Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane 3)

But Ms. Dane was not in top condition. She was smart and tough, but physically, she was soft. It was no insult. She was a hell of a woman, though maybe a bit too intelligent. In his opinion, women shouldn’t try to compete with men. But even with that one flaw, Ms. Dane was the first woman he’d ever admired. Not that he desired her. He had no interest in a relationship with anyone. He liked being alone. But for the first time, he might have a real regret after he killed someone.

Not that it would stop him.

If he had to choose between Ms. Dane and himself, the choice was damned simple. Besides, women made men weak. Ms. Dane would be the end of Kruger. Like a wolf targeting the weakest, trailing member of the herd, King only had to catch up with her. Kruger would be at her side.

He’d kill the pair of them and dispose of their bodies. No one would find them. Either he’d borrow a boat and sink them in the middle of the lake. Or he’d bury them where he’d left Vic in ’94.

Wouldn’t it be ironic to put Kruger next to the father he’d been looking for all these years?

He straightened and followed the trail of footprints. The snow had brightened the landscape enough that he didn’t need his flashlight. He followed their trail. They were headed toward the stream that fed the lake. The woods opened at the edge of a gully. If he hadn’t known it was there, he might have slid into it.

The footprints turned toward the lake, following the flow of the water. He kept as far away from the drop-off as possible, stopping when the ground in front of him fell away. He crouched again. Digging the flashlight from his pocket, he risked a quick look at the trail. He did not want to end up in the gully. But beneath the fresh landslide, he saw a clear path through broken foliage. Something large had gone over the edge.

One of them had fallen.

Anticipation surged through his veins as he illuminated the slope, searching for a way down. He picked his way carefully down to the bottom of the embankment and examined the ground. They’d spent some time here, and the tracks leading away were different. He spotted something red in the snow. Blood. One of them was injured. That’s why the footprints were closer together—more shuffling and less striding. The stream ran though the bottom of a deep gully. The embankments were steep, hard enough for a fit man to climb, let alone an injured person. They’d be stuck in the gully until it reached the lake. This would almost be too easy.

He followed their trail, breaking into a light jog. Excitement invigorated him. The hunt was almost over.

After he’d eliminated Kruger and Dane, he’d take care of Sharp. Then he was home free. Every thread between him and Mary would be severed.

Almost all, he corrected. But Owen Walsh would be dead soon enough. Paranoid Owen, who had been riddled with guilt and fear for more than two decades. Owen had called him the second Lincoln Sharp had attempted to make contact. Now Owen had only weeks to live. Cancer was eating him with the same efficiency as his conscience had over the years. Soon, Owen would be gone, and he would be the only one who knew what had happened that night.

In the parking lot of PJ’s, he assessed the fallout. Three drunken fools had beaten the crap out of each other over a woman. If the three men had been less drunk and more intelligent, at least one of them would have realized that Mary was a hooker. She would have done all of them in turn for the right amount of money. What a bunch of assholes.

As chief deputy, it was his responsibility to sort the mess out.

He pointed to one of the deputies on duty. “Bill, you follow these two idiots to the ER. When they’ve been cleared, bring them into the station for processing.” He turned to another deputy. “Owen, you drive this asshole to the station.” He handed off Lou Ford, still cursing and arguing and being a drunken pain in the ass. Lou was a frequent flyer in the drunk and disorderly department.

Mary tried to slink off through the parking lot, but he spotted her.

“You’re under arrest too,” he said once he’d caught up with her.

She propped a fist on her hip. “You’re kidding?”

“We both know I have no sense of humor.” He cuffed her and put her in his patrol car. Like Lou Ford, it wasn’t her first ride in his back seat. “P. J. is tired of you soliciting customers. He says you’re fired, by the way.”

He followed Owen back to the station. Mary was compliant. But not even a quart of Wild Turkey would make Lou Ford cooperate. He cursed and thrashed and dragged his feet. They entered the back door of the station, and he brought Mary into the corridor.

“Don’t I get a phone call?” She sulked. “I need to call my mama.”

“Little help here,” Owen called out from the doorway. Lou had planted his feet like a mule, leaning back and refusing to budge.

Son of a . . .

He unlocked one of Mary’s handcuffs and fastened it to the ring next to the payphone. Digging in his pocket, he came up with a quarter. “Here. Make your call.”

He walked to the doorway. Taking Lou’s opposite arm, he pulled. But Lou leaned over and retched. Disgust and anger reared up inside him.

“Do not puke in my station!” he yelled.

Owen had clearly had enough of this shit too. He raised a fist. At the same time that Owen punched Lou in the head, King kicked out. One sweep of his big, black cop shoe knocked Lou’s feet out from under him. Already leaning over and unbalanced, the drunk went down hard, his posture sending him over to the right. His head hit the wall with the sickening clunk of bone on cinderblock.

Lou sprawled on the floor and didn’t move.

“What did you do?” Owen yelled.

He poked Lou with a toe. Still no movement.

Owen bent over the body. One hand went to the drunk’s neck. He looked up and mouthed, “He’s dead.”

King lifted a shoulder. “He was a waste of oxygen, and his liver wouldn’t have lasted too much longer anyway.”

The man’s death didn’t bother him, but he’d have to think fast to avoid a legal fallout. The only worry on his mind was his future.

“Now what do we do?” Owen stood. Removing his campaign hat, he rubbed the top of his skull as if he was trying to stimulate his brain.

Good luck.

Owen was a decent cop, but he was no Einstein.

And this situation was going to need a solid plan. Finesse would be required.

Owen dropped his hand and shoved his hat back on his head. “We have to call the sheriff.”

“No.” King would do whatever was necessary to fix this. “My career is not going down for this piece of shit.”

“What do we do?” Owen gestured to the body at their feet. “We can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Why not?” He reached for one of Lou’s arms. “We’ll put him in the cell to sleep it off, like we’ve done before. Nothing unusual about that. When he doesn’t wake up, we’ll be surprised.”

Owen hesitated.

“He just got into a bar fight,” he argued. “Who’s to say he didn’t get hit in the head at PJ’s?”

The best lies were the simple ones.

“OK.” Owen’s arm shook as they picked up the body and dragged it into the holding cell.

The station was empty. The only other staff member on duty was the dispatcher, and he had a room to himself. They positioned Owen on his side on the cot, his body curled up as if asleep. Then they left him there.

King closed the cell door and smiled. “Done.”