Watch Them Die, page 4
part #2 of Morgan Young Series
But it was too late.
As of right now, this was his office.
Morgan set to work immediately, shifting boxes to the corner near the door so he could sort through them later and carry them to the garage. He ducked in and out of the room, grabbing a duster and then heading back for the vacuum before setting to that task. Piece by piece, minute by minute, positivity filled his veins and gave him a second wind. It was like his skin was absorbing hope as the air in the room grew less dusty and putrid. It was clean air now, and it felt right.
By the time he was done, it was starting to look like an office. Morgan stood by the door and envisioned himself as a civilian in need of professional help. He stepped inside as if he were stepping into the office of a private investigator, and asked himself if he would hire somebody here. Then he approached the desk, pulling down the sleeve of his sweater and wiping off a thin trail of dust he’d missed when frantically cleaning the room. This was it, he realized, pulling out the wheeled office chair and lowering himself into it.
This was his new workplace.
It needed some adjustments, there was no doubt—maybe he would shift the desk around so it was facing the window rather than the wall. He tested the mood, switching on the desktop lamp and picturing himself working long hours typing up reports for his clients. This was going to take some getting used to, he was certain, but it felt doable.
If only he could get over Dusty.
His loss still hadn’t quite hit home yet. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he still expected to get a call from his late cousin. He wondered if he might catch sight of him next time he drove down the street. But it was wishful thinking; Dusty was dead. Before Morgan could officially open up for business, he would need to put that behind him, and that could only happen in one of two ways.
Time was one option; he could wait and let it go, hoping his emotions would eventually adjust to a life without his childhood friend. After all, they’d not spoken in years, so how hard could that be? On the other hand, they had bills to pay, and despite their financial desperation, Morgan felt as though researching anything other than what was on his mind would only be a waste of time and resources.
The other option was to give his all in tracking down Dusty’s killer. Gary might have a thing or two to say about it, and the MPD would undoubtedly be against him, but it was the only surefire way of moving on. If and when he solved this case, it would be no problem for him to venture back into the world of private investigation, and they could finally get their bills paid. As long as Rachel had been sincere when she’d said she could be patient. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable.
But deep down he knew; his mind was made up.
Morgan pulled open the desk drawer and reached for a notepad and pen.
It was time to avenge Dusty, and he wouldn’t rest until it was done.
Chapter Eleven
No sooner had Morgan set up his office than his phone rang. It jerked across the table and sent a shock right through him, pulling him out of his mostly useless preparation documents: setting the parameters of a spreadsheet, half-heartedly designing new business cards but struggling with the name. If he were completely honest with himself, he was grateful for the call—it didn’t matter who it came from. The distraction was welcome.
Leaning across his desk, Morgan scooped up the cell phone and hit the green button. A moment later he had Gary’s voice vibrating through his ear with a whole load of static.
“Are you busy?” he asked.
Morgan glanced at his desk, where he’d already made a mess. “Nope.”
“Good. Listen, can you come over to my place? I want to run something by you.”
“Is it important?”
“Very.”
If hearts could smile, that was what Morgan’s was doing right then. Very rarely did Gary reach out unless what he had was of value. A plethora of possibilities skipped through his mind in a near flicker, and only then did he realize he was grinning. “On my way.”
He hung up and leapt out of the chair, pounding down the stairs like an excitable child. Rachel, who’d been passing through the hallway, stopped in her tracks with a small plate of food in one hand and a steaming coffee in the other. Her vacant expression suggested confusion, and Morgan countered it by pecking her on the cheek. “I have to run. Sorry.”
“A breakthrough in the case?” she guessed.
“Maybe.”
Rachel’s smiled matched his, but he only caught a glimpse of it before he swept his coat off the rack and hurried through to the garage, hitting the button on the fob and rushing to get the car out of the door, which seemed to take forever. When he was finally free, he zipped his way through the late-night streets of his quiet neighborhood on the way to Gary’s. He kept the music off in case it toyed with his anxiety, which at this point was through the roof.
Only a few minutes later, he pulled up at the end of Gary’s drive. Morgan was surprised to see him waiting on the porch in a thick coat that would normally only be seen in the snow. While he locked the doors, Gary hopped off the two short steps of the porch and rushed to the end of the driveway, keeping Morgan where he was.
“Not going to invite me in?” Morgan asked.
“Hannah’s having another one of her dinner parties. It’s better this way.”
“Then why invite me over?”
“I’ve got enough to worry about with Bray breathing down my neck.”
Morgan sighed. As usual, he was the one putting in the effort, and as usual, this meant standing out in the cold while he waited for news that would probably amount to nothing. Still, he was lucky enough to have Gary’s help in the first place, and he wasn’t about to take that for granted. “All right. Fair enough. What do you have?”
“Some good stuff.” Gary grinned, his small teeth spreading like the Cheshire cat’s from Alice in Wonderland. “Remember that Nissan we found near the boatyard?”
“I can think about nothing else.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“No. Get on with it.”
Gary folded his arms and glanced up the street as if to reveal a big secret. It was a frequent mannerism of his and didn’t necessarily mean anything amazing was about to come from his mouth. Not that it stopped Morgan from growing both excited and impatient. “Well, forensics searched that thing from top to bottom. You’ll never guess what they found.”
“I’m listening.” Morgan leaned in, his heart pounding.
“We found one of your cousin’s prints on it.”
Morgan’s mouth hung open in shock. It wasn’t like he didn’t expect such a result, but this was a good thing. He figured this connected the car to the killer for sure, and that was one step closer to what he wanted. Hell, it was what they all wanted. “I thought you said it was wiped clean?”
“It was, until they looked harder.”
“That’s great! So, who does the car belong to?”
“That’s the bad news. It was reported stolen five weeks ago. We checked into it and there’s no reason for us to be suspicious of the man who reported it.”
“Okay. Where do we go from here?”
“Wherever you like.”
Morgan huffed out a deep breath, the cold air blowing into a cloud between them. “Let me rephrase that: where do you go from here?” He was more than aware of their unspoken agreement that Morgan would only be a step or two behind the police department, and that was only if he didn’t end up overtaking them, which was the goal.
The word “vengeance” flashed into his mind.
“We’re still working hard,” Gary said, walking around Morgan and leaning against the passenger-side door. He must’ve felt a sharp pang of cold, as he stood bolt upright in a jerk reaction. “But there’s something else.”
Morgan’s ears pricked.
“They tracked the handcuffs that were in the car. And guess what: they’re police issue. It’s weird—they were just stashed there like he was keeping hold of them for some reason. One thing keeps running through my mind though: why didn’t he—”
“Use them on Dusty?” Morgan finished, his heart breaking all over again at the mention of his name. He shrugged, his breath short and rapid now as eager anticipation stole over him. “There are three theories for that. Either he didn’t have them available at the time, or he was in such a hurry that he forgot them and had to settle for the duct tape instead.”
Gary groaned. “And the third?”
“He’s planning to kill again.”
A long, drawn-out silence followed. It made Morgan uncomfortable, the impact of his words taking more of an effect over him than it did on Gary’s sad, solemn face. All he could do was fill the void. “What’s up with those handcuffs?”
“What about them?”
“They’re police issue, so don’t they have some sort of serial number?”
Gary nodded, his eyes wide and his lips curving into a thin smile. “There’s no getting by you, is there?”
“Not when I’m awake, no.”
A laugh. “They were also reported stolen by an officer across town.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Not yet, but I can set up the meet.”
Morgan’s mood lifted. “You’d do that?”
“Meh.” Gary raised his shoulders and dropped them. “I was thinking about what you said. You helped me out with Carrie Whittle; the least I can do is point you in the right direction. Just tell me where and when you want to meet him. I’ll handle the rest.”
This was the best news he’d had in a long time. Suddenly the concern of money was no longer an issue. All he could see was Dusty’s thin face, his inquisitive hazel eyes, and the ruffled hair he never took care of.
“I’d love to meet him. Hook me up for first thing tomorrow.”
“You got it.” Gary made a clicking sound with his tongue. “And buddy?”
Morgan was already feeding his frozen hand deep into his coat pocket, feeling around for his car key so he could head home and stay up for a while, preparing his questions for the officer. “Yeah?”
“You look like shit. Start taking care of yourself. Maybe get some rest.”
Morgan laughed under his breath but said nothing. He stalked away, slipping into his car with Dusty on the brain. It would be a long night of little or no rest, and that was fine by him; he could rest all he wanted when he was dead.
Chapter Twelve
After having to ditch the stolen vehicle, the killer had acquired a new one and proceeded to take his prey. The process had been a simple one: study her habits, realize she always walked home alone at night, then pull up alongside her and force her into the car.
It’d been a breeze.
Of course, the downside was that she’d seen his face, so the moment he’d taken action, he was committed to seeing it through. That was no problem, however—his anger only elevated to new heights with each of her sobs and shrieks. Did she recognize him, he wondered? Had she cried because she knew who he was and what was coming? Perhaps. Or perhaps it boiled down to fear of the unknown.
It didn’t matter much either way; she was going to die.
As he traipsed around the car, the overpowering stench of gas filled his nostrils. It seemed to burn his brain, piercing right through his sinuses and stabbing at his senses. That was fine—at least he knew the gas was really there, and this bitch couldn’t get out of it.
As long as he wasn’t caught.
That was easy too. Their position was hardly a subtle one, and the gas-coated car isolated on the side of a quiet street stuck out like a sore thumb. The killer had known it would be like this, and although every passing shadow at the far end of the street threatened to give him away, the thrill of it was enough to keep him involved. As if that wasn’t enough, that same urge to give a long, satisfying speech hacked away at him.
It was all he could do not to light the match.
Fighting the temptation, he kicked the empty gas can aside and doubled over, peering into the driver’s side window where the girl—fray-haired and makeup-smeared—sat with her hands attached to the wheel. Unlike last time, he’d found the time to dig out some handcuffs. That’d been one very stupid mistake he’d made last time, along with hanging around for too long. He wouldn’t make that mistake this time.
This time, it would be short and sweet.
“Any last words?” he asked her, not really caring what she had to say. Even if she could talk—which the filthy rag in her mouth prevented her from doing—there was nothing she could say to save herself, and frankly, he didn’t give a shit about her feelings. “I didn’t think so.”
Before his conscience could restrain him—before his sane former self could talk him out of it—he tore the matchbook from his pocket and slipped out a match. Enjoying the raw fear in her wet eyes, he struck the pink head and turned it black, a naked flame dancing on the tip. It flickered with a beautiful orange glow. As far as he saw, she was one of the lucky ones.
It wouldn’t hurt for long.
The killer tossed the match against the wet metal of the car. A high-pitched squeal came from inside, and he didn’t know if it was the woman or the groaning metal. The flame spread, covering the car like a plague and lighting up the street. The killer stepped back, the heat roasting his cheeks as they spread to form a smile.
Justice was being served.
It took less than a minute for people to arrive on the scene. It started with one, and the killer backed away into the dark cover of the trees before he was spotted. Seconds later more came, and that number doubled, then doubled again. Before he knew it, all their cell phones were out, some being used to call the fire department while others doubled up as cameras to capture every moment of his latest kill.
But they’d missed it all.
The woman was dead already, if her silence was anything to go by. Any chance of her being saved was now gone. And if she had survived it? Good—the bitch deserved to burn alive. In fact, all the better for it. After everything she’d done, it was the least she deserved.
And this? This was only the beginning.
Chapter Thirteen
In the first light of dawn, Gary escorted Morgan to the front porch of a complete stranger, the bitter wind stinging his cheeks. The place was a mess with patchy grass on the lawn that looked like a poisoned shrubbery. Scratched and faded panels covered the exterior of the neglected home. There was even a broken step at the bottom of the porch that looked like someone had driven a foot through. If they hadn’t yet, someone still could—it was an accident waiting to happen.
It reminded Morgan of his own home and how upkeep and repairs would be delayed in the coming months. With his task of avenging Dusty, bundled with the business he was starting up slowly in the background, there was no time for that. He wondered how long it would take before their home looked like this. Hopefully never.
“You ready for this?” Gary asked, rapping on the door.
“Sure.”
Morgan stood up straight and reached to adjust his tie before remembering he didn’t have one on. His hand had barely returned to its original position before the door swung open and a big, burly man with white hair stepped into the morning light. The tank top he wore had curls of equally white hair protruding from the collar.
“Mr. Young?” the man said, extending a hand.
Morgan took it and shook, glancing at Gary. He hadn’t known what to expect from the ex-cop, but manners wasn’t it. Very few people looked at private investigators with any kind of regard, and cops even less so. He attributed this gentle introduction to Gary; whatever he’d said to this man must’ve been high praise.
“I’ll leave you guys alone,” Gary said as he brushed past and returned to the car.
The man waved to Morgan. “Come on in.”
He followed.
The short walk through the house left much to be desired. The wallpaper had the same level of care as the front lawn. It was torn and peeling, sagging to the floor. There was a faint smell of something sour, and it followed them into the kitchen at the rear of the house where sunlight spewed through the long window. In another house that light would’ve been a key feature, but here it only drew attention to the dust particles floating around the filthy room.
“Perhaps I can interest you in a cup of coffee?” the man said, reaching toward a big clunky-looking machine with a stained bowl and dirtied handle. If there had been any chrome on that device, it probably hadn’t been seen in years.
“Thanks, but I won’t take up much of your time.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”
“Really, I’m fine.” Morgan heaved in a deep breath and felt a scratchy tickle at the back of his throat. Probably due to some airborne bacteria, he figured. He was suddenly glad he’d declined the coffee. “I really want to talk to you about the handcuffs that went missing from your locker. You say they were stolen?”
The old man—completely expressionless, as if the offer had been nothing more than ritualistic courtesy—left the machine and went to the window, shoving his hands into his pockets and gazing into the backyard. A strong orange hue lit up his face, revealing it to be paler than it first seemed. “I said they were stolen, yes.”
“Two pairs?”
“Two pairs. Each with the same serial number, give or take a digit.”
Morgan reached for a notepad in his breast pocket, but those things were usually for show or reference, neither of which he needed right now. He relaxed his hand and joined the man at the window, staring at the disregarded turf outside. “Any idea who took them?”
“Between you and me, kid, I’m not even sure they were stolen. I left the force last year, and they went missing during my final week. When you lose your cuffs, you have to pay for them. That’s the rule.”
