Sleeping With Anemone Part 29

"You're being a little overly optimistic, aren't you?"

"Fifteen, then."

Marco stopped the doors. "Do you remember what to ask?"

"About the note and the flowers."

"Get details. And ask if they recovered evidence from Hudge's van-and have a suspect."

"I've done this before, remember?"

The elevator doors were nearly together when Marco stopped them again. "Remember, you can use the information we have on Charlotte and Honey as a bargaining chip."

"Why don't you just come with me?" I asked in exasperation.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No!" I blew him a kiss as the doors glided shut.

I exited on the third floor and found Morgan's unit. I knocked, announced myself, and heard the shuffle of soft soles against a hard floor. The door opened and there stood the courthouse's golden boy in a ratty old blue bathrobe tied loosely around the middle, with plaid pajamas beneath it and brown suede slippers on his feet. His nose was red, his eyes were watery and dull, and his face was pasty.

"I come bearing nutritious soup," I said with a smile, holding up the container.

He peered behind me. "I thought Nikki was with you."

I stepped inside a foyer and glanced around as I set my purse on the floor. The small front hall had been professionally decorated in shades of beige and brown, with a gorgeous, antique-style hall tree in one corner, a beautiful rosewood console table with a matching mirror on a short wall, and a thick oriental carpet underfoot. Morgan's cashmere winter coat hung on the tree, his briefcase beside it.

"Nice place, Greg," I said as he shut the front door. "Love these wood floors." I hung my peacoat on a hook, saw a kitchen through a doorway across the hall, and headed toward it. "Granite counters. Awesome."

"Thanks," Morgan said, shuffling after me.

The kitchen was airy and modern, with lots of cabinets and counter s.p.a.ce, and even a window, something I wished our apartment had. He had room for a table, too. How could he afford a place like this on a deputy prosecutor's salary?

"How are you feeling?" I asked as I stashed the container of soup in his fridge.

"Not so good."

I glanced up as he braced himself on the doorframe, swaying as though he was woozy. "Greg, are you about to pa.s.s out?"

He shook his head, then hiccuped. "I just feel fuzzy-brained."

Not an unusual condition for Morgan. Then I spotted a medicine bottle on the counter and picked it up. "Did you take this cold remedy, by any chance?"

He nodded and hiccuped again.

"This stuff is sixty percent alcohol, Greg. How much did you take?"

Morgan held up two fingers, but said, "Three tablespoon fulls-tablespoons full."

I read the directions on the back. "You're supposed to take one tablespoon, Greg. One every six hours."

"It didn't seem to be working, so I kept taking it."

Great. Now I had to get information from a drunk.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

"You know what you need?" I asked. "Something in your stomach to absorb all that alcohol. How about if I heat the soup for you? It wouldn't be any trouble."

Morgan swayed unsteadily. "I think that would be a-hic!-good idea. I haven't eaten yet. Couldn't stand the thought of food."

I found a cooking pot and lid, and poured in a third of the container of soup, now partially thawed. I put it on the range and turned up the flame as high as it would go. "It'll be ready in a few minutes, Greg. You'd better sit down at the table before you fall over."

"Good thinking." He shuffled to the table, pulled out a chair, and carefully parked himself on the seat. He propped his elbows on the table and used his palms to keep his head up.

"Did you catch Nils Raand's news conference earlier today?" I asked, hunting for a bowl.

He nodded, then fished a tissue out of a pocket in his robe and made honking sounds as he blew his nose.

"Did you hear Raand threaten me at the end?"

Morgan stopped honking. "He threatened to harm you?"

"Yes! Well, not in those words, but Raand's intent was clear. And now my mom is joining the PAR protest, so I'm afraid he'll go after her, too."

"I wanted to keep him in jail," Morgan said, "but there's no murder charge against him, so he was able to post bond."

I stirred the soup, decided it was warm enough, and ladled it into a bowl. I found a soup spoon in a utensil drawer, a napkin in a holder, and placed everything in front of him. Morgan immediately picked up the spoon and dipped it in the soup. I glanced at my watch. I'd been there thirteen minutes. No way would I make my fifteen-minute goal.

"This tastes good," he said, liquid dribbling down his chin.

"I'm glad you like it. So, Greg, has there been any word on who murdered Hudge?"

He shook his head.

"What about the weapon? Do you know what it was?"

"Wasn't a metal blade," he said between mouthfuls. "Something smooth, though."

"Like wood?"

"No wood fibers in the wound. Wound was clean."

"Any of the inmates talking about who might have done it?"

He stopped eating to gaze at me through bleary eyes. "I've already told you more than I should have, Abby."

I pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. "But look at it from my standpoint, Greg. Three attempts were made to kidnap me, and both kidnappers are now dead, one murdered right under your nose, probably to keep him from talking. Can you blame me for wanting some information?"

He blinked a few times. "No, I suppose not."

"Then help me put some of the pieces together, okay?"

Morgan shook his dripping spoon at me. "You can't take no for an answer."

"But I already know what two of the key items of evidence are. I just need a little more information about them. It's like someone sketching a tree with bare branches and someone else painting on the leaves. See what I'm getting at? I've sketched the tree; now it's your turn."

He kept eating the soup, so I decided to keep sketching. "Okay, Raand sent a note to one of the kidnappers. Was it to Hudge?"

"Abby, please stop."

"Won't you answer just that one question, Greg? Please?"

He stopped to wipe his chin. "If I do, will you stop badgering me?"

I was about to say, Define 'badgering,' when all of a sudden, the napkin dropped from Morgan's hand and a sickly expression came over his face. Then his cheeks puffed out and he began making gagging noises. He clapped a hand over his mouth, shoved back his chair, and stumbled out of the kitchen. Moments later, I heard a door slam and then the sound of retching.

So much for the chicken soup cure. I picked up his bowl and spoon, left the icky napkin, and headed toward the kitchen sink to rinse them. "Are you okay, Greg?" I called.

No answer.

I scrubbed my hands with soap and hot water, stashed the rest of the soup in the refrigerator, then went to investigate. Just beyond the kitchen was a family room, and up the hallway from the family room I found a closed door.

"Greg? Are you in there?"

Silence.

I called his name again, rapped twice, then opened the door and peered cautiously inside. I saw a handsome bathroom with tan and green striped wallpaper, an ivory marble pedestal sink, a gla.s.s-fronted tile shower, brown towels, and a s.h.a.ggy brown throw rug-onto which Morgan had curled into fetal position.

"Greg?" I whispered.

His mouth sagged open and he began to snore.

I watched him for a moment and thought about nudging him awake with my shoe. But I couldn't do that to a sick man. Then I thought about his briefcase resting against the hall tree, right there where anyone could open it up and have a look inside.

I could do that to a sick man.

I called Morgan's name again, and when he didn't respond, I quietly eased the door closed, then tiptoed through the family room and into the small front hall. I knelt beside his briefcase-an expensive leather number stamped with the Bally brand name-set it flat on the floor, pushed the bra.s.s locks, and winced when they popped open with loud clicks.

I listened for a moment, but heard no noise from the bathroom, so I lifted the lid and peered inside. He had three accordion file folders in it. I didn't recognize the name on the first one. The second one, however, was labeled Knight, Tara.

Bingo!

The first page was the charging information on Dwayne Hudge. Beneath it were pages of statements made by the investigating officers on their initial findings, then lists of witnesses, and witness statements. I flipped through the file quickly, hunting for anything about the note or the flowers. I found the coroner's report on Charlotte, but gave it only a cursory glance. Beneath the report were more witness statements.

I heard a moan from the other room. Oh no. Was Greg coming around?

I shuffled through pages so fast I almost missed it-a photocopy of a thank-you note written in handwriting so severely straight, it looked as though a ruler had been used to keep the loops from going beyond the line. It read: Dear Ms. Bebe, I would like to extend a cordial thank-you for filling in for my secretary during her vacation. Your help was appreciated. A check for your services is enclosed.

Very truly yours, Nils Raand, Agent and Dist. Manager Uniworld Distribution Center Encl: Check #4604 Well, that certainly didn't sound like a man who'd hired her for a kidnapping. No mention of sending her flowers, either. I read Raand's note over twice, then moved on. I'd have to a.n.a.lyze its significance later.

The next page was a photocopy of the check, made out to Charlotte H. Bebe, and stamped for deposit by the New Chapel Savings Bank.

I was nearly at the back of the file. There had to be something about flowers in it. Had I missed it? A receipt? A lab a.n.a.lysis?

A toilet flushed. Oh no! Morgan was up.

I was about to give up when I noticed a letter from the county extension agent. Quickly, I scanned the letter-a preliminary finding. It read in part: "In regard to the matter found in the tread of the subject's running shoe, the petals are consistent with those of the anemone."

Anemone?

I ran my finger across the lines of print. Whom had the shoe belonged to?

I heard running water. c.r.a.p. Morgan was bound to emerge any moment.

I flipped to the next page and found a letter from the prosecutor's office requesting that "the matter found in the tread of the subject's running shoe" be a.n.a.lyzed. And there on the next line was the subject's name: Charlotte Bebe.

Got it!

I slid the file into the briefcase just as the bathroom door opened. I closed the case and eased the locks shut, coughing to cover the clicks. Then I propped it beside the hall tree, grabbed my coat, and turned just as Morgan shuffled around the corner.

"Greg! I was just about to leave. Are you okay?"

"I guess I wasn't ready for soup."

"I put the rest in the fridge for another day, and don't worry about the plastic container. Just get into bed and take it easy. I'll let myself out."

I grabbed my purse and left, taking the stairs because I was too energized to wait. I pushed the door open at the bottom and dashed out, glancing around for Marco.

He saw me and tapped his watch. "Twenty minutes."

"And worth every one of them. Come on, I'll tell you what I learned on the way back to Bloomers."

As we headed west toward the town square, I filled Marco in. "One of the pieces of evidence that the DA said linked Raand to the kidnappers was a thank-you note Raand sent to Charlotte for filling in while his secretary was out."

"A thank-you note?"

"Yep. That's it. Not a word about hiring her for any kidnappings. Apparently he had enclosed a check with the thank-you for the days she worked-I saw the photocopy-and it wasn't a big sum, either."

"So it didn't link Raand to the kidnappings, just to a kidnapper."

"Right."