In the boring black-and-gray reception area, Morgan handed her business card to the middle-aged brunette behind the desk. “We’re here to see Mr. Adams.”
Behind the receptionist, harried people bustled.
“Is he expecting you?” the brunette asked.
“Yes.” Morgan smiled.
Lance didn’t try to copy her. He was not capable of a putting on a friendly expression. He hung back and did his best to appear nonthreatening.
Based on the receptionist’s worried side-eye, he wasn’t successful.
She pointed to a hallway. “Second door on the left.”
Morgan stepped in front of Lance. Her glance back at him was worried, like he was going to do something violent. Lance wouldn’t, even though he might like to. He wanted answers.
He wanted the man who hurt his mother locked up.
He wanted to know what happened to his father.
He wanted justice.
Stan’s office door was open. Lance closed it after he and Morgan were inside. In khaki trousers and a blue button-down, Stan looked like he was headed for the golf course. He glanced up from his computer screen as they walked in. Standing, he extended his hand across the desk. Morgan and Lance shook his hand and sat in the two chairs facing his desk.
“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Morgan began.
“You said you had some follow-up questions.” Stan rocked back in his chair. “I don’t have much time.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Morgan said.
“No.” He waved off her concern. “Just a last-minute request from a client.”
“Nice of you all to scramble to accommodate him.”
“He’s one of our biggest clients,” Stan explained. “These things happen.”
The small talk was giving Lance heartburn. He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, 100 percent of his attention on Stan’s face. “My mother overdosed last night.”
“Oh, no.” Stan’s head shifted back. “I’m so sorry. Is she . . . ?”
“It’s still touch and go,” Lance said. “Did you talk to her this week?”
Stan’s hand dropped to his blotter. He toyed with a paper clip, rolling it around on his fingertips. “I called her yesterday.”
“You didn’t stop and see her?” Lance asked.
Stan shook his head. “No. I offered, but she said she didn’t accept visitors.”
That, at least, was true. But how could Lance believe a single word Stan said? He’d already caught him in a lie.
“Why did you call her?” Morgan asked.
“After we’d talked, I felt guilty.” Stan watched the paper clip spin. “I was your dad’s friend, and I let him down. I didn’t look after his family. I didn’t check on you. I didn’t make sure your mother was all right.”
“Where were you again that night?” Lance forced the question out of a tight throat.
“I already told you. I was with Brian at the ball field.” Stan licked his lips. He spun the paper clip in nervous circles.
His khakis should have self-combusted.
Tension built in Lance’s chest, and he quelled the urge to reach across the desk and choke Stan with his own collar.
“That’s interesting”—Morgan shifted into her cross-examination tone—“because we know that Brian was lying about that night. He wasn’t with you.”
Stan dropped the paper clip, but he remained silent.
“Why did you lie to the police?” Morgan asked.
Stan contemplated her question for a few seconds, his fingers finding the paper clip on the blotter. Was he deciding whether to tell the truth or another carefully phrased lie?
How would they ever know? Lance straightened, planting his hands on the armrest, occupying them in case he was overcome with the desire to wring Stan’s neck.
Thankfully, Morgan was here. She grounded him.
“Because Brian asked me to,” Stan admitted, his tone shifted to disgust. “I assume you know where he was?”
“With Mary Fox.” Morgan nodded.
“He didn’t want Natalie to find out about Mary.” Stan dropped his paper clip, clasped his hands, and rested them on the blotter. “You have to understand. At the time, no crime had been committed. Brian didn’t see why he should destroy his marriage for nothing.”
“My father was nothing?” Lance asked.
Stan winced. “I didn’t mean your father was nothing. But we didn’t think anything bad had happened to him. He’d been under a great deal of pressure. We thought your dad just lost it and went somewhere to decompress for a couple of days. Vic was my good friend.”
“Not good enough for you and Brian to give the police accurate information,” Lance said.
“You covered for Brian so he could cheat on his wife,” Morgan pointed out.
Stan bowed his head over his clasped hands. “I can’t argue with that, but Brian’s marriage was his business, not mine. I didn’t think it had anything to do with your dad.”
“And afterward?” Lance’s mouth tasted bitter. “When my father never came back?”
Stan’s shoulders sagged. “Once we’d told the police detective one story, we could hardly change it. I had no idea where Vic was. I only knew where Brian was and who he was with that night. At the time, there were no connections between your dad and Mary.” He lifted his chin and met Lance’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Too little, too late.
“Where were you this afternoon?” Morgan asked.
“I was here, all day.” Stan gestured toward his closed door. “The receptionist can vouch for me.”
“So where were you the night my father went missing?” Lance asked.
“Home. Alone.” Stan glanced away for a fraction of a second. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.
Liar.
“That’s the best you can do?” Lance’s fingers curled around the armrests.
“We know why Brian lied,” Morgan said. “But I seriously doubt you would falsify a statement to the police just so your friend’s wife wouldn’t find out he was with a hooker. We’ve already established you’re not the most loyal friend. If you lied to the police, you were also up to something that night.”
Stan’s lips mashed flat, as if he wouldn’t speak another word.
“Did you see Brian and Mary that night?” Lance asked.
No answer.
“Were you at PJ’s?” Lance pressed.
“I have nothing else to say.” Stan gestured toward the door. “Please leave. Don’t come back.”
“We won’t.” Lance stood. “The next person you’ll be talking to is the sheriff.”
Lance couldn’t wait to sic Sheriff King on Stan.
Morgan held him by the arm all the way out the door. Lance didn’t remember taking the elevator or walking across the lobby. The next thing he knew, the cold air was slapping him in the face.
“He was lying.” Lance headed for his Jeep. “He wasn’t home alone.”
“Probably not,” Morgan agreed. “What was Stan doing that was worth lying to the police about? And how do we find out where he was twenty-three years later?”
“He wasn’t married, so he wasn’t hiding a woman.” Lance put a hand on the door handle and talked over the roof of the Jeep. “Maybe he was with a married woman.”