“He’s impossible.”
Morgan was sure the sheriff felt the same way about Lance.
“I know you’re frustrated, but we have to pick our battles,” she said. “Like it or not, he is the law. There are some fights we just can’t win. It’s better to willingly give on some issues, makes you look cooperative.”
“I know. You’re right, but people are dying.” Frustration sharpened Lance’s words. “My mother almost died, and we still have no idea what happened to my father.”
“Why don’t we go see your mother now?” Morgan suggested.
He consulted the map on his smart phone. “We’ll stop at the Black Tavern first. It’s just up the road, and the hospital is in the other direction.”
He backed away from the curb. The tavern was only a half mile from the apartment. Warren could stumble home blind drunk. Remembering his breath on her face, Morgan thought the location was probably convenient for him.
Lance parked, and they went inside. Clearly a neighborhood dive, the tavern was small, holding barely a dozen booths and the same number of stools at a worn bar. The air smelled like sour beer and lifelong disappointment. A chalkboard on the wall announced beer on tap was one dollar during happy hour. At five thirty, a handful of patrons took advantage of the special. They stared at a hockey game playing on a wall-mounted flat screen. Several slumped, already appearing intoxicated though happy hour had just begun.
Two men on the end of the bar eyeballed Morgan. Lance changed sides, putting his body between her and the men. The gesture was unnecessary but appreciated.
They went up to the bar. Grit on the floor crunched under Morgan’s feet.
Below the short sleeves of his black T-shirt, the bartender sported two full sleeves of tattoos. “What can I get you?” he asked.
Morgan leaned across the bar. “We’re looking for Warren Fox.”
The bartender barely glanced at her.
Lance rested his forearms on the bar. In a low voice, he said, “Warren might have inherited some money.”
The bartender scratched a red bump on a tattoo of a robot on his wrist. There were more marks on the insides of his arms. Addict. A friendly smile wasn’t going to influence him. Addicts only cared about one thing, money to buy their next hit.
Lance slipped a folded twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and set it on the bar. He held a second between his forefingers. That got the bartender’s attention. He pocketed the money and gave Lance his full attention. “I’d like to help, but I haven’t seen Warren today.”
“How often does he usually come in?” Lance asked.
“Almost every night.” The bartender pointed to the other end of the bar. “He’s usually on that stool by four thirty.”
Warren hadn’t been at work, and he wasn’t at his usual hangout. Was he guilty, in danger, or simply drunk somewhere other than the bar?
“When was the last time you saw him?” Lance asked.
“Come to think of it, Warren wasn’t here last night either.” The bartender scratched his belly.
His itchiness felt contagious. Morgan eased back a few inches.
“Maybe he decided to drink at home.” The bartender shrugged. “Or he could be broke. That slut he was married to was after his paycheck. Maybe she got some of it.”
Lance passed the second bill over the bar. “Do you know anywhere else Warren might hang out?”
“Sorry.” The bartender took the cash. “As far as I know, he’s at work, here, or home.”
“Thanks.” Lance steered Morgan toward the other patrons, keeping her tucked just slightly behind his left arm. He took another twenty from his pocket. “Does anyone here know where Warren Fox might be?”
Morgan had little doubt that the other patrons had overheard Lance’s conversation with the bartender.
“You could try his wife’s place.” An old drunk swayed on the closest stool. “He was trying to get back with her. Hated the bitch, but loved her too, if you know what I mean.”
Not really.
“Anyone have any better information?” Lance waved the folded bill.
The other men sighed and turned back to their beers.
Lance handed the old man the twenty, then steered Morgan out of the bar. The fresh air was cold but welcome.
“Warren hasn’t been in the bar in two nights.” Morgan reached into her tote and pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer. She offered it to him.
He shook his head. “You didn’t touch anything.”
“I still feel dirty.” She rubbed a spot of gel between her hands. He was right, but the sting of Purell in her nose made her feel cleaner. “Nasty place. The bartender is an addict.”
Lance nodded. “Which is why he gave us info on Warren for forty bucks without a hint of guilt.”
They got into the Jeep.
“We should call the sheriff.” Morgan smoothed her coat and fastened her seat belt. “Given the history of this investigation, Warren could be dead inside his apartment.”
“As much as it pains me to admit it, I agree,” Lance said. “You call him.”
Morgan sighed and made the call. She covered the speaker with her fingers. “No answer.” She left a message for him to call her about the case.
“That works perfectly. We did our duty and didn’t have to deal with the sheriff.”
“I still feel guilty.” Morgan lowered her phone to her thigh. “Should we call 911?”
Lance steered the Jeep onto the on-ramp. “I suppose we can’t let ourselves in?”
“No. Definitely not.” Morgan made the call, giving the dispatcher her name and asking for a welfare check at Warren Fox’s address. “They won’t rush a welfare check.”
“If he’s dead, an hour or two won’t make any difference.”
The hospital was a thirty-minute drive from the Black Tavern. It was nearly seven o’clock by the time Lance parked in the lot. “I’m sorry. We should have stopped for food.”
“I’m fine.” Morgan pulled two candy bars from her tote and offered him one.
He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
She stashed one back in her bag and ate the other as they walked across the parking lot. They went through the automatic doors, collected visitor badges at the front desk, and took the elevator to the third floor. They walked down the hall toward the ICU. A lab tech was exiting, and they slipped in while the doors were still open.
Morgan picked up on a somber energy the minute they walked into the ward. Staff talked in hushed, subdued voices. Lance’s steps quickened. He felt it too. Morgan took his hand in a strong grip.
Someone had died.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Lance could feel the sorrow, as palpable as a drop in room temperature.
They hadn’t called him.
It can’t be Mom.
He paused just before he reached his mother’s doorway, dread weighing his steps like his boots were filled with concrete. He and his mother had fought her mental illness for decades. Her demons had taken up permanent residence. But every time they’d advanced, she’d rallied and driven them back. Her whole life had been one battle after another. She won some and lost others. But overall, she’d been winning the war. Inch by inch, she’d chipped away at their advantage. She’d finally made real gains, only to fall victim to someone’s sick game.
As he pushed forward for the last two strides, Morgan’s grip on his hand tightened.