Lance seemed to have gotten his temper under control, but she didn’t trust him to go off on his own.
She reached behind the seat for her tote and pulled it onto her lap. Unzipping it, she dug for the case file and handed it to Lance. “Stan drives a black Mercedes. Let’s find it in case he goes out the back door.”
Lance read off the license plate number. Morgan started the engine and turned on the heat. She drove the Jeep up and down the rows until they spotted Stan’s car. She parked in the darkest spot she could find several rows away.
Turning off the engine, she fished her leftover candy bar from her bag. She tore the wrapper and waved it at him. “Want half?”
He shook his head. “Don’t eat that.”
Too late.
She chewed and swallowed. “It has peanuts in it. Nuts are healthy.”
Lance was always prepared for an impromptu stakeout. He kept his Jeep stocked with emergency supplies. He opened the console and took out two protein bars. From a bag behind his seat, he removed two water bottles and offered her one.
She took it but didn’t open it. Who knew how long they’d have to wait? After three pregnancies, it was safest to minimize fluid intake on stakeouts of indeterminate length.
She fished gloves from her pockets and turned up her collar. He handed her a protein bar, but she put it aside as well. The chocolate would keep her going for a while. It could be a long night. They’d have to ration their supplies. She settled lower in her seat. Lance did the same.
Time passed with a creeping slowness that reminded her of Salvador Dali’s melting clocks.
Just after eleven p.m., Stan exited the building.
Morgan perked up. “There he is.”
Hunching his shoulders against the wind, Stan hustled across the parking lot and slid into his Mercedes. The headlights turned on. A minute later, he drove out of the lot.
Morgan followed him. With the roads nearly deserted, she eased off the accelerator and stayed well back. When Stan turned into his development, she drove past, then turned around to double back.
“Kill the headlights before you make the turn,” Lance said.
Exterior lights blazed in the new development, eliminating the need for headlights.
Two blocks away, she slid the Jeep to the curb, choosing the darkest place between street lamps. They watched Stan park in his driveway. Lights shone in the front windows of the big house. Stan got out of his car. Closing the door, he stopped and scanned the street. Did he feel them watching him?
Stan went into the house. The first-floor windows went dark a minute later.
“Maybe he’s going straight to bed,” Morgan said. That’s what she would do.
“It’s late,” Lance agreed.
“Do we continue to watch him? If he was going anywhere else, he wouldn’t have driven straight home.”
“Unless he saw us.”
“If he saw us, we might as well leave. He won’t lead us anywhere if he knows we’re watching.”
Lance shifted in his seat. “Drive around the next block.”
Morgan cruised past Stan’s house and turned left three times.
“Pull over here,” Lance said. “Under that tree.”
Morgan parked at the curb around the corner from Stan’s house. “It’s so bright here. I feel exposed.”
Not only were the lots covered in landscaping lights, but the houses were close together. There were no dark places to hide.
“It’s the best we can do in this neighborhood,” Lance said. “From a home security perspective, I applaud the lack of dark shadows for burglars to lurk. But for our purposes tonight, it’s damned inconvenient.”
They climbed out of the Jeep. They locked the vehicle’s doors manually and closed their doors as softly as possible.
“Hold my hand.” Lance reached toward her.
She slid her hand into his.
Lance tugged her onto the sidewalk. “We’re just a nice couple taking a stroll.”
For a minute, that’s exactly what she wished they were. The crisp night air chilled her face, but her coat blocked the worst of the cold, and the heat of his body penetrated her thin leather glove. A snow flurry drifted down, slow as a feather, and landed on her arm.
If they weren’t on a stakeout, their walk would be romantic.
Tires crunched on asphalt.
“Look casual.” Lance pulled Morgan closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
Morgan glanced over her shoulder. “Uh-oh.”
A black-and-white sheriff’s vehicle pulled up to the curb a few feet ahead of them. Sheriff King climbed out of his car, crossed the strip of grass next to the curb, and stepped onto the sidewalk, blocking their way. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking a walk,” Lance said.
“Don’t smart-ass me.” The glare of the streetlamp overhead cast the sheriff’s face in harsh, angry shadows.
Waves of animosity—and testosterone—shimmered between the two men.
“Stan Adams called me to say you have been harassing and stalking him,” the sheriff said.
Morgan squeezed Lance’s hand. “Don’t say anything.”
The sheriff propped his hands on his hips. “Didn’t I tell you both to stay away from this case?”
Lance said, “My mother is lying in a hospital bed—”
“Stop. Talking,” Morgan said in a louder voice.
The sheriff pointed at Lance. “You should listen to the lawyer.”
But Lance’s temper had obviously kicked his sense out of the way. “I have every right to protect my family.”
“You don’t have squat.” The sheriff paused after each word for effect.
Morgan nudged an elbow in between the men and tried to defuse the situation. “We just found out that Stan Adams called Jenny Kruger yesterday, but you knew that, right? You have access to her phone records.”
The sheriff’s lips mashed flat. She couldn’t tell if he knew or not.
Lance leaned forward, as if he was going to speak. Morgan tugged him back.
“Jenny was poisoned with opioids,” she said. “Tonight at the hospital, someone tried to do it again.”
“Do you have proof of that?” Sheriff King asked.
“It just happened,” Morgan said. “Her saline solution was spiked. The Scarlet Falls PD has just begun their investigation.”
“So you just thought you’d take matters into your own hands?” King asked.
Lance shook his head. “And this is why we didn’t want to call you.”
“I’ve had it with you.” The sheriff’s finger stabbed in the air toward Lance. “The only way I’m going to keep you both out of my way is to put you in a cell. You’re both under arrest.”
“You can’t be serious.” Lance took a step forward.
So did the sheriff. “I don’t make jokes.”
It was true. The sheriff had no sense of humor.
“Just do what he says.” Morgan gripped Lance’s bicep. The muscles were hard and tense under her fingers.
“Both of you, hand over your weapons.” King held out an empty hand.
They slid their guns from their holsters and offered them butts first.
The sheriff took both. “Put your hands on top of your heads. Lace your fingers.”
Lance tensed, but he followed instructions.
“Now you first, Kruger.” The sheriff crooked a forefinger at Lance. “Give me your coat.”
Lance slid out of his leather jacket and handed it over. “You can’t arrest us.”
“I most certainly can. Remember the last time you went off half-cocked?” The sheriff tossed Lance’s jacket over the hood of his car. “You almost got yourself and Ms. Dane killed. Now turn around.”
Lance complied.
Pulling Lance’s hands down one at a time, Sheriff King snapped handcuffs onto his wrists. He gave Lance a thorough pat-down, emptying the many pockets of Lance’s cargos and piling the contents on top of Lance’s jacket. Pocketknife, a fully loaded magazine for his Glock, and a handful of plastic zip-ties. The sheriff guided him into the back of the police vehicle.
“Now you, counselor.” The sheriff pointed to her. “Let’s have your coat.”