The Morgan Young Trilogy Page 3

  “Your uncle tells me you had a uniform vanish on you. What can you tell me about that?”

  Rico stared over Morgan’s shoulder at his uncle, then returned his attention to the subject at hand. “Just that. I came in to pick up my paycheck, and my uniform was on the hanger. My uncle asked me to start work early, so I went for my uniform, but by then it’d gone missing.”

  Morgan kept his voice low and soft. “When was this?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Two people were murdered tonight, and the killer was wearing your uniform. Trust me, it matters.”

  Rico’s eyes widened. He shook his head from side to side. “What? I—I didn’t do it.”

  “I know you didn’t,” Morgan said. “Your uncle already told me you were here all night. But let me give you a piece of advice: if you’re this uncooperative when the police come asking questions, they won’t be looking in your favor.”

  “What am I supposed to do, then?”

  “Start by answering the question.”

  “What was it again?”

  Morgan shifted in his seat. “When was the uniform stolen?”

  “Uh… Yesterday.”

  “What time?”

  “Late afternoon. Why?”

  Morgan craned his neck and studied the walls, scanning around for a security camera. To his relief, he found two. One was by the front door looking down at the entrance, while the other kept a watchful eye on the counter. “Do those work?” he asked, pointing.

  “Not the one above the door. That’s just to scare thieves.”

  “It didn’t help, did it?” Morgan said, smiling.

  Rico smiled back, displaying a plethora of black and yellow teeth. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but the joke seemed to settle him, even if only a little. He pointed back at the camera with one hand that shook like a leaf in the fall wind. “That one works. My uncle was getting fed up of staff taking money from the cash register, so he keeps it on.”

  “Can’t say I blame him. Where do you hang your coats?”

  “Over there.” Rico adjusted his pointed fingers to a wall opposite the camera.

  Given the circumstances, Morgan didn’t have much faith in his abilities to track the killer, and his typical luck meant it’d probably turn up nothing, but he couldn’t help smiling at the glimmer of hope this had given him. “Kid, go and get your uncle.”

  Rico crooked an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because I need to see that footage.”

  Chapter Six

  Mr. Morales—a skeptical-looking man who held his cards too close to his broad chest—led him into the storage room where an old fifteen-inch TV hummed in the far corner. He flicked on the light and gestured for Morgan to come in, shoving aside stacks of empty boxes and kicking lunchtime debris to one side. “I don’t know what you hope to find.”

  “Just find me yesterday’s tape. I’ll do the rest.”

  “The tape should still be in the VCR. You just have to hit ‘Play’.”

  “Thanks,” Morgan said.

  “Hey, uh… listen.” Mr. Morales sniffed and shifted his weight to the other foot. His eyes swept to the door before they returned to Morgan’s feet. It seemed this man would look anywhere to avoid eye contact. “My nephew—he’s not in trouble, is he?”

  “Does he have any reason to be?”

  “No. He’s a good kid. But what if the cops pin this on him?”

  Morgan understood. As a black kid in the neighborhood he grew up in, he’d been blamed for more than his fair share of local crimes: breaking and entering, pickpocketing, and even one very brief accusation of assault. He was innocent, of course, and had gone out of his way to prove that. Morgan often wondered if that was what had started him on his course for private investigations. It sure seemed like it.

  “Does your camera have a time stamp?” he asked.

  Morales nodded. “Sure. Why?”

  “Then he’ll be fine. I’ll leave the tape when I’m done. Show it to the police.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Morgan stepped past the man and knelt in front of the waist-high TV. Morales took the hint and left soon enough, without saying another word. Morgan, meanwhile, rewound the tape to the appropriate time, going ten minutes too far and deciding to let it catch up naturally.

  The first thing he saw was Rico coming in through the staff entrance just like he’d said. He had a spring in his step that day and had no problem showing his face to the camera. A more suspicious detective might read too much into that, but Morgan knew better. He continued watching as Rico headed into the back. It felt like an eternity for another person to enter the picture, but when he did, it was a relief and a disappointment at the same time.

  Morgan gnawed on his knuckles, leaning in close as if it would fix the poor screen quality. He watched, his heart pounding while a hooded figure entered the establishment and approached the counter. For a moment it looked as though he were going for the unattended cash register, but instead, he stepped around the counter and reached straight for the uniform hanging from the dry-cleaning rail—cap included. Who’d have known at the time that something as trivial as a uniform theft would have such dire consequences? Did the killer know all along? He must have—otherwise he would’ve stolen more than just some clothes.

  But that left another big question.

  Why here?

  Morgan huffed, a cramp seizing in his legs as the man on the screen ran back outside. The hooded man—or woman, but more likely a man judging by his build—crossed the street and headed into an alleyway that was barely visible through the footage. It wasn’t much to go on, but there was a chance he might find something. If not, he’d have no choice but to let Gary down gently. That wasn’t what he truly wanted, but at least he could still catch the tail end of Rachel’s birthday… maybe.

  With nothing left to see, Morgan hurried back down the narrow staircase and arrived back on the shop floor. The place had livened up during his short time upstairs, just as Morales had said it would. Morgan found him at the counter, serving four customers at once while barking orders at Rico. Morgan caught his attention and gave him a thumbs-up, then made a swift exit before the temptation to grab a slice seized control.

  The fresh night air hit him like a brick. He sucked in a large breath and crossed the street, looking back at Pizza Palace to confirm the angle was right. While a police cruiser turned onto the street and headed toward the pizzeria, Morgan found the correct alleyway and ducked inside, using the flashlight on his phone to brighten the area.

  “What the hell are you hoping to find?” he asked himself, sweeping the beam from left to right as he navigated the alley. His voice echoed through the darkness, bouncing back at him from three different angles. He hated the sound of it.

  Heading farther in, Morgan found there was nothing to see down here, save for a dumpster and a couple of black trash bags torn to shreds by cats. Food waste littered the ground, trailing to the far back where the alley opened onto the adjacent street. Morgan was no fool; he understood too quickly that this meant he was out of luck. Guilt and grief overtook him then, the realization that he couldn’t help Gary causing him to feel like a disappointment. He hadn’t promised he would find anything—in fact he’d said he probably wouldn’t—but that still didn’t make it any easier. The killer had taken the uniform and run through here, but there was no picking up the trail after that, so what was he expected to do? Morgan had no idea where to go next, but he was certain he couldn’t make something of nothing.

  He just hoped Gary saw it that way too.

  Chapter Seven

  Less than ten minutes had passed before Morgan found himself at the bus stop. He was too impatient to sit and too stressed to stand still, so he kept to pacing back and forth while running the events through his head. It was a lot of information to process.

  Even before the case came into play, it was hard to stifle the guilt of leaving Rachel on her birthday. She’d encouraged him to go with Gary, but she probably had no idea it would turn into a night-long work event. As usual, she’d be more than happy that Morgan was finding work again—despite that it was pro bono—as his home office had long ago become nothing more than a dusty old room. But cases like this got the brain ticking, and that was what kept him happy. Perhaps those feelings showed, or even contributed, to their relationship.

  Then there was the case itself. Flashes of Gary’s heartbroken expression—the bloodshot eyes, his solemn tone of voice—intruded on Morgan’s memory. He wanted to be there for his best friend, but how could he? There was nothing to go on. At least not at this stage.

  Shivering in the cold fall night, Morgan buttoned up his jacket and squeezed his elbows to his sides. He stared toward the end of the road, hoping the bus would hurry the hell up so he could get home to his wife. But there was no bus, only a pair of headlights creeping toward him like the eyes of a curious monster stalking its prey.

  Morgan squinted into the distance, raising a hand to shield out the bright light. As the car drew nearer, a wave of relief washed over him, and he knew there would be no more waiting for a bus that may or may not come. “Gary?”

  Gary stopped the car beside him, leaning toward the open window. “Get in.”

  He didn’t have to be told twice; Morgan was in the car as fast as his numbing legs would allow, the car moving again before he could even fasten his seat belt. “I have to say, I’m pretty glad to see you out and about. It’s colder than it looks out there.”

  “I was in the neighborhood,” Gary said, his eyes fixed on the road.

  “Of course you were.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” Morgan said.

  “Did you check out Pizza Palace?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  Morgan wasn’t quite sure how to tell him without just blurting it out, so that was exactly what he did. “A guy over there had his uniform stolen. I spoke to him and watched the footage. His story checks out. As for the thief, I think he’s our killer, but that’s all we’ll ever know about him. Unfortunately, there’s nothing more to add.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the car.

  Morgan waited for a response that never came.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Gary waved a dismissive hand, then slid it back onto the wheel. “You’re too good an investigator to quit so soon. I’m sure you’ll find something to put us back on track. What about the victim’s neighbors? Planning to do the rounds?”

  “Doing the rounds” was more of a police procedure. It entailed knocking on every door on the crime scene’s street to ask if anyone saw anything. It was a mind-numbing waste of time according to Morgan, and he only ever did it as a last resort. Even then, it rarely turned up any results. “I’m sure the MPD will take care of that.”

  “Right, and then put the case down as unsolvable.”

  “It’s not going to be an easy one.”

  Gary grunted. “You’ll manage.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you; I don’t think I can help.” There was another silence until Morgan added, “I’m sorry. But with only the address of a pizzeria to go on, what more can I do? If there was more evidence—”

  “But there isn’t,” Gary snapped.

  “Hey now.”

  “I just can’t believe you’re quitting so easily. What about being my friend? What happened to applying your skills to this? I’ve told you I’ll feed you any information from the police with or without the captain’s permission, so you have a strong advantage.”

  Heat rose to Morgan’s face, though he was unsure if it was from the car’s heater or simple frustration. “You can’t play the friend card on this one. I’m always here for you—always—but you can’t expect me to perform miracles.”

  “Not miracles,” Gary said. “Just more than an hour’s effort.”

  “Oh yeah? Then what do you suggest?”

  Gary quieted.

  “That’s what I thought. Just… take me home.”

  Neither of them said anything for the rest of the journey. Morgan sat quietly the whole time, awkwardly shifting his eyes to Gary now and then. When they were kids, such a thing would make them both smile and the argument would end as fast as it’d started, but something told him that wouldn’t happen tonight. Something had struck his friend on an emotional level—he was hurt and wasn’t thinking straight. Only vigilante justice made for a good cure.

  They arrived outside Morgan’s home, where one of the bedside lamps offered an orange glow to the only lit window. The rest of the house was sleeping, and there was a strong chance Rachel was too. Morgan climbed out of the car, thanked Gary for the ride, then stomped up his path toward the front door.

  Only the voice stopped him.

  “Wait,” Gary said, exiting the car. He hurried around the vehicle and jogged toward Morgan, his graying hair swishing from side to side. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a dick. It’s just that I can’t get the image of Carrie out of my head, you know?”

  “I know,” Morgan said. “Nobody should have to see that, much less somebody who loved her. And I’m sorry I can’t help. Tonight was more about exploring whether I could make any contribution to the case—kind of like a consultation but less formal. Only I can’t. At least not unless there’s a development.”

  “Something tells me there won’t be.”

  Morgan nodded. “Like I said, I’m sorry.”

  Gary glanced up at the house and then back to his car.

  “Go home,” Morgan told him. “Be with your wife.”

  “Yeah, right. What am I supposed to tell her? I’m moping because an old flame finally snuffed out?”

  “She’s a good woman. She’ll understand.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Good night, Gary.”

  “Good night. Thanks for trying.”

  Morgan watched him return to his still-running car, catching a glimpse of that morose expression before he turned. It crushed him to see his childhood friend this way, and Morgan stuck around to watch him drive back up the road until he was left in silence. Too much had happened tonight, and it would take a lot of effort to decompress. Still, at least he had a wife to talk to about his problems, and she was upstairs waiting for him.

  He just hoped he hadn’t ruined her birthday.

  Chapter Eight

  Cold-blooded murder was hard work. The killer had thought it would repulse him, putting him off his food for at least a week. The truth was, it created an appetite he wasn’t sure he could satisfy. But that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

  It was midnight by the time he got home, forcing his key into the rusted lock and kicking open the door. The TV blared from the back room, its screen flooding light into the dark hallway. The killer slipped inside and closed the door, hurrying through to the kitchen before she could see him. Before she could make him feel even less comfortable with himself.

  Opening the refrigerator with care, the killer bent over and peered inside, examining what ingredients he had to work with. The problem was—and he hadn’t seen this coming—every item reminded him of tonight’s disgusting activity. The way he saw it, the chicken was human flesh. The spaghetti sauce was blood, and it would drip onto his chin the way it’d dripped from Carrie Whittle’s stomach. It stirred something up inside him, and although he couldn’t decipher it as either satisfaction or regret, he knew he would do it all over again if he could.

  With any kind of food off the menu, the killer sighed and shut the fridge, returning to the dusty hallway. If he couldn’t eat then he could at least keep himself busy, maybe find an activity to keep his mind off what’d happened. He sneaked through to the door under the stairs, reached for the knob, and then heard the voice; it was her voice.

  “Moonpie?” she called from the living room. “Moonpie, is that you?”

  “For Christ’s sake,” the killer mumbled.

  “Moonpie? Honey?”

  “Yes, Mom. It’s me.”

  “Come in here and give your mother a kiss.”

  It took every ounce of strength to remove his hand from the doorknob, but he succeeded. Scuffing his feet across the already worn carpet, he made his way into the living room, where the only light came from the TV. A musty smell filled the air: molding food and body odor. In the one tattered armchair that’d lived in this room for nearly two decades was his horrendously overweight mother, who’d, ironically, lived in this room for nearly two decades. The killer stopped and looked at her, realizing his upper lip was twisting into a look of disgust. He always made an effort to be kind to his mom, but that didn’t mean he found her anything other than repugnant. She hadn’t washed in months, after all, and only climbed out of the dip in the armchair when she wanted to eat, piss, or shit. What kind of life was that?

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” she said, her cheeks wobbling as she spoke.

  The killer stepped forward, closed his eyes to imagine someone else—a princess, perhaps—and planted his lips on her ragged, frayed hair. He then patted her on the shoulder, as he knew the kiss wouldn’t be enough, before taking a step back.

  “Where’ve you been tonight?” she asked.

  “Just out.”

  “Not up to any trouble, I hope?”

  “I’m thirty, Mom. Not thirteen.”

  “Grown men can still get into trouble, you know. Just look at your father. I was only a teenager when we first met, but he was a grown man. He thought he couldn’t get into trouble, but I was pregnant before I even…”

  The killer backed out of the room, having heard all the stories before. Yes, his father was an asshole who’d knocked her up and skipped town. Yes, he was replaced by a man of questionable morals who “accidentally” showed parts of his naked body to her only child. And yes, the killer had taken his first life, pushing him just a little too hard into oncoming traffic.

  Accidents happened, the killer supposed, and that one had definitely benefited him.