Morgan turned the dead bolt, set the alarm, and returned to the den. “I’m going to read to the girls.”
“I can’t wait to be useful again,” Grandpa said.
“Speaking of useful.” Morgan opened her tote. She pulled out the file. “Sharp asked if you’d go through his case file on Victor Kruger.”
“Really?” Grandpa sat up straighter.
“Yes. Really.” She handed him the file. “And if you get through this whole file, Sharp might have some illegal crime scene photos for you to look at.”
When she emerged from the girls’ bedroom fifteen minutes later, Grandpa had the file open in his lap, his reading glasses on his nose, and his entire demeanor had changed.
Only a Dane perked up when confronted with murder.
Chapter Eighteen
Lance parked in front of Morgan’s house just as the school bus pulled away from the curb. Ava and Mia waved from the bus windows. Joining Morgan on the sidewalk, he waved back.
The bus rumbled away, and he and Morgan turned toward the house. Her breath puffed in the frosty morning air, and she rubbed her arms.
“You need a coat,” he said.
“We’re always in a rush. The bus comes at the same time every day. You’d think we’d be ready.”
“At least you’re wearing shoes today.”
In her black heels, she was only a couple of inches shorter than him. She wore a red suit and her black hair was twisted in one of the no-nonsense updos she favored for legal business.
“The girls have missed you the last few days,” Morgan said.
“I meant to get here earlier.” Lance glanced back at the retreating bus. He’d waited until his mother was settled in her office, with a website design to occupy her, before he’d left.
Morgan opened the front door. Sophie leaped at Lance. As he caught her, she wrapped her skinny arms around his neck and pouted. “I haven’t seen you all week. You pwomised to take me skating.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Guilt speared him like a fork. “My mom has been . . . sick.”
“Like Grandpa?” she asked.
“Yes. Something like that.” Lance hugged her. When he’d first started dating Morgan, the fact that she had three small children had terrified him. Now, catching one in midair felt natural. He’d never thought he’d look forward to dealing with the sticky chaos, but their smiles and hugs—their acceptance—filled him with gratitude.
But how could he possibly be there for Morgan and her three kids and take care of his mother? No matter how hard Mom tried to be independent, one of life’s curveballs could wipe out her efforts as fast as a rag across a whiteboard.
“Are you driving me to school?” Sophie squirmed away from his chest.
He set her on the floor. “Yep.”
“Yay!” She raced for her bedroom, stopping and giving him a stern look over her shoulder. “But we hafta leave now or I’ll be late. I don’t wike to be late.”
Lance lifted both hands. “Hey, I’m ready. Where’s your backpack?”
She shot into her room.
Gianna came out of the kitchen and took her coat from a peg on the wall. A bag over her arm held her dialysis supplies: a warm blanket, a thermos, and the iPad Morgan had given her for her birthday. The young woman was still sick, still dependent on her treatments, and still waiting for a kidney, but there was energy in her step and hope in her eyes. “Thanks for driving me today, Lance.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Lance said. They went outside. While Morgan locked the door, he loaded Sophie into his Jeep, double-checking the fit of her safety seat and harness.
Gianna slid into the back next to Sophie, and Morgan fastened her seat belt in the passenger seat. He drove Sophie to preschool. She made Lance walk her in and introduced him to her teacher before allowing him to leave. Next, he dropped Gianna at dialysis, and then they headed for the sheriff’s station.
“Sharp is meeting us there?” Morgan asked.
“Yes,” Lance said. “He wanted to check on the dog.”
“He’s such a softie.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that.” Lance drove out to the sheriff’s station, located near the county jail and municipal complex.
Sharp was already parked in front of the ugly-ass brown brick building that housed the sheriff’s station. He climbed out of his car.
“Safety in numbers?” Lance joked as they walked toward the door.
Sharp snorted. “I wasn’t waiting for you. I was waiting for my lawyer.”
“How’s the dog?” Morgan fell into step beside Sharp.
“She has a broken leg that needs surgery, but she should be fine for you to take home in a day or so.”
“Me?” Morgan laughed. “Why do I get the dog?”
“You’re the one who collects strays.” Sharp opened the glass door and stepped aside to let Morgan enter first.
They went inside the lobby. At the counter, they were met by the sheriff’s watchdog, a sixty-something-year-old woman with sensible shoes, a navy-blue cardigan, and a laserlike gaze that could cut a man in two.
“Hey, Margie.” Sharp leaned on the counter.
Margie rested both hands on her hips. “Lincoln Sharp. I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Sharp inclined his head beyond the counter. “There’s a reason for that.”
Margie’s head shake said it all. “It isn’t personal. He doesn’t believe in the whole concept of private investigation. I’d tread extra carefully today if I were you.” Margie dropped her voice. “He just canceled his annual hunting trip because of this case. This will be the first deer season he’ll miss in fifteen years. He is not in a good mood.”
Was he ever?
“Thanks, Margie,” Sharp said.
Margie continued to shake her head as she gestured over her shoulder with a thumb. “Go on back. He’s expecting you.”
The sheriff greeted them with a nod and a grunt in the corridor. King had showered, shaved, and donned a fresh uniform, but his eyes were weary. He hadn’t slept much, if at all. He issued commands to a deputy at his side. “Put Sharp in room one, Kruger in room two, and Ms. Dane in my office.”
Only Morgan warranted a title.
“You realize neither Mr. Sharp nor Mr. Kruger will answer any questions outside of my presence,” Morgan said without moving.
The sheriff muttered something that sounded like oh, hell under his breath. “I give up with you three. Just go in there.”
With a frustrated wave, he motioned toward an open doorway on their left. Lance led the way into a cramped conference room full of stale air and the smell of burned coffee.
The sheriff came in behind them. The office chair squealed as he dropped his bulk into it. “No doubt you’ve had plenty of time to get your stories straight anyway.”
“Mr. Sharp and Mr. Kruger gave full statements last night,” Morgan pointed out. “Were there any discrepancies?”
“No,” the sheriff admitted.
“Before we get started, I have news for you.” King nodded at Morgan. “I had a talk with Tyler Green about your stalker problem. He claimed not to know anything about it. But the most interesting takeaway from our conversation was that he has struck a deal with the prosecutor’s office.”
“What deal?” Morgan stiffened.
“His case was given to Esposito, who offered him reduced charges for time served.” The sheriff’s frown deepened. “I impressed upon him the importance of staying far away from you if he wanted to avoid further incarcerations. But Tyler isn’t known for his self-control or intelligence. Please be careful.”
“Thank you,” Morgan said. “I appreciate the notice.”
King nodded, then turned to Lance. “Now back to the case. Do you remember going to PJ’s when you were a boy?”
“Yes,” Lance said.
Sheriff King cocked his head. “Your dad went there a few times a week. Mary Fox worked there. Do you remember her?”
“No.” Lance shook his head. “I was ten.
All he remembered was that the burgers were huge and he could watch TV while he ate.