The old man opened the door and motioned them in. “Come in.”
Mr. Jackson’s eyes misted as Lance brought the groceries inside. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to.” Lance followed him down the hall into the kitchen and set the bag on the counter. A small fire smoldered in the next room.
Morgan unbuttoned her coat, started to take it off, then slipped it back onto her shoulders.
Lance took off his leather jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. The inside of the house wasn’t much warmer than outside. Did the old man have heat except for the fireplace? Lance walked to the window. A small pile of wood was stacked beside the rear porch. A very small pile.
Mr. Jackson smiled as he lifted a sack of coffee from the bag, then unloaded the rest of the food. “Pie! I haven’t had pie in ages. Sit down. I’ll make a pot of coffee.”
Lance had voted to stick to staples. Morgan had insisted coffee and pie were staples.
“Thank you, but we can’t stay,” Morgan said. “We just wanted to ask you a few quick questions.”
“Ask me anything you want. I’m going to make coffee. I’ve been out for a month.” The old man’s mood seemed lighter and his posture straighter as he filled the coffee machine. He opened an upper cabinet.
“We heard Ricky was offered an alternative sentence of drug rehabilitation,” Morgan said. “That’s good, right?”
Mr. Jackson paused, leaning both hands on the counter. “It would be, if they helped get him into a program. And if I could afford to pay. Ricky doesn’t have insurance, and every center I called today is booked for months. He has to stay in jail until he gets into a program. I know he can’t be trusted out on his own, but someone at church told me he can get heroin in jail. I never imagined such a thing. I’d love to get him help. I lost my son to drugs. I’d do anything to get my grandson back.”
“There are centers that charge on a sliding scale based on how much you can afford,” Morgan said. “You should be able to do an online search. That should speed things up, though he’ll probably have to wait his turn. Space is limited.”
“I don’t have a computer.” Mr. Jackson took a mug from the cabinet. “I suppose I could go down to the library and use the one there.”
“I can help you with that,” Morgan volunteered. As always.
He smiled at her. “You would do that?”
She nodded. “I could look up the information faster than you could drive to the library.”
“You’re a doll,” Mr. Jackson said.
Lance moved the conversation along. He had no doubt Morgan would be semiadopting Mr. Jackson, like she did everyone else. “We wanted to ask you about Crystal’s husband.”
“Warren?” Mr. Jackson’s face pinched. “He’s useless.”
“Have you seen him around Crystal’s house lately?” Lance asked.
Mr. Jackson poured a mug of coffee and inhaled over the cup. “Warren is always hanging around. I assumed they were getting back together.”
“Did you see him the day Crystal died?” Lance asked.
“No, but he was there last Sunday. I saw his truck at her house on my way home from church.” Mr. Jackson sipped, his eyes closing in satisfaction.
“Did you ever see Warren threaten Crystal?” Morgan asked.
Mr. Jackson set down his mug. “No, I didn’t spend any time with either one of them. I’m sorry. I really can’t tell you anything else. Are you sure you don’t want pie?”
“No, we need to leave, but thank you for your help.” Lance put on his jacket. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
Morgan followed Lance, then turned back. “One more question. Did you ever suspect Warren molested Mary when she was a child?”
Mr. Jackson frowned. “No, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Thank you again,” Morgan said.
They left Mr. Jackson cutting a slice of pie, almost giddy.
“I told you coffee and pie were important,” Morgan said, sliding into the passenger seat of the Jeep. “That poor man has very few pleasures in life.”
Lance drove toward the recycling center. He glanced at the clock. Two p.m. “We can still catch Warren at work. Once he gets home, he’ll never open his door to us.”
Lance drove to the recycling center and parked the Jeep. He climbed out of the vehicle.
Morgan walked around the rear of the SUV and fell into step beside him. “Let’s stick together this time.”
“I don’t think Warren will mess with you again.” But Lance would stay close, just in case. There was too much going on, too many people lying, too many possible motives and victims.
They entered the small recycling office building. Instead of Warren Fox, a black-haired man sat at a beat-up desk watching something on his smart phone.
Lance stopped in front of the desk. “We were looking for Warren.”
“He called in sick,” the black-haired man said without taking his eyes off his screen.
“Thanks.” Morgan led the way out of the building and climbed into the Jeep.
Lance slid behind the wheel. “Do we have Warren’s home address?”
“Yes.”
While Morgan dug out the address and plugged it into her phone maps app, Lance called the hospital and checked on his mother’s condition. Nothing had changed.
As he started the engine, his phone rang. “It’s Sharp.”
He answered the call.
Sharp didn’t wait for a greeting. “Sheriff King wants to see us at the sheriff’s station. He actually threatened to arrest us if we’re not there in thirty minutes.”
“I’m on my way,” Lance said. “I’ll bring the lawyer.”
“Please do. I believe we’re going to need her.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
In the conference room at the sheriff’s station, Morgan kept a hand on Lance’s arm. On her other side, Sharp held his injured arm close and shifted in his chair as if he couldn’t get comfortable.
“I’m trying to solve a murder. Why are you competing with me?” The sheriff paced the narrow space between the table and the wall. “Especially you.” He pointed at Lance. “Don’t you want to know what happened to your father?”
“Of course we do,” Morgan answered, afraid of what Lance might say.
“I went to see Abigail Wright at the Roadside Motel. I asked her for the motel registry for August 10, 1994. Guess what she told me? That you already took it!” The sheriff turned and flattened both hands on the conference table. “This is an active murder case. I should arrest all three of you for impeding an investigation.”
Morgan met his gaze without blinking. “But we might all be more successful if we worked together rather than running parallel investigations.”
“You took evidence from the motel.” The sheriff’s words were measured, as if he was working to keep his voice level.
“And we fully intended to turn it over to you,” Morgan said, producing the large paper envelope from her tote. “Inside you’ll find both the hotel registry and the registration form for Mr. Joshua.”
“Why did you take it?” King asked.
“At the rate potential witnesses are dying, we thought the registry might not be safe at the motel,” Morgan said.