Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)(40)
Morgan opened Chelsea’s file. “The license plate matches. That’s Harold Burns’s truck.”
“Then he’s here.” Lance parked at the corner of the building, where the Jeep was out of the direct line of sight of the glass-doored entrance.
“Maybe you should wait outside,” Morgan suggested.
“No.”
“You’re intimidating.”
“No.”
“I’m serious,” Morgan said.
“So am I.”
“He’s an ex-con, and you still look like a cop. He will not talk to you. He’ll call his lawyer.”
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.”