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MORGAN WOKE WITH THE sun the next morning, far earlier than she’d wanted to. She should have hung blankets over the windows.
Bailey wasn’t in his crate. Morgan tiptoed up the stairs and peeked through Austin’s half-open door. He and Bailey lay curled up together. Her heart swelled, and she lingered in the doorway for several heartbeats, watching the two of them sleep.
Fur therapy.
Downstairs, she started a pot of coffee. While it brewed, she went over her list for today. She’d heard from Rich’s fence guy and one other. Should she write off the third for not responding promptly? She circled check references on her list.
Too early to call Austin’s school or Mrs. Slauson. Or the company Uncle Bob used to work for. Was she even going to bother with that one? Don’t dwell on the past, her father used to say. Uncle Bob’s ledgers had been an interesting diversion, but she couldn’t imagine them providing information she could use today.
The appliances were supposed to be delivered between noon and three. What was the point of being up so early if you couldn’t get anything done?
There was the matter of dealing with Mrs. Jackson’s remains. Would a funeral be important to Austin? What had the hospital done with her body?
Her phone buzzed a text. Cole.
Up
Yes, she texted back.
She waited for his next abbreviated message, surprised when he called.
“Morning,” she said.
“How was the couch?”
“Lumpy, but I was tired enough that it didn’t matter.”
“I got a call from Tom about your job. Thought I’d let you know I’ll be part of the crew on my off days.”
An unbidden smile worked its way to her face. “Great. I guess that means I won’t be buying you food in exchange for work anymore. Tom is paying you, right?”
“Right.”
Padded footfalls and clicking toenails sounded from the stairway. “Gotta go. The boys are coming down.” She swiped to end the call.
“Morning. Sleep okay?” she asked Austin.
“Yeah. That’s a good bed.”
“Yours will be here tomorrow. It’s the same kind, but smaller, so it should be comfortable, too.”
She clipped a leash on Bailey and took him outside. “Once there’s a fence, guy, you can have privacy while you do your thing.”
The dog wasted no time finding a spot.
Inside, Austin had poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat on the couch to eat. She waited until he’d finished eating and had showered and dressed before bringing up the changes in his life.
“There are laws about who can take care of kids. The courts will be trying to find your other relatives, if you have any. Did you get Christmas or birthday cards from anyone your mom said was related to you?”
Austin shook his head. “It was just her and me. Sometimes Dad came home, but he never stayed. They was—were—always fighting. Mostly about Momma drinking, but she couldn’t stop. Said she’d tried, but it was better when she had her drink. She complained about her jobs, the way her new boss made her do too much stuff, but she said if she quit she’d have to start at the bottom somewhere else. She promised she only drank at home, not at work.”
Another crack formed in Morgan’s heart. “Okay, so if the courts can’t find a relative, they’re going to look for people who take in foster kids.”
“Can you, Ms. Tate?”
“Honey, I’m trying my hardest. For now, I’m going to wait until they tell me I can’t, and by then, I hope we’ll prove that this is the best place for you. That means you’ll have to keep up with your schoolwork. I’m going to call your school for your assignments.” She gave him a pretend glare. “You did bring your books, didn’t you?”
Austin’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Then go upstairs and get them. Do you have homework from last week?”
“Done.”
“Right now, I think it’s best if you consider yourself part of the Dublin school, just a long-distance student. If I’m going to help you, I need to know what you’re studying.”
“What about my piano lessons?” he asked. “And practicing?”
“I’m working on that, too. I’ve only been here a week, remember, and there’s so much to do. They’re going to start house repairs in a few days, and there’s furniture and other things we need that will be delivered.”
“Okay.” He called Bailey to follow him.
Austin sounded so much more cheerful today. She couldn’t break his mood with talks of cops shooting people.
She found the number for the police station and called. “May I speak to Detective Detweiler, please. It's not a police matter.”
~~~
COLE MADE THE HIGH school his first stop on his morning patrol route. He parked on the street and watched the kids file into the two-story red brick structure. The principal had denied any incidents on campus, but that didn’t mean things weren’t going on, just that the kids knew how to keep under the radar.
Or off campus.
Cole spotted Vance Ebersold’s Mustang as it pulled into the drop-off zone. Randall emerged from the passenger side, his casted left arm in a sling. He headed up the path to the building, his gait slow but steady.
The kid had guts. Cole would have expected him to take a few days off to recuperate, wait for things to blow over.
A small group of kids, both girls and boys, rushed over to Randall and walked with him, flanking him. Threatening him? Or protecting him? Would they have information to bolster a case against Randall’s suspected assailants? Connor had matched prints on the beer cans to some on the Mustang, but they had no way to know who they belonged to.
What Cole needed was a way to collect prints from the boys. A legal way. After reading Kirk Webster’s journals and seeing Randall suffering in the car—not to mention that incident at Burger Hut—Cole wanted to be involved.
His three suspects sauntered up the walkway, carrying on an animated conversation Cole couldn’t hear. They guzzled from soda cans.
He raised his binoculars to his eyes and zoomed in. Coke. He grabbed his department-issue camera and followed up with pictures.
He continued to take pictures as the boys approached the base of the stone steps leading into the building, paused, aimed, and shot their sodas into a large trash bin sitting off to the side. Two cans slipped in, the third bounced off the rim and landed on the grass. After some jeering from his buddies, the kid who’d missed jogged forward, picked up the can, and slam dunked it into the receptacle. Cole captured it all.
Cole kept his eyes on the trash bin. One other student dropped his soda can in. Mountain Dew. A bell rang, and the last stragglers rushed up the stairs.
Cole grabbed a handful of evidence bags and marched to the bin. He peered inside. His lucky morning. The bin must have been emptied recently, because there were only a few cans inside, resting atop discarded bakery and fast food bags. Cole gloved up and reached in for the Coke cans. There were five of them.
He paused, checked his pictures. His luck held. The three boys had been drinking Coke Classic. The other two were Coke Zero and Diet Coke. He bagged the three classics and let Dispatch know he was coming into the station.
He signed the cans into evidence, then told Detweiler what he’d done. “I’ve got pictures following them from the walkway to the trash can.”
Detweiler tapped his desk for a moment. “Defense might argue that the picture of the cans in the trash was of a different can, or taken at another time. The camera’s set for time stamps, right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good job, Patton. Check the memory card into evidence, and I’ll let Connor know it’s here. You can resume your patrol route.” Detweiler’s desk phone rang, and he lifted the receiver.
Cole left. As he walked away, Detweiler said, “What can I do for you, Miss Tate?”
Why was Morgan calling Detweiler? Had something happened? Why hadn’t she called him? Knowing better than to go back and ask, Cole did as directed, deciding to head toward Elm Street.
When Dispatch ordered him to a disturbance at Alma Evans’ house, code two, Cole groaned. What now? Was she getting things on with Mr. Grossjean again? Were they bothering the neighbors? He flipped on his lights, swung a U-turn, and pressed the accelerator.
When he turned onto Alma’s street, the block was quiet. No curious onlookers standing in driveways. This time of day, this neighborhood, most residents would be at work. A green Subaru sat at the curb in front of Alma’s house.
Cole released his grip on the wheel, unaware he’d been white-knuckling it, and cruised around the block, eyes out for anything unusual, stopping two doors away from the house.
He let Dispatch know he’d arrived. “Initial visual looks calm. Do you have an update about what kind of a disturbance?”
“Negative. The caller reported shouting, and an unknown vehicle at the curb. She would not leave her home to confirm the plates.”
“Roger that.” Cole relayed the plates of the Subaru and waited for Dispatch’s response.
“Car is an airport rental.”
Maybe one of Alma’s friends or relatives was visiting. Cole still hadn’t heard any sounds from the house.
He got out of his vehicle, unsnapped his holster, gave his vest its customary tap, and strode up the sidewalk. The unmistakable crack of a gunshot shattered the silence.