Watch Them Die, page 6
part #2 of Morgan Young Series
He could only hope that information was accurate.
Chapter Seventeen
Morgan wasn’t used to ignoring his wife, but it was one of those painfully vital things that simply had to be done. It wasn’t out of spite or even as a part of their argument, but the way she’d look at him as she passed him in the hallway, and the way she didn’t look at him when they ate silently at the dinner table, told him something was going on in her head.
It caused a tremendous amount of strain on him too. He and Rachel had always been solid as a rock—if you omitted the short spats most couples went through—but now it’d been two days since she’d reacted to him waking her up. Morgan still didn’t understand if she’d taken that too far or if he really had been out of line. All he knew for sure was that he didn’t have time to sit and figure it out.
Not while he was looking for a killer.
As much as it pained him to place Rachel as a secondary priority, he didn’t see that he had a choice, and while he sat in the spare room that was now his office, he stared blankly at the laptop in front of him with the search engine open. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to type, but rather that he was still gathering the courage to see whatever images his results would find. He’d been here before only yesterday, only half-invested while the dust settled on his fight with Rachel. It seemed he’d never control his distractions.
Now, however, Morgan was ready. He’d woken up that morning with every intention of researching the hell out of this case. Throughout the morning he’d gone over police reports that were kindly provided by Gary, studied the victims’ activities on social media, and read article after article surrounding the recent murders. It tore him apart each time he saw that same damn picture of Dusty, his freckled face still young and full of innocence despite his age.
It only made him want to work harder.
While the social media sites had nothing to offer but a flood of condolences from loved ones, Morgan did find some use out of the articles. One of them—a piece written by a young freelance journalist he’d met once upon a time—had made mention of Dusty’s car accident many years ago. Morgan had a vague recollection of that; by then they’d long been separated, but the news had passed through the distant family. Dusty had walked away with barely a scratch, but not everyone was that lucky.
That was all he knew about it until now.
Scrolling through the page, Morgan was shocked to learn that Teresa Joy—the speculated second victim from this same killer—had also been in that accident. As he continued to read, Morgan’s heart pounded at each word his eyes skimmed over. He had to read it twice more before he realized that connection didn’t seem suspicious to anybody, but to Morgan it meant everything, and that was all he needed.
The victims knew each other.
While the idea that it was a coincidence briefly flickered in his mind, Morgan was sure that such connections were highly unlikely. There were over seven million people in the city of Washington. The chances of two people having shared a car accident over ten years ago—and recently being murdered in car-related events—were nearly impossible unless there was something bigger going on. It brought a sharp pain to Morgan’s head, shooting through his skull without relent. He’d have to ignore it for now though. The police were probably on their way to figuring this out, and he wanted to get there first.
For Dusty, he thought.
A quick internet search gave him the names of Teresa Joy’s mother, and another provided the father’s address. Morgan only hesitated for a moment to question if this was the right move; it seemed too good to be true that Dusty and Teresa knew each other, especially considering their social media accounts didn’t have them listed as friends. Was it possible the crash had driven a wedge between them, or had they simply drifted apart? How close were they to begin with? Did they know each other before that night, on a long, lonely stretch of road ten years ago? There were too many questions, but they had to be asked.
And where better to start than the family of the latest victim?
Chapter Eighteen
A quick call ahead had told Morgan that Teresa Joy’s father, Tony, would be working the early-evening shift at a downtown bar called Shooter’s. The name of that joint wasn’t appealing, but Morgan drove there on business, parking the car in the nearly full lot around back. While he stood out in the cold and locked the car door, he had a sudden recollection of Tony’s voice.
“Whatever,” he’d said, and his voice was full of as much resignation as that word had.
Wondering if the face matched the voice, Morgan headed inside and scanned the busy crowd. For six in the evening, this place was way too busy. Drinkers gathered around a pool table with a sign that said HALF PRICE DUE TO MISSING BALLS, while men in dirty baseball caps scooped forkfuls of food into their mouths at the corner tables. Morgan didn’t realize it was a bar and grill until now, but although the smell promised a decent meal, the sticky floor and decaying paint on the walls told a different story.
It was probably safer not to eat here.
Pushing through a gathering of rowdy young men and women, Morgan made his way to the bar where a petite blonde lady with a nose ring poured four shots at once. She handed them over in one smooth motion and took the customer’s money before turning her attention to Morgan with a mouthful of gum. “What can I get you, honey?”
Morgan leaned over the bar, shouting above the noise. “I’m here to see Tony Joy.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Sure is.”
The woman looked him up and down, still chewing. “All right, follow me.”
She led him past the far end of the bar, telling a customer she’d be back in a minute before taking him to a door at the back. Morgan followed without a word, anxiety stealing over him while he wondered what kind of man he was about to meet. He reminded himself that no matter how it appeared, the man would be hurting, and so he might have trouble extracting information from him. He didn’t find this surprising either—if there was one thing he’d learned over his many years doing this job, it was that most people wouldn’t do something for nothing.
They passed through a narrow hallway that stank of urine, then through another door into the kitchen. It was a long workspace with three men all wearing white, zipping around the place with such urgency that Morgan felt he could easily be knocked over. He kept his arms close to his body while he followed the woman, silent until she introduced him to a red-eyed man with a five-o’clock shadow. After making the introduction, she gave Tony a soft pat on the arm and left them alone, traces of her perfume lingering in her wake.
“I don’t have much time,” Tony said, shaking his hand. “You’re not police?”
“Technically, no, but I have the same questions they’ll have.”
“You think they’ll be in touch?”
“Probably.” Morgan had no reason to doubt the MPD would be close behind. They were usually pretty swift to piece things together, which only put more pressure on Morgan. At least he was ahead of the curve for once. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Joy. Incidentally, I also lost someone very dear to me. Not so long ago, in fact. Does the name Dylan Young mean anything to you?”
Tony mouthed the name without speaking it, as if he were seeing how it tasted. He turned and scooped a steak off the grill, slid it onto a plate where a prearranged salad sat on the side, then moved the plate and hit a bell. “You talking about Dusty?”
“You knew him?”
“Barely, but a little. He died?”
Morgan nodded, his heart cramping.
“Sorry about that. He was a good kid.”
“I agree.” Morgan sighed, the pain of his loss hitting him all over again. “Listen, I’m curious about Dusty’s connection to your daughter. I have reason to believe they knew each other, but I’m wondering just how much.”
“They were loose friends, I think. Maybe more like acquaintances, because of the age difference.”
“You never saw them together?”
Tony shrugged and rushed aside, slapping flour onto something that Morgan thought looked like a hair braid and then throwing it into an industrial oven. “Sometimes, but that was a long time ago. It was long before that night…”
“You mean the car accident?”
“That’s the one.” Tony heaved a sigh and rubbed his eyes with his wrists. He looked exhausted, and Morgan was willing to bet he hadn’t slept since his daughter had died. “To be honest, I didn’t take much notice in Teresa’s social life until she was a bit older. She started bringing boys home—not in a romantic kind of way, but she was really welcoming. I didn’t mind too much. At least I knew she was safe where I could see her.”
Morgan watched his eyes grow red. He’d seen this many times from families of murder victims. It was self-blame and guilt festering away in their brains. It was no place for such a parasite to feed, and he tried to keep the conversation moving. “Was Dusty one of them?”
“One of the friends she’d bring home?”
Morgan nodded.
“Like I said, he came over a lot from time to time.”
“When did you stop seeing him?”
“As soon as Teresa got a place of her own, I guess.”
It made sense, Morgan realized, and he didn’t want to press on that any harder. He wondered how much he could get from this man without breaking him. His calm tone and sympathetic smile could only get him so far, and it was never easy getting information from someone when neither of them knew what to look for. All he could do was circle back around to the one thing they both knew a little about. “Tell me more about this car accident.”
“What about it?”
“How was Teresa after that night?”
Tony shrugged, double hitting a bell until a man finally came to take the steak he’d prepared a minute ago. It was obvious he was losing his patience. “She seemed no different to me. Wouldn’t get in a car for a few months afterward, but she was otherwise the same.”
“Was she living with you at the time it happened?”
“Yep.”
“And you never saw Dusty after that?”
Tony shook his head hesitantly. “If I did, I don’t remember it.”
“Do you think it affected their friendship?”
“Maybe a little. Teresa became slightly reclusive for a time. She wouldn’t talk to either of them and even ignored me for a short while.”
Fatigue had been picking at him until that moment. Morgan heard more than he should have in that last sentence, and it stuck out like a sore thumb. “Either of them?”
Tony nodded. “Either of the other survivors.”
“There were two other survivors?”
“Dusty and Tom.”
Morgan let out a noise that was half laugh, half sigh. Relief stole over him as he finally found something he could use. Until now he’d had no idea there was anyone else involved—either the online reports of that incident had neglected to mention another passenger, or he’d been reading in all the wrong places. Whatever it was, he was going to rectify it. “Mr. Joy, I’d really appreciate it if you could give me the full name of that survivor.”
For the first time, Tony gave a very slight smile. “How about I go one better and give you his address?”
Chapter Nineteen
The killer had bumped shoulders with his next victim more than once over the past couple of days. It was funny—no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t get the guy to recognize him. But what did that even mean? Was his very existence so inconsequential that he couldn’t be picked out of a lineup? If that was true, shouldn’t this have been easy?
It wasn’t.
Everything, from the very beginning of the preparation to the striking of victim number two’s match, had taken a great deal of outlining and planning ahead. All the risks were taken into account when constructing his plan, and each time he ticked another thing off the list as he came closer to the big finale.
That was the most terrifying part of all. The final act was the cherry on the already sweet cake, and it was by far the most important piece. It was also the easiest, so at least he could bow out without the pressure and stress of being caught—he knew damn well he would get away with it, which was more than could be said for tonight’s big piece.
It was from across the street that he’d watched the guy, jogging up the steps to his front door after running for a little over twenty minutes. The killer had timed it to the very second, remaining concealed in the doorway of the social club. When the man had first left, the killer had questioned whether to seize his opportunity and break inside, but much like the rest of the plan, risk needed to be taken into account.
That was why he’d stayed.
He was glad he had too—the son of a bitch had returned so fast he would’ve barely had time to find a place to hide. At least the sun had gone down while he stayed put, the light draining out behind the tall buildings on either end of the busy street. Darkness, as he understood it, made everything easier. He could move without being seen, be seen without being recognized. But the best part of all? People relaxed in the evenings, and that made them more vulnerable. The killer had never been much of a fighter, so vulnerability suited him just fine. It helped to have a weapon too. Besides, this guy was twice his size and in pretty good shape.
At least he would be, for another few minutes.
Chapter Twenty
Morgan didn’t really know what to expect when he arrived at the house, but it sure wasn’t a man who looked more or less exactly like Dusty. That was, if Dusty were a white man with muscles and a thick, bushy beard. Those eyes, though…
“Is everything all right?” the man asked, gesturing toward an armchair.
“Yes, thank you. It’s just… you look so much like him.”
The man—a friend of Dusty’s who’d survived the same car accident—was named Tom, and he looked as if he’d never seen a second of damage in his life. Even his bright blue eyes shone with fond remembrance. “Like Dusty? Believe me, you’re not the first person to say it. Hey, can I get you a drink or anything?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Morgan just wanted to get down to business. The similarities between Tom and Dusty were difficult for him to bear, each little facial expression shocking him with memories both fond and foul. That kind of unease also made him think of Rachel and how unsteady things had been with her lately. It wasn’t like them to fight like this, which only made him wild with paranoia whenever he let himself wonder what might be causing such agitation. Whatever it was, he could worry about it later.
Right now, he had work to do.
“Suit yourself.” Tom sat on the couch across from Morgan, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. “What can I do for you?”
“Before I say anything, did you hear about our mutual friend?”
“The car in the river?” He nodded. “Teresa too.”
Morgan phrased this as carefully as he could. He didn’t want to cause any kind of panic, and he sure as hell didn’t want to make any insinuations. “I was wondering, seeing as you were friends with them both, did either of them have any enemies in common?”
“People like that didn’t have enemies.”
“True, but if you were pressed…?”
“Then I’d say whoever killed them was a jealous man.”
The assumption had come too easily. “What makes you think it was a man?”
Tom shrugged, maintaining eye contact. “Just a guess.”
“If you say so.” Morgan sat back and crossed his legs, weaving his fingers together and resting both hands across his knees. He exhaled slowly, glancing around at the dark room that smelled strongly of cooked meat. He guessed it took a lot of protein to keep a guy like this in such shape. It made him wonder what he did with all that strength. “Anyway, I’m here to see if you think the murders were related. You know as well as I do that this is a big city. That’s already saying a lot before you even factor in how they died.”
The moment he said it, Tom covered his mouth with a shaking hand. A second later, he returned to his previous position, gulping like he was trying not to puke, cry, and break down. “The murders were similar, I read. Similar but different. I’m not a cop—I train people at the gym for a living—but if I were working homicide, I’d guess they’re related. Maybe an ex-lover got mad and took revenge on them.”
“Did they have any lovers?”
“Teresa definitely did. She was pretty prom… prem… what’s the word?”
“Promiscuous?”
“That. She got around a bit, but she usually didn’t mean any harm. As for Dusty, who knows? That guy’s been a mystery to me for a few years now. But it wouldn’t surprise me if the two of them had a thing for each other.”
Morgan was all ears. “Anything ever happen between them?”
“As far as I know, they slept together once. That was a few years ago though.”
“Okay. And what about you?”
“I… didn’t sleep with either of them.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, I was trying to be funny.” Tom scratched his beard and sat back, really getting in there with his fingertips while he stared into Morgan’s eyes with a look that said I’m glad you’re here. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone. Maybe he was thinking the same thing Morgan was—that if the three of them used to hang out together, then the killer could be looking to complete the set. “Really, I haven’t spoken to them in years. I was sad when I heard the news, but it doesn’t change anything in my life. The only thing I keep wondering is who would do that to them and why, but nobody seems to have a straight answer.”
“Who’ve you been asking?”
“Online support groups.”
“Which ones?” Morgan clicked his pen and pulled out a small pad of paper.
“EQ&A mostly. Sometimes Ask Us Anything.”
