behind her right hip. She’d had enough of being threatened this week. Warren would never try to manhandle Lance, but because Morgan was a woman he assumed he could intimidate her, the same way Esposito had.

Warren’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t paying that bitch a cent.”

Either Warren didn’t know Crystal was dead or he was one hell of an actor.

“So you said, but I’m not here about money. Let go of me before you are very sorry.” She slid the Glock from its holster.

“Why? Are you gonna sue me? I ain’t got squat. Fucking Crystal kicked me out of my own fucking house, then she has the nerve to ask for fucking money.” His grip on her arm tightened, his finger digging in to her flesh. “I’m not signing any fucking divorce papers, and I’m not giving her a fucking nickel.” He leaned closer, getting right into her face, his breath smelling flammable. A lit match would send him up in flames like too much lighter fluid on a charcoal grill. “You bitches all stick together.”

Morgan turned her face away.

“I’ll wring your pretty neck.” He released her arm and wrapped his hands around her throat. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to choke her, but the pressure of his thumbs on her windpipe made her gag. Fear leaped in her chest, and her heart jumped.

Enough!

Morgan drew her handgun and pressed the muzzle into the soft flesh of his groin.

He froze. His grip loosened, and Morgan swallowed.

“I said let me go.” And now she needed to wash her neck. With bleach.

The idiot appeared to consider trying to take the gun.

“Don’t do it. My father was a cop. My grandfather was a cop. My sister is a cop. My brother is NYPD SWAT. If you move one millimeter toward my weapon, I will shoot your man bits off.”

His fingers opened, and he raised his hands. Before he could step backward, his body went airborne. In one swift movement, Lance spun Warren away from Morgan, kicked Warren’s feet out from under him, and introduced his face to the gravel.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to ask permission before you touch a lady?” Lance twisted both of Warren’s hands behind his back. He glanced up at Morgan. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She returned her weapon to its holster and rubbed her neck. “Other than I feel like I need to shower.”

Nerves and adrenaline tumbled through her belly, the combination making her queasy, as usual.

“Get off me.” Warren twisted his face around, his eyes snapping and the muscles in his jaw twitching.

“Shut up.” Lance put a knee into Warren’s lower back.

“Crystal is dead,” Morgan said.

“What?” Warren wheezed.

Lance eased his weight off his back.

“Didn’t the police notify you?” she asked. “You’re still her husband.”

“Yes.” A flicker of something crossed Warren’s face. “There was a cop on my doorstep last night, but I don’t answer my door to cops.”

Can’t imagine why.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Morgan said out of habit. “I thought you knew.”

“You’re serious.” Surprise finally dawned on Warren’s face. “She’s dead?”

“Yes.” Morgan nodded.

“Holy shit.” He squirmed. “Am I under arrest?”

“No.” Regret filled Lance’s answer.

“Then let me up,” Warren whined. “You’re hurting my back.”

Morgan rubbed her bicep.

“Can you behave?” Lance asked.

Warren nodded, and Lance hauled him to his feet.

Lance jabbed a finger in his face. “If you so much as look at her with anything short of respect, I’m putting you right back down.”

“Fucking police brutality,” Warren complained. “I should sue.”

“Guess what, Warren?” Lance’s lip curled in a snarl. “I’m not a cop.”

Warren swallowed. “Who are you?”

“I work for her,” Lance said. “She’s a lawyer.”

Confusion wrinkled Warren’s thick Neanderthal forehead. “How did Crystal die?”

Morgan clicked her pen. “She was found hanging in her home.”

Warren’s face went slack. “She killed herself?”

Morgan didn’t answer. “Does that surprise you?”

Warren snorted. “Crystal is—was—way too selfish to kill herself.”

“Is there anyone who might want to murder her? Besides you?”

Warren’s face paled, and he took two steps backward. “I didn’t touch her! I haven’t even seen Crystal in months.”

Since Warren was already off balance, Morgan tossed him a curveball. “When was the last time you saw Mary?”

“Mary?” Confusion puckered Warren’s face. “She left town more than twenty years ago.”

“Tell us about your relationship with Mary,” Morgan said.

Warren’s gaze flickered to the ground. “Not much to tell. She never liked me.”

“How old was Mary when you married Crystal?” Morgan asked.

“Ten.” Warren’s tone shifted to wary.

Morgan made a note. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“I don’t know.” Warren avoided eye contact.