“And the real killer doesn’t want that made public because he likes walking around scot-free.” Sharp shifted forward and pressed the button on the side of his cell phone. “It’s two a.m. She’s been gone for twenty-four hours, and we have no idea where to look for her.”

Chapter Thirteen

Morgan lifted her head from the table. Early-morning light brightened the office kitchen to a hazy gray. She massaged an ache in her neck, rolling her head to stretch the cramped muscles. Her face itched, and she reached up to peel a sticky note from her cheek. She must have fallen asleep while reviewing files.

She glanced down at Olivia’s thick Olander binder. Her own laptop was open beside it. Lance had copied Olivia’s digital files and emailed them, so Morgan had all of the information in one place. Olivia’s research was extensive and often repetitive. Each source was verified multiple times, each fact triple-checked.

Olivia had also requested the official courtroom transcripts for both cases. Except for special cases and juvenile records, trial information was public record and was available online for a fee. Olivia had received Cliff Franklin’s trial transcript electronically. As Erik Olander’s conviction was recent, his trial transcript had been ordered but not yet received. Olivia had accessed and downloaded the digital audio recording of the trial, but Morgan could not listen to all ninety hours of it. She didn’t need a law clerk. She needed seven.

It would take her the rest of the week to get through all the pages of the Olander file alone, and the Franklin case was just as complicated. Morgan did not have time to review all of Olivia’s documents.

Morgan’s eyes burned, and she’d only read a portion of the material. Since she didn’t have a law clerk, she would utilize the next best thing—her grandfather, a retired NYPD detective.

She stood and stretched her arms toward the ceiling.

“You’re awake.” Lance walked through the doorway. One side of his short hair was mussed, suggesting he’d also dozed off. He leaned over and kissed her. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” She kissed him back.

Morgan headed for her office—and her coffee maker. “Coffee?”

Sharp wasn’t at her desk, but he’d been busy writing notes on the whiteboard during the night. Morgan needed caffeine before she could review his additions.

“Yes, please.” Lance followed her into the room. He ran a hand over his head, setting his hair back into place. “How do you feel?”

“Better. The nap helped.” Morgan checked the time. Seven o’clock. She turned on the machine. “Where’s Sharp?”

“He went back to his office.” Lance wrapped his arms around her.

Morgan indulged herself and leaned into him for a moment. As always, the solid contact with him grounded her. “I don’t suppose he fell asleep at any point.”

“No.” Releasing her, Lance shook his head grimly. “I’m worried about him.”

“Me too.” Morgan started the machine brewing.

She handed him the first cup of coffee and brewed a second. She lowered her voice. “I don’t think we should leave him alone right now.”

“I agree.” Lance drank.

“But will he?” Morgan waited, impatiently, for her morning caffeine.

“All we can do is try. Why don’t you go home and have breakfast with the kids? You can shower and change. I saw the girls last night. I can shower here and go to the Olander farm with Sharp.”

“Good idea. I’ll call my sister and let her know what’s going on.” Morgan missed her children. She hadn’t handled a big case for months and had become accustomed to seeing them in the morning and evening every day. The thought of hugs, a hot shower, and fresh clothes perked her up. “But isn’t it early to knock on Mr. Olander’s door?”

“He’s a farmer. He should be up. Plus, I doubt I can get Sharp to wait any longer.” Lance turned to leave her office. “Kiss the kids for me,” he said over his shoulder on the way out.

“Will do. Be safe,” she called after him.

A few minutes later, she heard the front door close as Lance and Sharp left. She set her coffee on her desk and gathered information on Cliff Franklin for her grandfather to review. While she sorted files, she called Stella and gave her a quick recap of their investigation so far.

“I have less news,” Stella said. “There were no matches to the fingerprints from Olivia’s house. As for the blood sample, the rapid stain ID kit shows the blood on Olivia’s doorjamb is human. The lab will enter the DNA sample into CODIS, but it’ll take weeks to get a hit, if we get one at all. Considering the torn fingernail was pink, I suspect the blood is Olivia’s, but I want to cover all the bases.”

CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System, was FBI software that compared DNA samples to DNA criminal justice databases. Matches could be offender hits and generate an actual suspect, or forensic hits, where the sample would match DNA found at another crime scene.

“Thanks.” Morgan said goodbye and ended the call. While she had the phone in hand, she called both Olivia’s editor and agent. Neither answered, so she left them voice messages. Both numbers were identified as cellular, but that didn’t guarantee that either the agent or editor would answer calls on the weekend.

After her bag was packed and she had enough caffeine in her system to safely get behind the wheel, she put on her coat. With her tote slung over her shoulder, she left her office.

She opened the front door and was startled to see a man standing on the stoop. The man looked down at her with piercing blue eyes. His face was gaunt and haggard, his clothing wrinkled. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of body odor. He hadn’t showered recently. Was he homeless? She glanced over his shoulder and saw a battered green pickup across the street.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Kennett Olander.”

Morgan didn’t know what to say. She’d dealt with victims’ families in her prosecutor years, but this was an entirely unique situation.

“My wife came to see you yesterday.” He stepped closer, wobbling on shaky legs. The bags under his eyes were deep and dark. His eyes were bloodshot, and his pallor suggested long-term sleep deprivation, inadequate nutrition, and killer stress.

Morgan found her voice. “Yes. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He nodded, his eyes growing moist. In his midfifties, Olander struck an imposing figure. Tall, with thick white hair and a beard that needed trimming, he could have passed for an aging Viking.

“I wanted to talk to you about my wife.” Mr. Olander stepped forward and held out a hand.

Morgan hesitated for a second, then shook it.

Heavy calluses on his big hands indicated many years of manual labor. He wore dark jeans and a wrinkled blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The morning was too cold to be out without a jacket. Chilly air was blowing inside the open front of Morgan’s peacoat.

“Come inside.” Morgan moved back, allowing him into the foyer.

She led the way to her office. Inside, she removed her coat and set her tote on her credenza. “Can I make you a cup of coffee?”

“All right.” Mr. Olander looked lost.