“They’re delicious, which is why they are dangerous. You can’t taste the alcohol. I haven’t had a cosmo in many years. One was always more than enough for me. But then most people have better alcohol tolerance than I do.”
“Kittens handle alcohol better than you,” Lance agreed.
“Haley thought she’d had two drinks, when she’d actually consumed four. That’s a total of six shots of alcohol. I’d have had a hangover, but even with my sad tolerance for alcohol, I doubt it would be enough to make me pass out, especially not if they were spread out over an entire evening and consumed with food.”
Lance’s fingers tightened on the wheel. Alcohol was the original date-rape drug. “But it’s enough to say that Noah was no choirboy.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sharp sat at his desk, typing his notes from their visit to the crime scene while the images were fresh in his head. He was trying to be positive, but the theory they’d come up with at the scene felt thin. He could see someone breaking into the house and stabbing Noah. But carrying Haley to the kitchen and standing her in the blood? That felt sick and depraved and, frankly, physically challenging. She might be small and light, but dead weight was difficult to manage. Haley had been naked and would have been slippery.
The longer he thought about it, the less likely the theory seemed. Morgan and Lance hadn’t shot his idea down completely, but he’d seen the skepticism on their faces.
What if the killer had simply taken blood from the scene and put it on Haley’s body? That would be another way to explain the smears on the floor. Nope. Still didn’t explain her footprints in the blood. By the time she wandered into the kitchen the following morning, the blood would have been dry. The cold air coming through the open door would have slowed drying time, but her footprints were left sometime during the night, likely within an hour or so of Noah’s death.
Morgan popped her head into his office. “I found no photos of the back door dead bolt in the files from the DA’s office. I have calls in to both the sheriff and prosecutor to see if they have pictures that were somehow left out of the evidence they sent. Neither the DA nor the sheriff will take my calls, so I doubt they’ll rush to respond. We don’t know if the sheriff overlooked the absence of blood on the dead bolt or not.”
“Bastards,” Sharp said. “Let’s—”
A knock on the door interrupted him.
“I’ll get it.” Sharp went to the window and peered through the blinds. On the front stoop, he saw a familiar brunette in a khaki trench coat. Olivia Cruz.
He could ignore her. Morgan didn’t need the distraction.
Ms. Cruz knocked again.
He gave her points for persistence.
She knocked a third time, and he opened the door. “Ms. Cruz.”
“Mr. Sharp.” She tilted her head. “Did you give Ms. Dane my message?”
“It must have slipped my mind.” Sharp leaned on the doorjamb, hooked his thumbs in his front pockets, and gave her his best do you know how fast you were going? cop glare.
Seemingly unperturbed, she glanced behind her. “It might be best if we didn’t conduct this conversation in the open.”
Sharp scanned the street. He didn’t see any other reporters in sight, but she was right. Still, he didn’t really want to let her in. “Why don’t you call for an appointment?”
“I’m not here to see you.” Her voice was flat and stubborn. “I want to talk to Ms. Dane.”
“She’s busy.” Sharp moved to close the door.
“Yes. I know. She’s working another big case. Haley Powell is her client.”
Damned reporters. Always sticking their noses—
“Sharp?” Morgan called.
He looked over his shoulder.
Morgan was standing in the hall. “Did I hear my name?”
“Yes.” Sharp exhaled through his nose. He stepped back, making room for the reporter to enter. She didn’t thank him.
Morgan walked down the hall and extended a hand. “I’m Morgan Dane.”
Sharp closed the door.
“My name is Olivia Cruz.” She handed Morgan a card and untied her coat. She was wearing a copper sweater, jeans, and boots with impractical, skinny heels. “Before you say that you don’t talk to reporters, please listen. Remember the information I delivered on Mr. McFarland?”
Morgan turned to Sharp with a confused look.
He sighed. “Ms. Cruz is the one who told me about McFarland’s prior conviction.”
With suspicious eyes, Morgan refocused on the reporter. “And now you want . . . ?”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get my message.” Ms. Cruz speared Sharp with a glare. “I did you that favor to show my good faith. There were no strings attached.”
“Then why are you here?” Morgan folded her arms, her cross-examination face firmly in place.
Behind Morgan, Lance came out of the office and leaned on the wall, listening.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for some time,” Olivia said. “I’m working on a true crime novel about the Chelsea Clark kidnapping. The Clark family is cooperating, and they will receive a portion of the book’s proceeds. You know they moved back to Colorado? Can’t blame them for wanting to leave a place with such terrible memories. Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to sell their New York house. They could use the money.”
Morgan didn’t respond, but Sharp could see her brain processing the information.
“Here’s my offer.” Ms. Cruz was persistent. “I have some information you could use in Haley Powell’s case. You will probably find it on your own, but I can save you time. You’ve precious little of that. The public will have found Haley guilty long before she is actually tried. You need traction with this case, and you need it quickly.”
“Where did you get this information?” Wariness tingled in Sharp’s skin. But he was also curious. What did she know?
Ms. Cruz’s left brow rose in an arrogant arch. “If I divulged my sources, I would lose all my leverage.”
“What do you want in exchange?” Morgan proceeded with her usual care. She was no fool.
“An interview with you,” Olivia said. “Not now. I know you’re tied up with this case. But when you have a free afternoon, I’d like to talk.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll have to call the Clarks before I agree.”
Sensing success, Ms. Cruz’s eyes brightened. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. But after you speak with them, you’ll answer some of my questions?”
“After I get permission from my client, I will entertain your questions,” Morgan answered carefully.
Ms. Cruz laughed. “Interesting choice of words.”
Morgan waited, her face expectant.
“I assume you’ve already discovered that Kieran Hart was Haley Powell’s ex-boyfriend.” Once again, Ms. Cruz knew too much about their case. “But you probably don’t know that he has an arrest record.” She paused for impact, her dark eyes glittering. She was enjoying this. “For stalking his ex-wife.”
If Sharp didn’t know Morgan so well, he would have missed the flash of excitement in her eyes.
But Ms. Cruz didn’t miss it either. She smiled. “Kieran was arrested eight years ago in Connecticut. He followed his ex-wife and, according to witnesses, slapped her across the face. The ex-wife refused to sign a complaint, and the charges were dropped. But a little bird told me that he’d been following her for months. He called and texted her. He showed up in the parking lot where she worked and parked next to her car. At one point, his ex-wife had a restraining order against him, but obviously that wasn’t much of a deterrent.”
“A slap in the face is a far cry from stabbing a man to death.” A deep-in-thought crease formed above the bridge of Morgan’s nose.
“But it shows the predisposition for violence and the inability to accept rejection,” Ms. Cruz said.
Morgan didn’t respond, but she uncrossed her arms, her attitude and posture opening. “Thank you for the information.”
Ms. Cruz belted her coat. “Thank you for your time.”
“As soon as this case is settled,” Morgan said, “I will check with the Clark family and call you.”
“I look forward to hearing from you.” Ms. Cruz turned to the door.
Sharp opened it for her.
“I have excellent sources.” Ms. Cruz smiled at him, which was irritating. “There’s no reason we can’t help each other.”