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Her gaze shifted toward Assistant Director Mueller's office, the blinds drawn, and the door slightly ajar. Though their last interaction had been strained, Morgan knew that she couldn't let personal feelings get in the way of catching this murderer. With a deep breath, she knocked on the door before pushing it open.
"Mueller?" she called out tentatively.
"Come in, Cross," Mueller replied.
Morgan's heart stuttered as she crossed the threshold of Mueller's office. The air was dense with tension, and she couldn't help but recall the old photo that had been sent to her – the one featuring a young Mueller standing alongside her father.
"Sir," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "I wanted to discuss Harry Richmond with you. The guy from the scuba academy case a few years back."
Mueller looked up from his paperwork, his steely gaze pinning her in place. For a moment, Morgan lost herself in questions about him and her father. But she shook off the distraction; this wasn't the time for personal matters. Lives were at stake.
"Richmond?" Mueller asked, raising an eyebrow. "What about him? I remember that story."
"Online forums have been discussing him in connection to these recent murders," Morgan explained, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I think it's worth looking into."
"Harry Richmond?" Mueller repeated, leaning back in his chair. He steepled his fingers together, eyes narrowing in thought. "We've been keeping tabs on him since the scuba diving incident. I can find out where he's staying if you'd like."
"Please," Morgan said, nodding. "I have a gut feeling that there's more to this story, and we can't afford to let any leads slip away."
"Alright," Mueller agreed, reaching for his phone. "I'll get that information for you. Sit tight, Cross. We'll find him in no time."
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Morgan stepped onto the weathered wooden dock, her eyes scanning the line of houseboats bobbing gently on the water. A soft breeze rustled through her long, dark hair as she tightened her grip on her badge. The sun glinted off the metal, casting a slight glare into her eyes. She squinted and looked down at the information she had scribbled on a small notepad. "Harry Richmond," it read, underneath an address for a marina. This was the place.
She walked along the row of boats, her shoes tapping against the wood, each sound echoing slightly in the quiet marina. Seagulls cried overhead, their wings beating against the blue sky. The smell of saltwater filled her nostrils, bringing back memories of her childhood on vacation with her dad. But this wasn't a time for reminiscing; she had a job to do.
Her gaze landed on a faded green houseboat with chipped paint and a name that was barely legible: "The Drunken Sailor." She could feel her pulse quicken as she hopped onto the deck, steadying herself with one hand on the railing. It creaked under her touch, hinting at years of neglect. This had to be Harry's boat – there was something about it that just felt right.
Time to face the music, Harry.She approached the door and raised her hand to knock, but before her knuckles could make contact, a loud crash made her jump back. A bottle flew out of a nearby window, shattering against the dock and sending glass shards skittering across the planks. Her instincts kicked in, and she ducked, narrowly avoiding the flying debris.
"Hey!" she shouted, her voice laced with authority. "I'm with the FBI! You throw another bottle, and I'll have your ass in cuffs!"
Inside the boat, she could hear movement – the sound of furniture scraping against the floor and muffled curses. She hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Go away!" a slurred voice shouted from within the boat. "I ain't talkin' to no damn press!"
Morgan gritted her teeth, frustration mounting as she watched another object – this time, a half-empty bottle of whiskey – come flying out of the broken window. It narrowly missed her head, splashing into the murky water below.
"Listen," she called, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of the waves lapping against the hull. "I told you, I'm not the press. I'm Special Agent Morgan Cross with the FBI."
She paused, waiting for a response. The only sounds were those of the marina: gulls crying overhead and the creaking of boats swaying in their moorings. Morgan's thoughts raced, wondering if Harry would believe her or if he'd continue his drunken tirade.
"Throw one more thing and I won't hesitate to charge you with assaulting a federal agent," she warned, her tone icy.
The silence stretched on, tension knotting itself in Morgan's chest like a malignant growth. She clenched her fists at her sides, the wind whipping her hair into her face as she strained her ears for any sound from within the boat.
And then, just like that, she heard it: footsteps echoing hollowly through the houseboat's interior, growing louder until they reached the other side of the boat and disappeared. Her eyes darted to the left, and she caught a glimpse of a gaunt figure fleeing down the marina, his movements frantic and unsteady.
"Harry Richmond!" Morgan shouted, her voice carrying over the water as she sprinted after him. "Stop! FBI!"
As she ran, she struggled to maintain her footing on the rain-slicked boards, each stride sending her heart pounding against her ribcage. Her thoughts raced, too, wondering why Harry was running if he was innocent – or was it simply the fear of being caught?
"Stop, damn it!" she yelled again, her breath coming in short gasps.
But Harry paid no heed, his thin legs pumping with surprising speed despite his frail appearance. He weaved between moored boats, knocking over a stack of empty crates in his haste. The cacophony of crashing wood echoed through the marina, but Morgan was undeterred, vaulting over the debris without breaking stride.
"Harry, there's nowhere to run!" she called out, desperation creeping into her voice. "You're only making this worse for yourself!"
