Lance sulked. She was right. But he didn’t like it. “He’s a predator.”
“I’ve interviewed predators before.” She put a hand on his arm. “It’s broad daylight and we’re in a public place, Lance. I’ll be fine.”
“OK.” He huffed. “I’ll walk around back in case Harold suddenly decides he needs to be elsewhere.”
She needed to do her job, and he needed to let her, even if he didn’t want her anywhere near a violent sexual predator or on a rapist’s radar.
Chapter Sixteen
Morgan went inside the small office. A counter faced a waiting area full of plastic chairs. The air smelled of burned coffee, grease, and dust.
A tall, spare man in gray, grease-stained coveralls greeted her from the other side of the counter. His name tag read JERRY BURNS. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, Jerry.” Morgan smiled.
Jerry didn’t smile back.
Morgan pulled a photo out of her big purse and handed it across the counter. “Have you ever seen this woman?”
Jerry stared at the picture for a couple of seconds. “She looks familiar.”
“She had her car repaired here last month.”
“Yeah. I remember her.” Jerry nodded. “She stayed here for two hours while we fixed her car. Her kid screamed the whole time.” He grimaced.
“I’d like to ask your employees what they remember about her.”
“Why? Did she do something wrong?” Jerry asked, suspicious.
“She’s missing,” Morgan said. “I’m surprised you didn’t see it on the news. Would she have had direct contact with anyone else here besides you?”
Jerry’s gaze flickered to the door behind him that led to the shop, and he licked his lips. “I doubt it. I handle the customers.”
“What about the mechanic? It would be so helpful if I could speak with him.”
“Let me see who worked on her car.” He turned to a computer on the counter and slid the black-smudged keyboard out from under the monitor. He pulled up a few screens, frowned, and scratched his eyebrow. Jerry didn’t make eye contact as he said, “The mechanic isn’t in today. Can I have him call you?”
The lie was so blatant his coveralls should have spontaneously combusted.
“Could you give me his name?” Morgan asked.
Jerry shook his head. “I can’t give out personal information about an employee. Sorry.”
“I’d like to show her picture to your employees.”
Jerry licked his lips again. “I can’t let you in the shop. My insurance company doesn’t allow it, but I’ll take this in back and show it around.” He disappeared through a door. In the brief seconds the door was open, she heard music, voices, and the sound of pneumatic tools being used.
Morgan had interviewed enough criminals and witnesses to know when she was being lied to, and Jerry Burns had told her a whopper when he’d said the mechanic who fixed Chelsea’s car wasn’t in.
Jerry came back into the office in less than five minutes. He extended the picture over the counter. His chin was lifted, his jaw tight, as if he was forcing himself to look her in the eyes. “Sorry. No one remembers her.”
Another bald-faced lie.
Morgan took the photo and composed her game face. “Thank you so much for trying.”
She left a card on the counter.
She went outside and walked toward the Jeep. Lance wasn’t in it. She was reaching for the passenger door handle when an arm blocked her path. Morgan startled, spun around, and found herself staring up at Harold Burns.
“I hear you’re looking for me.” He’d changed his appearance. His face was clean-shaven, his hair buzzed short. His brown eyes, which had appeared dead and emotionless in his registry photo, were narrowed and intense.
Morgan took a step backward, then stopped herself. Showing fear to a man like Harold was like dripping blood in a shark tank.
“Did you fix Chelsea Clark’s Honda Accord last month?” she asked, remembering that she wasn’t supposed to know him on sight.
“Maybe.” He stepped forward, eliminating the gap she’d put between them. “I fix a lot of cars. I don’t remember each one.”
Morgan opened her bag and reached for the photo. While she was in there, she checked the location of her pepper spray—open side pouch, right where it belonged. She showed him the picture. “She needed a new battery. Also had her oil changed and tires rotated.”
Harold glanced at it. “Jerry handles the customers. I stay in the back.”
He took another step forward.
“Always?” Morgan moved backward. She couldn’t help it. He repulsed her on a cellular level. “You’re not in the back now.”
“You think you’re so smart. You know I’m on the sex offender registry.” Anger glittered in his eyes. “That’s why you’re here. If anything bad happens in this town, the cops always come looking for me.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“No, you’re not. But you’re a nosy, lying bitch.” His lips peeled off his teeth, more snarl than smile. He pressed closer.
The smell of grease clogged Morgan’s throat. She retreated farther. Her back hit the side of the building.
She was trapped. Her lungs tightened.
It’s fine. It’s broad daylight. Lance is around the corner. He’ll be back any second.
But no matter what she told herself, her primal instincts wouldn’t listen. Under her coat, sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. Do not show fear. It would encourage him. As she forced her spine straight, her insides curled into a fetal ball.
“The woman is missing.” She stuffed the photo in her bag. Her fingers closed around her pepper spray, and she stepped sideways to go around him.
But Harold mirrored her movement, staying between her and the Jeep.
“Hey,” Lance yelled.
Morgan exhaled, her muscles relaxing.
Harold got one look at Lance and backed off. “I don’t know anything about a missing woman.”
The tendons on the side of Lance’s neck had gone rigid. He stalked closer, planting himself between her and Harold.
“You worked on her car.” Lance’s statement was cut-the-bullshit.
“This is harassment.” It was Harold’s turn to back up as Lance got in his face.
“Fine.” Lance raised his hands, palms out as if he’d given up. “We just wanted to talk to you. But if you’d rather talk to the sheriff, that can be arranged. I’ll call Sheriff King now.”
He took out his phone.
“Wait.” Harold glanced at the auto shop. “I remember her, but I didn’t even talk to her when she came in here. Jerry doesn’t let me in the office. I stay in the back or I’m fired.”
Brotherly love had its limits.
“Maybe we don’t have to call the sheriff.” Morgan put her hand on Lance’s shoulder. The muscles under her palm were hard as concrete. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t come back.” Harold spat in the dirt at his feet.
Lance didn’t turn his back on Harold as he opened the passenger door for her. He kept one eye on Harold until he went back into the auto shop.
Behind the wheel, Lance faced her. “I can’t believe you don’t want me to call the sheriff about him.”
Morgan stared at him. “Of course we’re going to call the sheriff. Harold worked on Chelsea’s car. He noticed her. He remembered her. He had access to her address.”