“She’s a bitch,” Ollie stated clearly.
Both Mercy and Truman turned in surprise toward the teen. I’ve never heard him talk like that. Ollie’s eyes were heated, and understanding swamped Mercy. “You met her.”
He lifted his chin and nodded. “She followed me. Tried to talk to me at lunch. I didn’t tell her anything.” His eyes narrowed as he met Mercy’s gaze. “She knew you spend the night here sometimes, and she hinted that you’d regret not speaking with her.”
Mercy glanced at the article on her phone. “I don’t regret it, but I am rather pissed at her.”
“I should have told you . . . Maybe you could have stopped the article. It’s been on my mind all afternoon.” He sagged on his stool.
“I sincerely doubt anything I could have said would have stopped her. It’s not your fault.” Mercy patted him on the shoulder, hating to see him so down on himself. “Did she think this article would win her an interview with me? I’d also like to know why she’s the first one on the story.”
“She said she got an anonymous message through Twitter,” Ollie stated.
“What else did you learn at lunch?” Mercy asked in surprise.
Ollie shrugged. “She’s determined.”
“But why did someone contact her at the Midnight Voice when they could have tried CNN or Fox?”
“Maybe they did and were ignored,” suggested Truman. “How did Kaylie find that article? Don’t tell me she reads that rag.”
“She has online alerts set up for my name. Yours too.” Mercy slid off the stool and paced in the small kitchen. “Who tipped off the reporter? One of the county deputies? Someone at the medical examiner’s? Who else knew about the money bags?”
“My guys have mentioned the remains a time or two, but they don’t know about the robbery connection.”
“Shane Gamble knows what we found.” Mercy halted her pacing, a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. “I told him.”
“He wouldn’t have access to Twitter,” Truman pointed out.
“He can make phone calls. He could have someone else do it for him.”
“But what’s his motivation?” Truman asked. “He’s sitting in prison. Finding the other thieves won’t affect him. He’s not going anywhere.”
“He’s complicated,” Mercy told Truman. “He loves a game and he loves attention. Dammit! I gave him confidential information on a silver platter, and I bet he’s using it to stir things up. He’s bored and needs entertainment.”
“That fits with what you said about his character,” agreed Truman.
“I probably made Gamble’s day with my visit yesterday—I probably made his decade. How could I be so stupid?” She ran her hands through her hair and tugged until her scalp protested. “I thought I was so smart during our interview, but instead I gave him something big to play with, and he put himself in the spotlight.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Truman pointed out. “Anyone could have leaked the story.”
“The fact that it was leaked to a tabloid means something—and I suspect it’s Shane Gamble who deliberately chose it.” Why? Her mind raced. “I could interview him again . . . and not let him know that I suspect he leaked the story. Maybe I can find out what he’s up to. We’ll see how he likes it when—”
“I think you need to focus on finding the other thieves and money,” Truman said gently. “Not picking the brain of a convict to satisfy your personal curiosity.”
Mercy took deep breaths instead of giving in to her impulse to reject Truman’s point. He’s right.
“Don’t let him get to you. And do the same with this reporter. Ignore them. Focus on the information that’s in front of you.”
“I don’t like being used,” she grumbled. “And yes, I know you’re correct.” She shot him a rueful side-eyed glance. “How can you be so levelheaded and not upset?”
“I don’t see much to be upset about. But I’m annoyed that she called you a bumbling backwoods FBI agent.” His brown eyes warmed her. “That’s not true at all.”
“And she claims she only prints facts,” complained Ollie. “I should talk—”
“No one is talking to her,” Truman stated firmly. He pointed at Ollie. “Eat your pizza.”
Mercy bit into her own piece, glaring at her plate.
Tabitha Huff is in for a surprise if she talks to me again.
THIRTEEN
The next morning Truman was almost to the Coffee Café when Kaylie stepped out the front door with two men. The three of them stopped to talk outside, and Kaylie put her hands on her hips and pushed her chin forward, presenting a profile that Truman had seen a dozen times on Mercy. In other words, something had pissed Kaylie off.
As he drew closer, he recognized Cade Pruitt and his father, Glenn.
Uh-oh. What did Cade do now?
Kaylie spotted him and relief crossed her face. Glenn turned and held a hand out to Truman. “Hey, Chief.”
“Glenn. Cade,” Truman replied, quickly checking Cade’s expression. The young man didn’t appear upset. In fact he’d just set a comforting hand on Kaylie’s shoulder. “What’s up?” Truman directed the question to Kaylie.
“Reporters,” she said grimly. “They all seem to think the local coffee shop is the place to slyly probe the employees with questions.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re so obvious.”
Truman understood. “Seen a few today?”
“Three so far. The story has spread far beyond that tabloid,” Kaylie said. “They act as though I’m their best friend and then ask if I know the way to where that body was found.” Her nose wrinkled. “Please. How stupid do they think I am?”
“I heard the same thing happen to a waitress in the diner,” Glenn told Truman. “They’re descending on the town like vultures.”
“Tell everyone to ignore them,” he advised. “They’ll eventually leave when they realize no one is talking.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to hear someone had taken a reporter up there for money,” Glenn said. “I can think of a few people who can be bought.”
Truman could too. “I’ll get word to Christian Lake to put some security in the area.” He can afford it.
Cade leaned toward Kaylie, heavy concern on his face. Truman lifted a brow. “Is there more to it than that, Cade?”
Frustration crossed the young man’s face. “I don’t like people harassing her.”
“I can take care of myself,” Kaylie said pointedly. No eye roll was visible, but Truman heard it in her voice. Mercy had told him one of the things that bothered Kaylie about Cade was his overprotectiveness.
“I know you can.” Cade didn’t sound convinced.
“I need to get back to my customers,” Kaylie stated, breaking the quiet. She gave Cade a kiss on the cheek and went back inside the coffee shop.
“She’ll be fine, Cade,” Truman told him. “Reporters aren’t threatening. Just nosy. They have bosses to answer to if they step out of line.”
“You’re not even together now,” Glenn told his son. “Or are you?” He looked at Truman. “I can’t keep track.”
Truman couldn’t either.
“We are,” answered Cade. “I need to get to work.” He lifted a hand at Truman and headed toward his vehicle. As he left, Truman noticed Cade walked with the same left shoulder tilt that he’d seen on Glenn. He’d call Cade Glenn’s Mini-Me, but both men were well over six feet tall.
“Do you have a minute?” Glenn asked Truman, a worried look in his eyes.
“You concerned about those two kids?”
“Nah. They’re good friends whether they’re dating or not. Kaylie knows how to keep Cade in line.”
“They’re like a teeter-totter,” Truman said. I swear they broke up recently. There’d been some sort of romance drama that made Mercy bang her head against the wall.
“They’ll grow up.” His expression grew serious. “I heard threats were made against Bree Ingram.”
“What? When?” Truman’s
stomach dropped.
Glenn frowned. “I thought you saw them. The Xs on her property.”
“Oh. That.” Truman exhaled. “When you said threats, I assumed something verbal.”
“I’d call red Xs on my stock and vehicle threats.”
“I agree, and I’m looking into it.”
“Do you have any leads? She lives alone. I don’t like it.”
“There’ve been some possibilities,” Truman hedged. He wouldn’t discuss Lionel Kerns.
Glenn waited a long second. Disappointment shone in the man’s eyes when he realized Truman wasn’t going to expand on his comment.
“Do you have an idea who did it?” Truman asked, studying the man carefully. He didn’t know Glenn all that well. The Pruitts had lived outside of town for a long time and were well regarded. Most of his encounters with Glenn had also involved Cade and Kaylie. He’d never heard a bad word said against the man. And in a town that gossiped as much as Eagle’s Nest, that was something.
“I don’t,” admitted Glenn. “If I find out it’s a bunch of stupid teenagers, their parents are going to hear from me.”
“They’ll hear from more than just you.”
After a brief discussion on the weird behaviors of today’s teens, the men shook hands, and Glenn left.
We sounded like a couple of old men.
As Glenn walked away, Truman’s attention was caught by a young woman in a car across the street and a few buildings down. She sat in the driver’s seat of a small Ford and abruptly turned her face away as she realized he was staring at her. Purple flashed in her blonde hair.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered as he strode toward the car.
Both Mercy and Ollie had mentioned the Voice reporter’s purple hair, and the white car looked like a typical rental to Truman.
Which one of us was she watching?
Assuming she had been watching any of them at all, but Truman’s gut told him the young woman had been keeping an eye on someone. If it was Kaylie, the reporter was in for a session with an angry stepfather . . . stepuncle . . . whatever Truman was to Kaylie.
The reporter started the car, and Truman held up a commanding hand as he moved closer. If she takes off . . .
Luckily she rolled down the window and smiled as he approached. “Can I help you, Officer?” Her sugary tone didn’t fool him.
Truman rested his hands on the top of her door and leaned down toward her window. “Why are you parked here?” was his greeting.
Concern filled her face. “Uh . . . I didn’t realize I couldn’t park here. I didn’t see the signs.”
“Let me rephrase that,” Truman stated, putting on his best stone-cold-cop face. “Who are you following? If you say Kaylie Kilpatrick, we’re going to have a serious discussion.”
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. The engine was still on, but he could see the car was in park. “I’m not doing anything. I just got a cup of coffee back there.” Unease settled in her features.
As she spoke, a spicy scent that he recognized as Ben Cooley’s favorite coffee drink reached him. Sure enough, a cup from the Coffee Café was next to her seat. But she didn’t deny following anyone or ask who Kaylie Kilpatrick was. No doubt she was one of the reporters who’d spoken with Kaylie that morning.
“I know who you are, and I know what you wrote yesterday.” Truman struggled to keep his temper in check. “And by the way, Special Agent Kilpatrick is one of the sharpest agents I’ve ever worked with.”
“Worked with or slept with?” Snark replaced her discomfort.
“Both. If you need information for your story, why don’t you ask for a media release instead of writing crap about the agent who ignored you? That’s what a professional would do.”
“I know what I’m doing,” she snapped.
“No, I don’t think you do. Act like a professional and stay away from my family. All of them.” He glanced up as engines rumbled. Two white vans had pulled up and parked down the street, a local news station logo on their sides. Damn. The gate has been opened.
He knew it was just the beginning.
“Looks like my story got some attention,” the reporter stated. “That’s what happens when you print the truth.”
Truman pinned her with a glare. “Write the truth. But pay attention to how you frame it. If you’ll excuse me, I have some real reporters to talk to.” Like hell I will. “And don’t forget what I said about my family. Kaylie and Ollie are kids. Don’t mess with them.”
“Ollie is eighteen.”
“Don’t mess with them.”
Truman pushed away from her door and headed back to the Coffee Café, where a small crowd had gathered outside to eye the news vans in curiosity.
Dammit.
Mercy was cautiously optimistic. A man had walked right into the Bend FBI office and asked to talk to the investigators of the Gamble-Helmet Heist.
“He says he heard people talking about an old body that was found with a bunch of money bags,” Eddie told Mercy. “And that made him remember a guy who bragged about money. He claims he saw the stacks of cash a long time ago.”
Mercy looked across the conference table at Art Juergen. “What do you think?”
“He’s a local?” Art asked.
Eddie nodded, scanning the information he’d found on Larry Tyler. “He’s sixty-two. Has a current driver’s license, but I don’t see any work history. No tax issues. No arrests. No property in his name.” He looked at the other two agents. “Sounds like someone who likes to stay off the grid.”
“We have a few of those around here,” Mercy said, trying to make a joke. “Let’s hear what he has to say.” She didn’t recognize Larry Tyler’s name, but she understood the people who tried to live under the government’s radar. Eddie left the room to get Larry Tyler.
“Have you dealt with this sort of person before?” she asked Art.
“What type of person?” Art asked. “According to what Eddie found, all we know about him is his age.”
Mercy controlled her smile. “A lot of people out here avoid anything that has to do with the government. Most of them are good, solid families who just want to be on their own, but some are fervently antigovernment. The fact that Larry has an up-to-date driver’s license makes me hope he’s one of the calmer ones.”
Art looked baffled.
He’ll just have to watch and learn.
Art Juergen had been in robbery at the Portland FBI office during his time there. A department that didn’t see the number of sovereign citizens or militia members that the domestic terrorism department did. Mercy’s experience with both groups had increased since she’d joined the Bend office, but she was hoping that Larry Tyler was neither.
Eddie appeared with Larry. The small man shook hands with Mercy and Art and then took a seat. He was a rancher. Mercy saw it instantly in his sun-aged skin, his durable clothing, and his well-used boots. His gray hair was a touch too long, but his eyes were blue and clear.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Tyler?” Mercy asked. Her pencil hovered over a yellow pad, showing the man she would listen carefully to anything he offered.
“I heard about the remains found in that old cabin that were linked to the robbery.” Larry was missing several lower front teeth. Black tobacco stains covered the rest.
“Yes, it’s been on the news,” Mercy pointed out. The local stations had covered the story on the day’s noon broadcasts. She was relieved they’d been more balanced than Tabitha Huff’s piece.
“People were talking about it before that.”
Mercy wasn’t surprised. Central Oregon was fertile for gossip.
“I understand it reminded you of something,” she prompted.
Larry looked at his hands clasped in his lap. “It did. I used to live . . . with some other families. We had a group ranch about an hour outside of town. We believed in relying on ourselves . . . didn’t need the government looking over our shoulder.”
Mercy said nothing. He’d
described a communal setting of like-minded people—possibly survivalists, possibly a militia. I’m not here to judge.
He rapidly glanced at the other agents, clearly concerned that they would ask for more details. The other two men sat as silent as Mercy.
“There was one guy who was kinda new. I wasn’t in charge, so I didn’t make any decisions about who lived where, but . . . I don’t think I would have let him join.”
“Why not?” asked Eddie.
“He wasn’t much use. Didn’t know shit about animals or crops.”
“Sounds like more of a burden than an asset,” agreed Mercy. Living off the grid with other people wasn’t easy. Everyone had to contribute. There was no room for dead weight or laziness.
“Anyway, one night over beers he was bragging that he’d bought his way in and that he was actually rich. A couple of us called bullshit—excuse me, ma’am.”
Mercy ignored the apology. “How long ago was this?”
Larry rubbed his wrinkled cheek. “Must be close to thirty years now.”
I wonder if he remembered that fact before he heard about the connection to the Gamble-Helmet Heist.
Larry kept talking. “Why would anyone who was rich live in the middle of nowhere in the way that we were? He took two of us back to his place. He made us wait outside, swearing he had proof. We waited for at least twenty minutes before he came out with a couple of bundles of cash.”
“How much cash?” asked Eddie.
“Twenty thousand dollars,” Larry said in a hushed but awed voice, his eyes wide as he looked from agent to agent.
Few of us have ever seen that much cash at once.
“That’s a lot of money,” agreed Art. “And he said it came from . . . ?”
“He wouldn’t say,” Larry said. He glanced behind him and then leaned forward. “But he pulled it out of a thick cloth bag. I saw a part of a bank name on it.”
“Which bank?” Mercy matched his quiet, weighty tone.
“Couldn’t tell. Just saw the word bank.”
“Not a leather-looking zip bag?” asked Eddie.
A Merciful Fate Page 11
