But as Sara and Wendy Morgan drove away, and Steve Morgan turned to go to his own vehicle, Mendez stepped in his way.
“We have a couple more questions for you, Mr. Morgan.”
Morgan only hesitated a second, then walked around him. “It’s been a long day, Detectives. I’m going home.”
Mendez fell in step beside him. “When I asked you this morning where you were at three A.M., you failed to mention the bed you were supposedly sleeping in was at a hotel.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“It’s really not a good idea for you to blow us off, Mr. Morgan,” Hicks said, striding along on Morgan’s other side. “It gives us the impression you’re being arrogant in a situation that calls for cooperation.”
“I’m not being arrogant. I’m irritated,” Morgan said. “I give a big part of my life to the Thomas Center and the clients there. I don’t appreciate being considered a person of interest because of my generosity.”
“That’s not why we’re looking at you, if that makes you feel any better,” Mendez said. “We’re looking at you because you’re being less than cooperative and because we know you were having an affair with one of the victims.”
“You don’t know—”
“Yes, we do. Peter Crane confirmed it for us. He also told us you were planning to spend last night at the Holiday Inn because your wife threw you out.”
Morgan stopped beside a low-slung black Trans Am. “My marriage is not your business.”
“Could be a good motive, though,” Hicks said. “If Lisa Warwick was putting pressure on you, threatening to tell your wife—”
“And what’s my motive for attacking Karly?”
“Maybe you just plain enjoy it,” Mendez suggested.
He looked through the back passenger window into the car. There was a black Members Only jacket on the backseat, and a couple of baseball caps. A box holding MISSING posters of Karly Vickers. On the floor was a dusty pair of hiking boots. There were no instruments of torture, no obvious souvenirs from victims, nothing that could have given him probable cause to search the car.
“I understand you have a job to do,” Morgan said. “But you’re wasting valuable time on me when maybe you should be looking a little closer to home.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hicks asked.
“Ask Dixon. Let’s just say the interest some of your deputies take in the women from the center is less than altruistic in nature.”
They watched him drive away, both of them at a loss for words.
Finally, Hicks said, “What now?”
“I think if Dixon wanted to tell us something, he would have told us already.”
“Right,” Hicks agreed, and started back toward the hospital. “Let’s ask Jane Thomas.”
69
“He’s lying!” Farman shouted.
“Frank, sit down and shut up,” Dixon ordered.
They had gone into the interview room next door to where Farman’s son had just declared him a murderer. Despite Dixon’s order, neither of them sat. They were two broad-shouldered men with their arms crossed, each of them laying claim to his section of the room.
Vince watched them on the monitor, knowing this wasn’t going to go well.
“I was told he’d been in a fight,” Farman said. “Was that just a lie to get me down here so you could accuse me of something, Cal? What the hell?”
“Dennis wasn’t in a fight, Frank. He attacked two kids in Oakwoods Park. He stabbed a boy. The child could die. Dennis is under arrest.”
Farman’s face dropped. “What? He did what?”
“He stabbed a boy. The boy is in surgery. He might not make it, Frank.”
Now Farman sat down as if his legs wouldn’t hold him up any longer. He looked dazed.
“I don’t understand,” he said, almost to himself. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with him. You know Sharon was drinking when she was pregnant with him. He’s never been right.”
“I brought his teacher in because I know she has some rapport with the boy,” Dixon said.
“Oh, great!” Farman said. “That snotty little bitch. Who knows what she’s put in his head. She’s got a problem with men—”
“Can it, Frank,” Dixon snapped. “Stay on point here. We’re talking about your eleven-year-old son committing a felony. I’m trying to decide where to house him. He’s too young to go to juvenile detention, let alone jail.”
“This is . . . I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Where’s your wife, Frank?” Dixon asked. “We’ve been trying to reach her. Now your son tells us she’s dead.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Why would he make that up?”
“Why would you believe him?” Farman countered angrily. “Jesus, Cal! We’ve known each other a dozen years. We’ve been through it together. And you turn on me like a fucking snake! I don’t get it. A week ago we were friends. I was your goddamn right hand!”
“I haven’t turned on you, Frank,” Dixon snapped back. “I’m doing my damn job! How hard do you think this is for me? My right-hand man is acting like a suspect. My right-hand man can’t account for himself when a girl was abducted. My right-hand man can’t tell me why his kid was in possession of the finger of a murder victim! Don’t give me all this wounded-friend bullshit!”
Vince went across the hall and knocked on the door before sticking his head into the room. “Sheriff, you have a phone call. It’s urgent.”
Dixon gave his right-hand man a final scathing look and exited the room. He was red in the face and breathing too hard.
“What’s the call? Is it Mendez?”
“The call is, You need to step out, boss,” Vince said. “This isn’t going anywhere good.”
Dixon jammed his hands at his waist and breathed in and out, visibly reining himself in.
“Let me talk to him,” Vince said. “I got no stake in him. I don’t know him from anyone. It’ll be easier for me to get what you need.”
Dixon nodded.
Vince walked into the interview room, coffee in hand, and took a seat at the table, turning his chair a little sideways so he could comfortably cross his legs in front of him.
Farman glared at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“You should be happy to see me, Frank,” Vince said evenly. “I’m fucking Switzerland. I don’t know you. I got no history with you. I got no beef with you. There’s nothing personal going on here. I’ve got some questions. You’ve got the answers. It’s all good.”
Farman said nothing, but Vince could see him settle with the idea somewhat. He was going to have to answer these questions. Better to answer them with no emotion involved.
“So where’s your wife?” Vince asked. “She should be part of the discussion about your son. Let’s just get hold of her and clear this up.”
“She left,” Farman said.
“And went where?”
“I don’t know. We had an argument last night, and she left.”
“See?” Vince said, lifting his hands. “There’s always an explanation. Was that so hard?”
Farman said nothing.
“So, what happened?” Vince asked. “She got pissed off, took off, went to her mother’s, something like
