Don't You Dare (Morgan Young Book 3) Page 4

  He licked his dry lips and opened the email.

  The first couple of files showed nothing helpful, but Morgan often found the most important details could be found in a man’s history. With this in mind, he took the time to thoroughly read through Mason Black’s file. What he read was hardly surprising: there were a lot of suspensions during his time with the San Francisco Police Department, and each one was listed as Disobedience with a short paragraph underneath. Morgan leaned into the computer, its bright screen stinging his tired eyes as he read further into the reports made by someone named Captain Cox. Judging by his file, Mason was prone to coming off the rails and diving headfirst into the snake pit. Morgan wondered if that was what had happened this time—if Mason had dug his own grave with thoughtless, reckless behavior. It wouldn’t be the biggest shock.

  The accompanying files told a similar story. The Black family mortgage was unstable to say the least, but that only got worse with his divorce from a woman named Sandra. Morgan was just starting to wonder if Sandra was the woman in the videotape, taking Mason’s car—and maybe his life—as a means of revenge. But he clicked onto the next page and found a photograph of her. She was thin, with brown hair and hollow eyes that made her look like a skeleton. It definitely wasn’t the same person.

  It wasn’t until hours later that Morgan realized his posture was screwed up. Giving himself an excuse to stretch, he printed off Morgan’s phone records and held the sheets in his hand, pacing the room to get his circulation going. He passed by the window countless times, studying the cell phone exchanges from the past twelve months.

  When he found it, he stopped dead.

  A repeated number, mostly as two-second long incoming calls, taunted him from across the page. Morgan paused to consider whether the SFPD had already gone over this. If not, would they in time? How long would it be before the MPD got involved and decided to give it a try? Phone records were often one of the first things to be analyzed, though Morgan didn’t quite know why—worthwhile information was rarely found in them.

  Except this time.

  Hurrying to his desk, Morgan grabbed a Magic Marker and circled all the instances where the two phones had been connected. When he was done, he tallied them up and found that over thirty calls had been made between them. That number had escalated in the past few weeks, stopping, of course, on the day Mason Black had disappeared. Morgan wanted to get excited, but he knew his luck: even if this number was relevant, it was likely from a prepaid phone that couldn’t be traced unless it went through the MPD. Even then they’d need a warrant and then they’d need to establish a call.

  Which gave him an idea.

  It was one of his riskier moves, and he knew it. Sure, later he’d reach out to the phone company and confirm it didn’t have a registered address, but what would happen in the meantime? Would Mason Black’s body be found? Morgan didn’t want that on his conscience. Didn’t need it either. That was why the idea settled in his mind, only growing and paving the way for excuses to be made until he was certain it was his only move.

  No longer thinking straight, he reached for his cell phone. He paused for only a moment, assuring himself he was doing the right thing—that only a positive outcome could result from this. He ran the call through his mind, considering the danger he could be causing for his client’s father. But it wasn’t enough to wonder. He simply had to know.

  Hand shaking, throat dry, he made the call.

  It rang twice before a deep, croaking woman’s voice sounded. “Yes?”

  Morgan froze. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what to say. Was he supposed to ask if she’d committed a crime? Not likely. Instead, he just opened his mouth and allowed his instincts to do the rest. “Hi. Who am I talking with, please?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’d like to know your name.”

  A pause. “You called me.”

  Morgan turned to the window and gazed up the street, fiddling with the curtain tassel. For all he knew, he was talking to an innocent woman—maybe someone Mason Black had been having an affair with. Hell, it could’ve been his boss, and Morgan would just be stirring up trouble by making the damn call in the first place. No matter what he did, he was taking a risk, so he dared to call her bluff. Standing up straight to convince himself he was more confident than he really felt, he cleared his throat and gripped the phone harder. “Okay, let’s level with each other here. My name is Morgan Young. I’m investigating the disappearance of Mason Black, and you know exactly where he is. You can tell me and make this a lot easier for yourself, or—”

  “Just who the hell do you think you are?” The British accent was clearer now.

  Morgan persevered. “There’s footage of you, so you can’t deny it.”

  The line went silent. Morgan checked the screen to make sure the call was still connected. It was, only now he’d run his mouth and challenged a woman he knew nothing about. He began to think it was one of his dumber moves, but when the woman on the other end laughed, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. It was a dry, throaty laugh that sounded all too genuine.

  “Very good,” she said. “But do you have permission to make this call?”

  “I don’t need one. I’m self-employed.”

  “Oh, so you’re not a real cop.”

  Morgan recoiled, losing control of his tongue.

  “What are you?” the woman pressed. “A private investigator?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I do like PIs, Mr. Young. In fact, I have one of my very own.”

  “What?” Morgan’s heart beat in double time, as if her words were dancing on his chest. Anxiety surged through him, his blood feeling like fire as it raced through his body. She has her own PI, he thought. Did that mean she was keeping Mason Black alive, or did she simply mean she’d hired one? Morgan didn’t know who he was kidding—the facts were laid out right in front of him. It was just the woman’s reckless, challenging confidence that scared him into a corner. “If you’ve hurt him, you’re setting yourself up for a lot of trouble.”

  “Spare me the crap,” the woman said. “We both know you’d have to find me first.”

  “I have MPD behind me,” he lied.

  “So? I’ve been covering my tracks.”

  “Right. That’s how I found your number so easily.”

  “For a prepaid phone.”

  Morgan twitched with both anger and panic.

  “Look,” the woman said in a tired, fed-up tone, “the only reason he’s still alive is because nobody has come close to catching me yet. The closer you get, the more determined I’ll be to make him suffer. Whatever you have going on over there—police, spies, whatever—I suggest you stop it now before Mason Black goes bye-bye. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal,” Morgan said through gritted teeth.

  But he couldn’t let her win like that. After all, he’d just received confirmation that Mason was alive, and now his priorities had to change. All he could do was placate her, but that didn’t mean he had to stand back like the coward people thought he was. Steeling himself, he uttered three words that were sure to make her nervous—edging her on to make a mistake. It was all he could do while the anxiety attacked him. “I’ll find you.”

  Once again, the woman laughed. “Don’t you dare.”

  Then the line went dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”

  Morgan jolted upright at the voice, his spine on fire and his head feeling like someone had hit it repeatedly with a sledgehammer. He squinted his eyes to the early-morning sun that poured through the window, glancing up at the man before him. “What time is it?” he said.

  “Early,” Gary told him, looking more awake than ever.

  “Right.” Morgan groaned and used his office desk to steady himself as he rose and stretched, his body feeling broken. It wasn’t like him to sleep anywhere outside of his own bed, and Rachel must’ve thought it acceptable—for whatever reason—not to w
ake him. “I don’t suppose there’s really any eggs and bakey?”

  Gary swung his head from side to side, grinning like he had a hook in his mouth. “Afraid not. I heard it in a movie once and thought it sounded cool.”

  “You were wrong.”

  “But I do have coffee.”

  As his best friend set down a Venti Starbucks cup, Morgan groaned at the cheeriness in the room. Mornings were simply not his strong suit, and having somebody of the opposite persuasion only made things worse. It made his voice sound like it was booming from an expensive speaker. Nevertheless, Morgan appreciated the coffee. He took it in both hands, immediately picked up on the dash of caramel syrup, and took a large sip. He shuddered at the oversweet taste. “There’s too much sugar in here.”

  “Well, I need you perky.”

  Morgan set down the cup and folded his arms, leaning against the wall. “Why?”

  “Because I—wait… have you been working here all night?”

  “Obviously. Why?”

  “Just wondered. God, you’re so cranky.”

  “You would be too if you had my night.” It suddenly came back to Morgan then. The sound of the woman’s British accent cackling in his ear. The words she’d used against him like a weapon. The threat: don’t you dare. He considered there might be actual weight behind those words, but it was too late now. He was involved.

  Morgan took the time to catch Gary up on what’d happened. Gary—unlike himself—kept his mouth shut for the entire duration, only pulling those same repetitive motions of screwing up his face, raising his eyebrows, and scratching his gray-stubbled cheek. By the time they were done, the coffee had gone cold. Morgan thought this was a blessing in disguise.

  “He’s alive, then,” Gary finally said.

  “That’s what she says.”

  “You think she’s telling the truth?”

  Morgan shrugged. Honestly, he didn’t know what to believe, but he didn’t want to settle on a decision just yet. If he opened the door to negativity, he wouldn’t be able to bear what was on the other side. Before long, he’d be swamped in pure, good-for-nothing pessimism, and in this line of work that was the same thing as signing a death warrant with a very limited date.

  “My fingers are crossed,” Gary said. “But there is good news.”

  Morgan stood up straight, kicking away from the wall with his heel. “Which is?”

  “I got full details on the car from the security footage. Got an address and everything. Before you get your hopes up, though, remember it was reported stolen a few weeks ago. Still, we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Want to go check it out?”

  “Always.” Morgan swept his suit jacket off the back of his office chair and fed his arms into the sleeves. As tired as he was, and fixated on the news of the car, he didn’t even realize he was doing it. All he could see was the woman driving it out of the parking lot. All he could hear was the taunting cackle from the woman who’d taken it. “Where does that leave us with the MPD?”

  “Questions are being asked.”

  “And?” Morgan brushed past him and opened the door, padding down the stairs toward the front door with Gary’s footsteps falling close behind. They were outside moments later.

  “I’m going to do everything I can to keep them off it for as long as possible.”

  “How come?”

  “If what you say is true and this crazy chick has Mason Black alive somewhere, we want to keep him that way. The MPD will catch up within an hour or two, but by then Bray will have me running so many errands I won’t find the time to help you. It’s a deliberate move he’s growing too fond of. But I’ve got your back.”

  “Appreciate it.” Morgan breathed in the smell of fresh dew on the grass, turning a shy cheek to the bright sun as he made his way to Gary’s car. When it beeped and clunked, he pulled open the door and dropped into the cold seat, rubbing his hands together as Gary fell in beside him and fed the key into the ignition. “I’m guessing we’re going to check out the owner of that car, then?”

  Gary grinned. “You guessed right, friend. You guessed right.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Everywhere she went, The Taker could only see what she feared the most. Every face that passed her on the street seemed to study her, looking for a way to expose her. Every rush of footsteps behind her threatened to pin her down and cuff her, taking her far away from her Mason forever. Each movement was more intimidating than the last, and it fired spikes of anxiety that buried deep into her flesh, filling her with toxic venom.

  It was only supposed to be a supply run. A carton of milk, a loaf of bread, and some snacks were all she needed. She’d made it as far as the store before she’d noticed the first set of eyes crawling all over her like bugs on a corpse.

  But The Taker was no fool.

  Her car—at least, the car she’d stolen not so long ago—was just around the corner. If she had to run, she could do it. If she had to abandon the car altogether, she’d do that too, though with a certain regret.

  She’d made it onto the street, throwing glances back over her shoulder. Her knife was stowed away safely in the purse that swung by her hip, and she clutched the brown paper bag with both hands as she hurried around the corner toward the car.

  What she saw made her stop in her tracks.

  A police officer stood by the car. He was tall but hunched over, as if standing upright caused him pain. The Taker watched him from the corner, concealing herself behind a chalkboard that showed off today’s specials. She studied his movements: his hand reaching across his chest to his radio. The side steps he took as he studied the license plate. She was caught—she knew she was—so what was the use in trying?

  She had to get home though.

  She needed to see her Mason again.

  Gripping the bag so hard her fingers punched through the paper, The Taker looked behind her once more—a final check that she wasn’t being followed—and stepped out toward the car. Every ounce of common sense told her to keep on walking and not look back, but the closer she got, the more she felt an intractable draw to get involved. After all, it was her car now, and who was this son of a bitch trying to take it from her?

  “Can I help you, Officer?” she said, hiding her accent behind a fake American one. She’d been complimented on it many times over the years, and although she didn’t know if it was simple flattery, the cop didn’t seem to pay too much attention.

  He only stared at her. “Is this your car?”

  “What if it is?”

  “Then I’m going to have to ask you to move it.”

  The Taker lowered a hand, going toward her purse. She saw the officer’s eyes follow her hand, she lost her courage and let it dangle by her side instead. Maybe he was tricking her into confessing she’d been the one to park it. Or, as she hoped was true, he simply didn’t know it was stolen. Either way, her instincts told her she was safe to keep the car, and those instincts were usually right. “Why’s that?”

  “Because…” The officer pointed up at a sign only ten feet from the car. It was a big, red, glaring sign that clearly read NO PARKING. The truth was, she’d seen it on the way in but paid it little mind. Who ever did? “I’m going to let you go with a warning, all right? Just keep your eyes open and pay attention next time.”

  Relief fluttered through her, and she thought she’d hid it well. Cool as a cat, The Taker smiled and gave a thumbs-up, reaching for the key. She hurried her way into the car, feeling the cop’s eyes all over her like she’d felt those accusing stares in the store. She ignored them as best she could, dumping the bag into the passenger seat and sliding in behind the wheel. Keeping the purse on her lap, she reached inside and wrapped her hand around the hilt of the knife. There was a blurred image to her left, barely in sight.

  He’s still there.

  Not only that, but he was onto her. She could tell.

  It was only a matter of seconds before the cop rapped on the window. The Taker turned toward him, beamin
g an obnoxiously false smile that usually charmed the recipient.

  This time, it had no effect.

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  “Step out of the vehicle,” she muttered, climbing out of the car. She kept the bag close, one hand still inside it. There was no way she was letting that go. It was her only form of safety. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

  The cop’s radio beeped. He pushed a button on it and mumbled something before returning his full attention to her. “Can I see your license and registration, please?”

  The Taker felt heat flow through her. This was it, she knew; this was the end. She had no license, and although there was a registration slip in the glove compartment, it didn’t have her name on it. There was only one thing she could do to get out of this, and it was nestled in her hand like it belonged there.

  “Sure,” she said, digging into her purse. “Just a moment.”

  While the cop hovered in front of her like he owned the place, his guard was down. Too much arrogance, she figured, and that would be the death of him. She knew this because she was the one to deliver said death. It was a precious kind of irony.

  Seizing her opportunity to take him by surprise, she took the knife from the bag and turned the blade toward him. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she ran at him, catching him off guard as she pierced his chest. His eyes widened and his body shook, the confidence he’d had only moments before fading away as the knife left her grip. He slumped to the ground.

  The Taker was vaguely aware of people passing by. She stood frozen, panicked, as two men ran toward her and a woman close by blubbered into her cell phone that an officer had been murdered. The Taker could hear the license plate being read, and soon enough everyone would be looking for that car.

  Shit, she thought, acknowledging and accepting the fact she had to leave it behind.

  Now she was down a knife and a car, all because of the people who kept watching her: the same ones who dashed across the street to pin her down.