“You get anything on him so far,” Bigelow asked, “besides the brush-off?”
“Only what Silva says he told her, and she’s sure it’s all lies,” Foster said.
Li raised her hand. “Me again. We had DOB, SSN, and address. He told Silva he spent a year at the University of Michigan, so I called the school. Unfortunately, I hit their privacy firewall. I can’t get his records, but I did get a few details from the young guy answering the phone in the registrar’s office, who didn’t know that he wasn’t supposed to tell me squat. I pulled out my sincerest voice, sounded helpless. Guys fall for that every time, doesn’t matter what age they are.”
“Hey, that’s sexist,” Kelley said.
“Also true,” Li said.
“I’m offended,” Symansky said.
Li lobbed a balled-up piece of paper at his head. “Tough. Anyway, I told the kid I was Morgan’s aunt, who’d lost touch with the family, and that I was desperate to find them to tell them Grandpa Victor passed away.”
Bigelow frowned. “Grandpa Victor?”
“It worked. I got a home address at the time of his registration, the names of his parents and—wait for it—his sister, Amelia. Morgan told Silva he was an only child. He’s not. Parents Tom and Priscilla Morgan, sister Amelia, who also registered at UM and actually graduated. It’s a start.”
Kelley glanced over at Griffin’s closed door to make sure the boss wasn’t within earshot. “A little skeezy there, Li. I’m impressed. Until Griffin gets wind—then I never met you.”
“Why would he lie about being an only child?” Bigelow asked. “What difference would it make to Silva or anyone else?”
“According to her, patients like him lie about everything,” Foster said. She looked over at Li with newfound respect. She’d moved the needle for all of them.
“So Morgan’s got family,” Foster said. “I wonder where they are.”
“Well, I did skim death records,” Li said. “Nothing for Tom, Amelia, or Priscilla, so if they’re not dead, they’ve got to be someplace.”
There was no clear road map here, she thought. Silva or Morgan. It was a coin toss, a gamble, time wasted or time well spent. If Morgan wasn’t the one, then focusing on him would give the real killer the leeway to strike again. If he was their man or Silva their woman, then Detective Vera Li had just saved them all.
“Let’s see if we can find his people, then,” Foster said. “Morgan or Silva or whoever . . . they don’t get to take anybody else.”
CHAPTER 55
Fruitless. That was what the night had been. The entire team pored over everything; uniforms were on the streets, their eyes open for body dumps; everybody else was locked up tight in their homes, protection from a killer they were convinced the police couldn’t catch. Foster pulled up in front of her house for a small break, a few hours’ sleep, though she knew already from behind the wheel that there was no chance of that. Something wasn’t right. She had a feeling that, despite Silva’s assessment of Morgan and his lies, they could be looking at the wrong man. Morgan had seemed weak to her when she’d encountered him in his apartment, unsure of himself. Could that have been an act?
Before she got out of the car, she glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Nine fifteen p.m. God, it felt like the middle of the night. Her back ached from hunching over her computer, her stomach growled, and she was expected to refuel, sleep, and come back in the morning fresh and ready to go. But there was that feeling, that fear, that the cover of night wouldn’t work in their favor. That someone was out there hunting, and someone else would die.
She stood for a moment at Reggie’s tree. Her hand traced along the hard ridges of the bark, her fingers registering every gnarly crack. A few hours to rest and worry and not sleep, then back at it. Down the block the neighbor’s dog barked, and Foster stopped to scan the raggedy street. She felt something, had a sense that someone was there, and stood still listening for sounds beneath the canine’s racket, like the crunching of dried leaves underfoot, clothes rustling, murmured voices. But there was nothing but the strange feeling of being watched. Later there would be the sounds of sirens, gunshots, and loud, profanity-laced arguments down the block. Brushing off her uneasiness, she turned and went inside to another microwaved dinner, another marble in the vase. She could feel time racing. That was why there would be no sleep, only her notes. She’d go over everything again and again. And tomorrow she’d go back.
CHAPTER 56
Why had the Black cop, Foster, stopped at that tree? Was she some tree freak? A tough cop who talked to trees. How funny. The lights flicked on inside her house, and she moved around the place, unaware or unconcerned that the night had eyes and that it hid things.
What a dump of a neighborhood. Why live here on a cop’s salary? It made no sense. She’d been distracted on her way home, obviously, or she would have known she was being followed. Reconnaissance. That was what this was. It was better to know your adversary, to see what they were made of, what they valued, what they didn’t. This place? No answers, only questions. This cop, this Foster, was an unknown element, a potential problem. She and her partner were making the right moves. They were a threat, but now wasn’t the right time. It was enough for now knowing where. Other things would come soon enough.
The car started, pulled away, the night still young . . . for some.
CHAPTER 57
He had no idea what her name was. Something with an R, but it was 1:00 a.m., and the who didn’t matter; it was the why that did. She was okay looking enough, not as young as he liked, but at the end of a bar night, his choices were limited.
“I don’t usually do this,” she cooed, leaning all over him, smelling like beer and despair. “You’re special.”
Bodie smirked, pushed her upright, and led her into the lobby of his building. “Sure. I know. We’re all special.”
The sloppy ascent to his door ended at his doorstep, where a box sat wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. Bodie hadn’t a clue what it might be. He didn’t order things online; he didn’t shop for anything but necessities.
“It’s your birthday, hon?” R. asked.
Bodie bent down, opened the box. Maybe it was from Am. A peace offering for the tense exchange they’d had. She was like that often. Judgy, then thoughtful. He opened the box, looked inside, then dropped it at his feet.
“Oops.” R. giggled. “Didn’t break it, did you?”
“Go away,” Bodie muttered.
“What?”
“I said go away. This isn’t happening tonight.” He reached into his pocket, peeled off two twenties, and shoved them into the woman’s hands, pushing her toward the elevator. “Get a cab.”
The string of profanities that followed didn’t faze him. All he saw was the box. All he felt was the years peeling away. All he heard was himself whimpering like a coward in a closet in Am’s room in a different world than the one he’d woken up in today. Surprisingly, his hands didn’t shake when he picked the box up again and looked inside. The small wooden train was still there, feeling like death in his hands.