The Morgan Young Trilogy Read online

  That was the end of her birthday, and they both knew it.

  The moment he shut the door, he traipsed around the car and leaned against the driver’s side, watching her bound up the porch steps. From afar, he heard Rachel mumble and laugh, accepting a birthday kiss on the cheek from Gary before disappearing inside.

  Gary took his chance to approach. His solemn expression spoke volumes.

  “Good night?” he asked.

  “It was.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be.” Morgan patted him on the shoulder. He could barely get mad at this best friend and work acquaintance, much less stay mad. They’d known each other far too long for something like work to stand between them. All those sweltering Washington summers they’d spent together as kids—all the teenage dramas and fights over girls—were simply trials for their unbreakable bond. Even now, as grown men who had the poor fortune of seeing the sicker side of human nature for a living, they were yet to find their true test of friendship. “I’m guessing there’s a good reason you’re showing up like this?”

  Gary stood up straight, exhaling in a long, slow breeze as he looked up and down the street. It was a rarity to see him like this; the renowned detective often maintained a cool exterior that everyone on the force envied. But something was different tonight. He shivered in spite of how warm the breeze was, and he avoided eye contact as much as possible. “There’s been a homicide across town. I need your help.”

  “Yeah, you said that. Care to elaborate?”

  “Can’t I just show you?”

  “This sounds bad.”

  “It is.”

  Morgan watched him, taking in every detail of his body language. He knew Gary better than he knew himself, and if it didn’t turn out that something had struck him on a personal level he’d be surprised. Gary had always been one of the good guys—as kids, the amount of beatings he took for being a white guy hanging out with a black guy were countless, but it didn’t stop him for even a second. Morgan always appreciated how easy it’d made his school years, and he supposed he owed him at least something.

  “Well?” Gary pressed. “Are you with me?”

  Morgan stood up straighter and made his way toward Gary’s car. “We’ll see.”

  Chapter Three

  The murder site was a buzz of reporters, police officers, and onlookers from the local community. Camera flashes lit up the bustling crowd as people pushed and shoved to get a better view of nothing; the police had the scene wrapped up so tight nobody could get in.

  Nobody except Morgan.

  He kept close to Gary, squeezing through the civilians with his heart in his throat. There was no telling what he would find inside. There was a double homicide—he knew that much—but the details had remained a mystery. Gary probably thought it would be more impactful this way, and Morgan had to admit it worked.

  Gary flashed his badge to an officer and said something Morgan couldn’t hear with all the ambient noise. Waiting on his own for only a second, Morgan scanned the crowd out of curiosity but found nothing. Still, that kind of inquisition was never wasted; the clues were often in the small things, and it never hurt to be aware of your surroundings.

  A minute later, Gary waved him in. Morgan trailed behind him with his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, careful not to touch anything. They entered the house, where forensics took more photographs and officers hurried between the rooms. Morgan had never been a police officer, but he’d been let onto enough crime scenes to understand the anarchy that surrounded him. Everyone in a position of authority liked things a certain way, and that made it a nightmare for those on the ground. Morgan didn’t envy them.

  “This is where the husband was stabbed,” Gary said, gesturing to the stained rug outside an open bathroom door. “Careful where you stand.”

  Morgan noted the bloodstain and took a deep breath to steady himself. If this was only a sideline feature, he was scared to imagine what the main event looked like. “Where’s the body? With the coroner?”

  “It will be soon. Follow me.” Gary held out an arm to make his way through a gathered group of officers, everyone huddled close together in the narrow hallway. “The killer dragged the body into this room, but we don’t know why. The other victim… Well, see for yourself.”

  Morgan’s eyes took control then, leading him to view one of the worst things he’d ever seen. If he’d been more prepared, he would’ve taken a few seconds to collect himself before looking, but the heat of the moment had consumed his senses and put him on edge.

  What he looked down at was beyond disgusting.

  The husband lay at the feet of a seated woman—presumably his wife—whose legs were laced with thick trails of blood. A thick patch of scarlet covered her stomach, likely a result of multiple puncture wounds. Probably what killed her, Morgan thought, but he could only pray that’d happened before her face had been torn to shreds; flaps of skin and chunks of flesh hung from her bloodied face, obscuring her identity. The wide circle of horror on her mouth, however, promised little in the way of a swift, painless murder.

  The image knotted his stomach.

  “There’s an official ID on the body,” Gary said, turning his back to the gruesome scene as he ran a shaking hand through his thick, messy hair. “I’d ask if you recognize her, but you can see as well as I can.”

  Morgan turned away too, his stomach unsettled and a vile watery taste filling his dry mouth. It was beginning to make sense now—the way Gary had been acting about this particular murder, why he’d been so unusually demanding that Morgan attend the crime scene. All the pieces fell into place too easily, and the identity of the female victim became clear in a heartbeat. “This is her, isn’t it? Carrie?”

  Carrie Whittle had been Gary’s first love. They were high school sweethearts and went on to live together for two of the nine years they’d been an item. Whatever happened after that had been kept a secret, and Gary later went on to start a new life with Hannah, a woman perfectly suited to him, as far as Morgan could see. Everything had turned out for the best, but although Gary would never admit it, it was obvious he’d never truly gotten over Carrie.

  “The bastard hurt her,” Gary said, his voice weak again. He spun around, locking his moist eyes with Morgan’s while he scratched his moustache—a thing he often did as a kind of reset before he took action. Some people blew out a breath or simply said, “Right,” but not Gary. A ruffle of his facial hair seemed to be all he needed. “Here’s the thing: the captain knows I have a past with the victim and doesn’t want me on the case. I’ve tried telling him I want to be the one investigating, but he thinks a desire for revenge might cloud my judgment.”

  Morgan nodded. He had an idea where this was going. “What do you think?”

  “Maybe he’s right.” Gary began to pace the room, folding his arms and lowering his head. “But I could live without the pressure. Can you imagine if I investigated but never got the answers I wanted? I’d have to go the rest of my life knowing I failed to avenge Carrie.”

  “I get it,” Morgan said, now folding his arms too. “Don’t forget about Hannah either. I know she’ll understand what you’re going through, but she probably won’t like being a sounding board to your feelings about a past love.”

  “Right.”

  Morgan sighed, glancing over his shoulder at the nearby officers. The room was growing quiet now, and the coroner was probably due any minute. Whatever they had to discuss, that curtain would need closing fast. “I’m guessing the reason you summoned me here was to put me on the case. Is that it?”

  “How would you feel about that?”

  Morgan wasn’t sure, and that probably showed in his hesitation. As always, he wanted to help his best friend, and it just so happened that homicide investigation was his specialty, but what if he suffered the same problems as Gary? Morgan had only met the victim on a handful of occasions, but what if his loyalty to Gary stood in the way? Not only that, but if he failed to get answers, would it drive a wedge into their friendship? “I don’t know. I mean, there are other detectives in the department. Can’t they just—”

  “It has to be you, Morgan.”

  “Don’t first-name me, pal. You’re above that.”

  Gary grunted, wiped his eye, and gave a semi-genuine half smile. He stopped in front of the window, his lanky frame hunched over his folded arms as his chest rose and fell in heaves. “Look, you’re a damn good investigator, and I know you get things done. The captain doesn’t always agree with me on that, but even he can’t deny the results.”

  Morgan nodded. “I’m flattered. What does he have to say about me taking this case?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “Jesus, Gary.”

  “But he will.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. The point is, I have a personal attachment to this case, and I want it solved. If it’s left in the hands of a second-rate detective and these morons, it’ll just end up another unsolved investigation.” Gary hiked a thumb over his shoulder at the officers. “We have some evidence to get you started on, and I’ll even pay you for your services.”

  Morgan rubbed his eyes and checked his watch—one hour had passed since he’d left Rachel. That bath of hers was sure to be cold by now, so it wasn’t like he was getting home in time anyway. “What kind of evidence?”

  Gary looked up, excitement flashing in his eyes. “A baseball cap was found in the bathroom. From a pizza place. Tell me you’ll look into it. Please, Morgan. If ever I needed help from you, this is the time.”

  The pressure was already becoming too much, but Morgan was hardly the type of guy to let down a friend when he was in need. With that in mind, however, the problem remained that this case wasn’t necessarily solva
ble.

  But should that keep him from trying?

  “Okay,” he finally said, ignoring Gary’s hopeful grin. “I’ll give it my best shot, but I’m not making promises, and I won’t take your money. If that much is clear, then I’ll start right away, but you have to remember I can only do my best. Do we understand each other?”

  “Definitely. Thank you, Morgan.”

  Morgan sighed. “Let’s take a look at that evidence.”

  Chapter Four

  The killer stood among the crowd, reveling in the glory of his kill. There were so many people around, and it was all because of him—all because of the work he’d done on Carrie Whittle. The police would have no clue either, as he’d been so careful at the scene.

  Although there was that one thing…

  Leaving the pizza hat at the crime scene was hardly his crowning moment, but everybody made mistakes. This was one that could cost him dearly, he knew, but at least he could learn from it and move on. Sure, the police now had his fingerprints, and probably hair from the hat, but at least they weren’t in the system. As far as he knew, that was.

  The people around him shuffled, making way for newcomers on the scene. From where he stood, beginning to perspire among the ever-shifting collection of spectators, the killer saw a familiar face approach the tape. There was no telling quite how he knew him, but the killer had one of those feelings—a knowing that’d been buried in his past. Maybe they’d crossed paths once or twice in their younger years, or maybe he’d just seen the guy on the news before, but he definitely recognized him somehow. And if the man recognized him too?

  The killer shrunk back between the civilians.

  After showing his detective badge to the officer, the man went into the house, ushering a tall, well-built black man through the doorway. This face was new to him. He couldn’t have been a cop—the way he followed the leader made him appear far too detached for that—so maybe he was a hired hand. Or worse: an apprentice.

  Whoever they were wasn’t important. What was important was the work he’d just done. After stabbing the husband and discovering he was still alive, he’d moved on to the wife, who’d stumbled into the hallway and had all of three seconds to understand what she was seeing. The man she’d married was bleeding out all over their hideous rug, and she wouldn’t be far behind. From there, he’d chased her into the dining room and grabbed her hair, yanking her onto the floor. The killer had mounted her, taking his knife to her face and making some adjustments. Even if she’d lived through that, she probably wouldn’t have wanted to; he’d taken away her beauty, which was the only thing to redeem her foul attitude. The killer had enjoyed every second of taking that away from her, laughing at her howls and screams as he sliced those perfect cheeks right off her horrified face.

  “Move it, people.”

  The strong, authoritative voice of a police officer broke his trance. The people around him—the sheep—shuffled and pushed, stepping back only when two officers and a wooden barricade forced them to. The killer moved with them, enjoying the excitement of the murder scene, grinning at the flashing red and blue that lit up everyone’s faces. It was the blue of something pleasant, like the ocean, but the red was deep like blood, and it took him back to the moment he’d completed his surgery.

  He had stabbed Carrie in the stomach. Multiple times, in fact, but not before dragging the husband in to watch. Mr. Handsome had scowled, wheezed, and cried as his wife was killed in front of him, and then his time had come. Only minutes later had the killer abandoned the uniform and returned to see his work incognito.

  It was a beautiful memory he would hold dear, but he couldn’t linger on it too long. There was more work to do, after all, and if he focused too much attention on this one, he was sure to make a mistake with his next victim, and she wasn’t too far away.

  Not far at all.

  Chapter Five

  Morgan supposed it was time to get to work. It’d been months since his last case, and perhaps that had contributed to his stagnation. Unemployment—at least, not having a current case to focus on—could be torture on the mind. On the other hand, it gave him time to spend with Rachel. When she wasn’t running a charity event anyway.

  Gary had given him all he needed to start: a look at a baseball cap from Pizza Palace. The officers who found the victims’ bodies had found it in the bathroom, and it matched the bag and empty box found in the hallway. The presumption was that the killer had either dressed as a pizza delivery guy to gain entry to their home, or he was an incredible dumbass who happened to leave some easy evidence lying around.

  Morgan doubted it was the latter.

  While Gary held a temporary suspension on the evidence, Morgan had time to reach Pizza Palace before the police did. The building was only a few blocks away, sitting on the corner with a wide double door and plenty of room to sit and eat. The inside gave a rich aroma of hot cheese and bread, making Morgan’s stomach growl like a feral dog. His watering mouth made him forget that he’d already eaten tonight, but he wasn’t here to eat so much as he was to work. That much was easy to remember.

  Customers brushed past him as he approached the counter and asked to see the manager. The black-haired, crow-faced man behind the counter paused before responding, as if a poor choice of words could put him behind bars.

  “Who’s asking?” he finally said.

  “Morgan Young. I’m a PI.”

  “Well, he’s not here.”

  “He’s not?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  Morgan checked over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t holding up a line, but he also knew there was only a certain amount of time before the police arrived, and if they didn’t cause difficulties for him, he didn’t know what would. “Look, nobody wants to talk to the cops if they can help it—I get it—but a married couple was murdered tonight, and one of your worker’s hats was found at the crime scene. Do you realize how bad that looks?”

  The man’s face grew deep red. He rested his hands on the counter, squeezing his fingers—all the traits of a guilty man, or could it simply be that he was anxious of police involvement? A storm of officers would be bad for business, and they both knew it.

  “I’m the manager,” he confessed.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Morgan stood up straight. “Do you know of any reason why the hat might be at the crime scene?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “How many employees do you have, Mr.…?”

  “Morales. And I have six employees.”

  “Where are they tonight?”

  “Here. Why?”

  “Every one of them?”

  “What is this, Twenty Questions?” Mr. Morales snapped.

  Morgan took a deep breath. People could be difficult, that was no secret, but fatigue was coming for him, blurring his vision and making him weak. The enticing smell wasn’t doing much to help either. “I just need to get the facts straight.”

  Two customers shuffled in, and Mr. Morales gave a short wave as if he knew them. It was like a signal that he wouldn’t be long. He sighed. “My nephew, Rico, recently requested a new uniform. He said it was stolen, but I guessed he just left it at home and didn’t want to take the blame, you know?”

  “Is he here now?”

  “In the corner.”

  “Mind if I talk to him?”

  Mr. Morales shrugged. “Don’t take too long. It gets busy soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  Morgan left the counter and glanced around the tables. As promised, a young man who looked just like his uncle sat in the corner booth. He wore a crisp, new Pizza Palace uniform that was yet to be ironed, and he stared at Morgan with the same black-ringed eyes as Mr. Morales. “Are you Rico?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  The bluntness of his reply told Morgan he’d found the right guy. Without asking or waiting for an invite, he slid into the booth opposite the boy, keeping his hands clasped in front of him. It was an easy technique he’d learned from a reputable detective many years ago—when suspects are being questioned, they like to see your hands. It relaxes them, lets them know you’re not about to pull out a gun or a pair of handcuffs.