Hudson knew what she was thinking. That the man standing on her front porch didn’t look like a cop. He was used to the reaction. The raised brow that nearly always preceded an assessment of his person and the conclusion: Too skinny. Too nerdy. Too meek to be a cop. Now that he no longer wore a uniform, more often than not when he arrived at a scene, he was mistaken for the medical examiner.
He peered beyond Mrs. Mori’s head, her greying flyaway hairs that shot out like wisps, to look down the shallow, dark entryway. Framed photographs adorned the walls. A basket overflowing with laundry sat on the floor. The sounds of a daytime game show issued from the other room.
“Come in, please.” Mrs. Mori stepped aside.
“Oh. Thank you.” Hudson stepped up and over the threshold as a thin, dark-haired woman appeared. She looked like a ghost, pale as moonlight. A pair of clear-framed glasses occupied most of her face, encircled her jade-green eyes. He studied her, noting the silver hoop in her septum and the studs in her bottom lip. Water dripped from the ends of her hair that was chopped into a severe bob. Seeing her standing in a dim hallway, drowning in a black sweatshirt that would have been too large even for him, he recognized her as the witness from the Fast Mart.
She crept toward him as though he were a dog that might bite.
“Hello, Morgan,” he said softly. It was the same tone he took with children, when he would sit down and build a rapport with them before the forensic interview. Sometimes the children spoke with him, told him about their day. Other times, they picked at their fingernails or just stared behind him, as though someone else were in the room. It always made him feel uncomfortable, like he was Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense. Morgan was doing that to him, now.
She said nothing, just waited for him to explain himself. For someone so small and bird-boned, she was intimidating. Hudson bet she could play this silent game all day, but he had work to get back to. It was only a ten-minute drive to the impound lot from here, but Kole would have a signed warrant for the Porsche soon.
Finally, Mrs. Mori spoke. “I’m Lynette,” she said.
“Ryan.” He shook her hand and corrected himself. “Er––Investigator Hudson. I was wondering if I could speak to your daughter about the incident that took place at the Fast Mart last night.”
“Oh.” She brought her hand up over her mouth. “How awful. I’m sorry you lost someone from your department.”
Hudson cleared his throat. His mouth twitched to smile a silent thanks. Mrs. Mori was sweet. If only she knew how much more Garrison had been than simply someone in his department, but the sentiment was appreciated all the same. Not everyone felt that way. He’d taken to avoiding social media and hoped that Garrison’s wife and daughter had as well. For all the comments of sympathy and blue heart emojis, there were just as many Fuck 12s and Smells like bacons. His blood simmered just thinking about them.
“I’d like to ask Morgan a few more questions about what she saw,” he said.
Morgan’s eyes darted to her mother. It was the most alive she’d looked since she’d materialized. “I have to take Grandpa.”
“It’s okay.”
“This won’t take long,” Hudson promised. “I’m actually in the middle of another investigation. You were on my way, so I thought…” Thought what, he asked himself. Thought I’d stop by and interrogate you? “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Hudson eyed Morgan slumped in the passenger seat of his car. She’d refused to grab a jacket, so she sat, now, wrapped in an afghan she’d snagged from the living room, feet shoved into unlaced combat boots. He turned the dial on the heat. “Sorry, the seat warmer’s broken.”
“Did you find my camera?” she asked.
He wished he had a better answer for her. “No. Sorry.”
Nevertheless, it seemed to be the answer she’d expected. Her fingers tugged at the wavy edge of the blanket. Her maroon nail polish was chipped. “I have to drive my grandpa to the senior home in ten minutes.”
He nodded. He’d heard her the first time. They were parked at a slant, on the slab of concrete that separated the Moris’ modest ranch-style home from the road. Icicle lights dangled from the gutter. The wreath on the front door had seen better days. The light grey siding made the house blend in with the colorless sky.
“I guess you’d better get cracking then,” suggested Morgan.
Hudson met the challenge in her eyes. “Red dreads,” he said.
She twisted in her seat; the small movement of her torso revealed she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Those words mean anything to you, Morgan?” he pressed when she said nothing. “You talked to Investigator Devine, at the scene––”
“So why isn’t he in my driveway?”
“He’s tied up … with something else at the moment.”
“You mean with a case that’s actually in your jurisdiction? Because he said the Wesson PD guys were handling it. Shouldn’t I be talking to one of them right now?” Her voice had gained an edge, a knife kissing a whetstone. She was aiming to unnerve him. And yet, her fingers kneaded the folds of the afghan.
Hudson felt heat rise in his cheeks. He had to admit, her knowledge of that surprised him.
But it shouldn’t have. Garrison’s death was currently the most covered story on just about every local media channel. The buzz would die down soon. They needed answers before it did. Before whoever killed him slipped back into the shadows. Before Garrison’s death became another unsolved mystery in a stack of unsolved mysteries.
“You don’t know anything about red dreads?” he said after a moment.
She fingered the vents then, turning the dials so they were all just so, an even amount of space between each blind. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Officer Garrison didn’t say anything to you, give off any indication that he knew his attacker?”
“No.” She said it quickly. Dismissively. A lie already queued up?
Hudson decided to change course. “It was after eleven.”
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t a school night.”
“Are you normally out that late?”
Morgan sighed. “I’m thirty-one years old, Detective. My parents don’t enforce a curfew, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What were you doing before then?”
“Shooting an event, like I told the other guy. Thus the camera I no longer have.” She tossed her arms up as though to demonstrate how empty-handed she was.
“Where?”
“On the lake.”
“Where on the lake?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Morgan, you’re the one on a time crunch, not me.” He hoped she didn’t call his bluff. He should be on his way to the impound lot right now. “Where were you on the lake?”
She leaned forward to hug her knees. “At the Reynolds estate. They asked me to shoot their Christmas party.”
Reynolds. The name caught him like a hook to the chin, though he tried not to show it. “You worked pretty late.” If he kept tossing threads out, maybe she would pull on one and unravel a bit, he hoped. “The Fast Mart isn’t exactly on your route home from the Reynolds residence. In fact, it’s like six miles out of your way. You couldn’t go the next day?”
“Look at you, throwin’ down rhymes. And here I thought you was s’posed to be solving crimes.”
“I never said I was a poet.”
“At least you know it.”
“Miss Mori.”
She rolled her eyes. “I was out of gas. Almost. It’s not good to let your car sit on empty in this cold, you know. It’ll freeze your fuel lines.”
“I do know that. But thank you.” He tried to think of how Sergeant Kole might handle this conversation. How he might get her to talk. He tugged another thread. “Were you alone? You know, that isn’t the safest part of town for a woman—”
“Whoa, sexist much? I can handle myself.”
Hudson studied her, this fragile thing buried in a knit blanket. A child wearing boots too big for her feet. Piercings to make her look tough, untouchable. But she was scared; he could sense it. It was in the way she never looked at him. The way she chewed her nails, bounced her leg. She kept staring straight ahead, as though if she didn’t acknowledge his existence, he would simply go away.
He wondered if that ever worked for her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean––”
“I have to go.” He heard her pull on the door handle. Bitter air blew in.
“Wait!” The plea came out more forceful than he’d meant for it to. He hadn’t realized he’d shot his arm out and had her by the elbow. The door closed softly, didn’t connect with the frame.
She raised an eyebrow and Hudson realized he’d been better off before when she’d avoided looking directly at him. Her irises were the shade of sea glass, but her pupils were infinitely dark, like the hollow of a tree. Her stare froze him from the inside out. He let her go. “I’m sorry. It’s just––”
“I don’t see how me shooting an event at the Reynolds place has anything to do with…” She paused, a question suddenly entering her mind. “What’s your deal? Don’t cops die all the time?”
The verbal slap made Hudson flinch. “Yes and no.” In Black Harbor, criminals outnumbered cops twenty to one; and yet, the police department hadn’t suffered a line of duty death since 1985. This was uncharted territory for everyone. “He was my best friend,” he said after a breath.
Morgan bit the inside of her cheek. “I have to take my grandpa.” She pushed the door open again.
“Sixty-two thousand dollars,” he blurted.
Morgan paused. She sat so still and it was suddenly so quiet, he half expected her head to spin completely around, the rest of her body facing away. But she just looked so her chin was parallel with her shoulder. She had a pretty profile, perfect as a doll’s. “What?”
“The reward for information leading to the arrest of Garrison’s killer is at sixty-two thousand dollars—and climbing. It’s yours if you can help me identify the man who shot him.” He pulled up the photo of Kai Steele on his phone and held it in front of her.
“Why don’t you just claim it?” she wondered.
“Cops are exempt. It’s our job to solve crimes.” Except not this one. He was way beyond his parameters here. He hoped she didn’t notice the beat of his pulse quickening in his neck.
Her fingers grazed his as she took the phone. She was cold, like a corpse. But there was a buzz of electricity beneath her skin. He felt charged as he watched her study the screen. Her eyes shook as she scanned the details of the photograph. Finally, after a moment of deafening silence, she handed it back to him. “I said treads, not dreads.” She opened the car door and stepped out. “The soles of his shoes were red.”