A Merciful Secret
Truman’s fury boiled over. “You know, Augustus, your information is a bunch of malicious gossip. I’ve met that girl. She’s kind and caring and devastated that her grandmother is gone.” He slid out of the booth and fished a twenty out of his wallet, then tucked it under his water glass. “If I hear that you’re perpetuating this bunch of crap, I’ll haul you in and give you a dozen vaccinations myself. And make you drink some bottled water at the same time.”
Truman nodded at the wide-eyed waitress, grabbed his burger with a napkin, and strode out of the diner. His icy march back to the station did little to cool him down, and he munched as he walked. Damned old gossip. Spreading bullshit about a child. He recalled Morrigan’s face, the elfin features and slight build. Fae?
He put the thought firmly out of his mind. Has that poor family been ostracized due to rumors? Decades of rumors?
And where was Salome Sabin?
Mercy couldn’t sleep.
She’d gone home after the eventful morning and had every intention of napping for the rest of the afternoon, but during her shower her brain had shifted into high gear and wouldn’t turn off. She’d lain in bed for a full hour, trying to get the image of Olivia’s abused body and Morrigan’s teary face out of her mind.
She couldn’t do it. Instead she drove to work, planning to find information about Olivia Sabin.
Even if it wasn’t her case.
As she walked through her office’s parking lot, a tall man slid out of a black Range Rover. “Agent Kilpatrick?”
Mercy stopped and wrapped her fingers around the pepper spray in the pocket of her coat. Every coat had one. The stranger had dirty-blond hair that needed a cut and sported a healthy tan even though it was January. His coat looked fresh from an expensive sporting goods store, but his heavy boots were beat up. He held up his hands in a calming gesture and flashed a charming smile. “My name’s Michael Brody. I’m an investigative reporter for The Oregonian.”
Mercy relaxed a fraction. “What can I do for you?” She kept the pepper spray in her hand.
“We have a mutual friend. Ava McLane.”
She’d worked with Ava at the Portland FBI office. “So?” Reporters had never approached Mercy before, but she knew some agents had worked on high-profile cases and complained of their pestering.
“I’d like to talk to you about the murder of Malcolm Lake.” Brody’s intense green stare reminded her of a hawk’s.
“Who?”
Brody frowned. “He’s a judge for the United States District Court of Oregon.”
She was clueless. “I don’t know anything about it. He was murdered?”
“The night before last.”
She’d been out of the office the day before, working from home with the TV and Internet off. “What does this have to do with me?”
Brody glanced at his watch. “Really? No one’s contacted your office yet? I can’t be the first.”
“I wasn’t in the office yesterday and haven’t gone in yet today.” She gestured at the door. “You’re keeping me from doing so.”
“You were at the murder scene of Olivia Sabin this morning, correct?”
Mercy said nothing.
He nodded as if that were confirmation. “Her body was deeply slashed several times?”
She kept her face blank, but alarm started to churn in her stomach. How did the press find out I was there? Who leaked that detail?
“Judge Lake was found in the same condition in his home. The extent of his injuries haven’t been released to the public.”
Stunned, she blurted, “Then how did you find out?”
He smiled. “I have my sources.”
Asshole. There’s no way Ava is his friend.
“What I’m trying to figure out is why an important judge like Lake was murdered in the same manner as an old woman living in the woods. The only connection I can see is that the judge lived in this area at one time.”
“I can’t help you. Contact Deschutes County. It’s their case.”
“Ah. Not any longer. With its similarity to the murder of a judge, which of course is being investigated by the FBI—our mutual friend, Ava, has the judge’s case—the murder of Olivia Sabin now will be included in the FBI’s investigation.”
Mercy was speechless. The FBI now has Olivia’s case?
“I had assumed the local case was given to you since you were present at the scene this morning. I guess I’m wrong about that.”
“How the fuck did you know I was there?” Anger had replaced her shock.
“It doesn’t matter. People talk; I listen.”
“Well, your source left out some important details.” She clamped her mouth shut, nearly having spilled that she’d found the dying woman. She wasn’t going to be Michael Brody’s next “source.”
“Like what?”
“Why don’t you go talk to Ava? And there’s no way you’re a friend of hers.”
He gave a lazy grin. “I am. To both her and her fiancé, Mason Callahan. Very good friends. Their dog Bingo adores me, I’ve drunk wine in their newly remodeled kitchen, and I’m on the guest list for their wedding this summer.”
So was Mercy.
“You’re a cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“It’s one of my best qualities.” Another guileless smile.
A small part of her softened. A very small part. The man was charming, but not in a smarmy way. He had an honest air about him. “I don’t have any information for you.”
He glanced at the building. “Maybe you should go see if Ava has arrived yet.”
“She’s coming? Here?” Despite the horrible circumstances, the thought of seeing her friend cheered her immensely.
“I might have beat her to town. Once I heard the investigation was shifting to Bend, I left.”
“Are we done, then?” Mercy asked.
“You didn’t say why you were at the scene this morning. If you weren’t there as investigator, then why were you there?”
She gave her own lazy grin.
“Hmph,” said Brody with a twist of his lips. “I’m not scared of a challenge.”
Neither was Mercy.
SEVEN
Mercy stopped at Special Agent Eddie Peterson’s office. “Is Ava here?”
Eddie jumped. He’d been deep in thought, frowning at his computer screen. “Hello, Eddie,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “Nice to see you today, Eddie.”
“Sorry. Good morn—afternoon, and I don’t sound like that at all. Is Ava here?” she repeated, moving to stand in front of his desk.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze studying her through his thick-framed glasses. The young agent hadn’t changed one bit since he’d transferred to Bend from Portland at the same time as Mercy. He stuck out in the suburban office with his slim-cut slacks and skinny tie. During the weekends he wore plaid shirts, cuffed jeans, and a brown knit hat that looked identical to one Mercy had had when she was ten. It was a hipster-lumberjack look that suited him.
“McLane? Why would Ava be here?” he asked.
“I heard she was coming to investigate . . . the death I was at this morning.” Abruptly the crime scene flashed in her mind, and her tongue stumbled through the words.
“Why? That has nothing—”
“You didn’t have to come in this afternoon,” Mercy’s supervisor, Jeff Garrison, said from the doorway. “I know you were up all night.”