“You’ve already put that on my list of rules,” Ollie said sourly. “Several times.”
“Clearly it needs to be added again.”
Bree reappeared, a plastic storage dish in her hands and an innocent look on her face as if she hadn’t heard Truman’s scolding. She handed the dish to Ollie as he stood. “Now, get on with you, my hidden protector.”
Ollie wanted to melt into the floor. Truman’s laugh didn’t help.
He gave her a weak smile and followed Truman out the door. Ollie’s gaze immediately went to the red X that was still on Bree’s truck.
“Need to get that taken care of,” Truman muttered.
Ollie agreed. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise every time he saw it. Like now.
He shifted the dish to his other hand before opening his own truck door. He paused, glancing around the property, feeling watched.
This is why I followed her.
Every time he came close to the property, he felt it.
He opened his door and tossed the stew on the bench seat.
Not my problem anymore.
Mercy leaned against the rail of the wide footbridge that crossed the Deschutes River and soaked in the late-afternoon sun. Her office sat on a bluff that overlooked the river as it flowed through Bend, miles of walking and hiking trails along its banks. The footbridge led to a touristy district of restaurants and shops, and she waited in the exact middle of the span, watching bikers and families pass by.
I feel like a spy in a bad movie.
Art had suggested a meet at the location. He was staying in one of the hotels next to the shopping district.
His removal from the investigation had hampered its progress. His guidance and memories had helped tremendously, but until the internal review of the shooting was finished, he was to stay away.
That doesn’t mean we can’t have a personal chat.
Actually, it did, but Mercy didn’t care about procedure right now. She needed help, and no one knew more about the robbery than Art.
She spotted him a few seconds before he reached her. Today he wore shorts and a T-shirt, making her jealous. Her jeans were soaking in too much heat from the sun. A Portland Timbers cap and aviator sunglasses completed his carefree look.
“I feel like an informant who’s meeting to slip you the secret codes,” he said as he leaned beside her.
“You look like a retiree whose big decision of the day is whether to play golf or sit on a bar’s sunny patio with a beer in your hand.”
He flashed a grin. “Both of those have crossed my mind for today. I’ll probably do the latter.”
“You don’t seem like a man under review by the FBI.”
The grin vanished. “Trust me. I can’t think about anything else. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I simply have to wait.”
“They’ll decide in your favor. It was a solid shooting.”
“Still hate the process.”
“You seeing someone?”
He grimaced. “Yeah, the department has me hooked up with a local psychiatrist. Nice lady. She’s handled problems like mine before. The county uses her.”
“That’s good. You need to feel you can talk freely to someone.”
He was silent for a long moment, and Mercy wished he’d remove the sunglasses that hid his eyes.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this, Art.”
He leaned more weight on the railing and sighed. “Tell me about your interview with Shane Gamble. Give my brain something else to concentrate on.”
Mercy ran through the highlights of that morning’s discussion.
Art listened closely, stopping her occasionally with questions or asking for clarifications. When she was done, he was silent, stroking the stubble on his jawline as he thought.
“You think he’s protecting someone?” he finally asked.
“Yes. Or something.”
“You don’t have any ideas of who or what?”
“Well, his parents are dead. He doesn’t have any friends. By process of elimination, I’d say he’s protecting one or more of his accomplices.”
Art continued to stroke his jaw. “Never pegged Gamble to have a sense of honor.”
“Definitely not. I’d say his motivation is financial.”
Art’s brows rose from behind his sunglasses. “You think there is money left after all these years?”
“If he’s hiding an identity, I don’t see him motivated by revenge. His motivation can’t be sexual. That leaves financial.”
“But he’s in prison for life.”
“Maybe it’s for someone else?” Mercy had also considered that fact. “Maybe he believes he’ll get out one day?”
“Could be.” Art sighed. “You said he had the reporter deliver a message.”
“A warning. I think the discovery of Ellis Mull’s remains meant something to Shane Gamble. Something important enough for him to lure a reporter with the promise of a scoop when his real plan was to use her as his delivery person.”
“I wonder if his message was delivered before the reporter’s murder,” Art speculated.
“Or did the receiver of the message kill Tabitha Huff?” Mercy stopped talking as a boy of about five flung himself at the railing beside her and climbed up partway to look down at the flowing water. Even as she tensed to grab his shirt if he climbed higher, Mercy lost a breath at the absolute joy and wonder on the child’s face. When did I last look at something like that? The boy’s dad called him as he passed by with two other small children, lifting a hand in greeting to Art and Mercy. The child leaped off his perch and dashed after the group, energy emanating from his every movement.
Not a care in the world. A family enjoying a walk in the sunshine.
And we stand here discussing murder.
Art resumed their conversation in a quieter voice. “I hadn’t thought of that . . . I wonder if Gamble thought the receiver shot the messenger? What would it mean to him if his message had been thrown back in his face like that?”
Mercy thought back to the moment she’d told Gamble of the reporter’s murder. “He was shocked when I told him Tabitha was killed. It was the first time I’d seen a true reaction from him. And he seemed to change after that. Would you understand what I meant if I said he seemed human after that point?”
“I do. He dropped the bullshit game he always plays. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it myself.”
“Exactly,” said Mercy. “And he warned me to be careful too.”
“Shane Gamble might know who killed Tabitha Huff. Why protect that person?”
“That’s what I want to find out.”
“And you have no leads on her murder.”
“We should have her GPS information from the car rental company by tonight. We had to jump through their legal hoops.”
“You’ll be able to see where she went. You should get some good leads out of that.”
“I’m crossing my fingers that she visited whoever Gamble is trying to protect. I’m hoping it’s one of his accomplices.”
“I feel like your case is about to break wide open,” Art said slowly. He finally lowered his sunglasses, and Mercy was pleased to see his eyes were calm. “Congratulations.”
“Nothing has happened yet.”
He looked straight down at the river, watching three kayakers emerge from under the footbridge. “I’m out of the game again, but my gut says you’re closer than I ever was.”
Is that a bit of envy I hear?
She wasn’t surprised. The robbery had been his baby for many years. He deserved to be there at the end.
Whether he was still under review or not, she’d do her best to give Art a taste of victory.
TWENTY-ONE
“It looks like Tabitha Huff stopped at every place of business in Eagle’s Nest,” Mercy groused to Jeff.
She sat at her desk, staring at the GPS notes from the victim’s rental car, as Jeff stood behind her chair and read over her shoulder. She threw her h
ands up in exasperation. “Am I supposed to go talk to every shop owner? What if she was following someone and she didn’t even go into these places?”
“She was in town the day after you first talked to Shane Gamble. She didn’t waste any time at all.”
“Here’s where I met her.” Mercy pointed at an entry that coincided with the location of Rose’s preschool. “It looks like she stopped by the bed-and-breakfast in Eagle’s Nest a few times,” Mercy said, studying the map. “But she stayed in a hotel.”
“The bank is right there too,” Jeff pointed out. “Makes more sense that she went in a bank. Or used the ATM. She drove to Bend too. Looks like she was in our parking lot. She didn’t come to the door as far as I know.”
“I checked with Melissa. She didn’t talk to anyone with purple streaks in her hair.”
“She also drove to a lot of places in the countryside,” said Jeff. “What’s out in these areas?”
“Mostly a lot of nothing.” Mercy tried to visualize what was on the route Tabitha had driven. “I’d have to recreate it.”
“The second-to-last coordinate is where the car was found.”
“Yes. Before we had it towed.”
“This last route is crucial. Somewhere along the line she encountered her killer.”
Frustration filled Mercy. This is impossible.
It’d sounded so helpful—a map of where their victim had gone since she’d arrived in Oregon. It’d started as a long log of coordinates, which they’d translated into a map. The routes looked as if someone had covered the map with scribbles. Almost if the woman had deliberately obscured her route.
Would she do that?
Tabitha was part of the generation who’d never known a world without the internet. Instant information. Digital footprints. “Dammit!” Mercy sat back in her chair. “Tabitha might have been smarter than I gave her credit for.”
“She had purple dye in her hair. It was hard to take her seriously.”
Mercy silently humphed. She’d liked Tabitha’s hair and briefly wondered how her own hair would look with a bit of artfully applied purple.
“You already went through the notebook found in her car, right?” asked Mercy. “Can I take a look at it now?”
“I skimmed it. It feels incomplete to me, and I suspect she used a note-taking app on her phone for her research.”
“Like something she spoke into?”
“Could be. Or something that holds photos, links, typed notes, and voice notes,” Jeff told her.
“I could use something like that for work,” Mercy admitted.
“I have hope her cell phone turns up.”
“It wasn’t in her hotel room. Deschutes County said there was just clothes and toiletries. They also checked the hotel security cameras. On the day she died, no one else visited her room. Whoever killed her apparently didn’t need anything else of hers.”
“I’ll grab her notebook from my office.” He stepped out.
Jeff was helping the best he could, but he was also being pulled in a million directions. She’d asked for the notebook three times.
He never gave me an answer about bringing in help from Portland.
She suspected that was her answer.
He reappeared, a small spiral notebook in his hand. “You talk to Eddie today?” he asked as he handed it over.
“I did. He’s hoping to be discharged tomorrow. If he had his way, he’d be sitting in my office right this minute.”
The notebook’s cover had a big circle around the words BANG HEAD HERE.
“I just might,” she muttered.
“The recent stuff is toward the back,” said Jeff. “The pages are dated. Most are notes on older stories that are already present on the Midnight Voice website.”
Mercy flipped pages and then paused as she scanned one. “Looks like notes from her calls with Shane Gamble. She’s written a brief history of the robbery and underlined the fact that the money has never turned up.”
“Something made him move fast to contact her.”
Mercy slowly nodded as she mentally reviewed the first conversation she’d had with Gamble again. What spooked him?
Jeff checked his phone at the sound of a soft ping. “Tabitha’s autopsy report. You should have it too.”
A couple of clicks opened the report on her screen. Mercy scrolled, pausing on the generic drawing of a woman’s body. The sketch was clean except for arrows and notes near the skull. No other injuries.
“Perforating gunshot wound to the head,” she read aloud. “Entrance was left temporal region with evidence of close-range firing. Dr. Lockhart cites stippling.” Mercy remembered the tiny powder bits embedded in the flesh around Tabitha’s wound. “Someone was very close when they killed her. Exit was above right ear. Direction was left to right and downward.” She glanced at the drawing again. “Someone was taller than her or else she was in a lower position . . . sitting, maybe. No projectile recovered, of course.
“Toxicology report is normal. Overall she was a healthy woman.” Except for the holes in her skull. “Lividity indicated that she was seated. It lines up with her being in the passenger seat for a period of time after death.”
“But she wasn’t shot there.”
“No. The killer must have moved her there immediately.”
Mercy took a deep breath as she imagined Tabitha Huff on Natasha Lockhart’s stainless steel table. The very alive young woman she’d met had now been sliced open and had her organs weighed and examined, the top of her skull sawed open, her brain removed, and then everything replaced and stitched neatly back together. Slices of her organs preserved in case of future need.
Purple streaks in her hair. Dr. Lockhart had noted the hair color on the report.
She’ll never experiment with another color.
This moment felt more final than when Mercy had stood at Tabitha Huff’s murder scene.
“Did evidence turn up anything from her vehicle?”
“Nothing of note.”
Who did you make nervous?
Mercy turned back to the notebook, flipping to the last page and working her way back. “She has some notes on Ellis Mull. They were written after his identification made the news . . . Looks like she dug into what the thieves were doing in the years before the robbery just like we did. Same with Trevor Whipple and Nathan May. She has the suspects numbered, with Shane Gamble being number one, of course.”
A word underlined three times caught her eye. And sent her brain spinning in a dozen directions. “Jeff, what do you think of this?”
She tapped the word. His eyes widened as the possibility sank in.
“Where would she get that idea?” he said under his breath. “From Gamble?”
For the fifth suspect, Tabitha had firmly crossed out the driver’s name, Jerry, and written female.
TWENTY-TWO
Ollie’s demons were in full force tonight.
He’d nearly driven through a red light on his way home from the sports equipment warehouse.
Just keep driving.
He thought of Shep waiting for him at home, probably curled up on Ollie’s bed with Simon right beside him. After initial hatred, the dog and cat had formed a bond. One was never far from the other. It made Ollie feel better about working so many hours away from Shep.
But the thought of getting home to his dog wasn’t enough to change his mind tonight. He pulled a quick U-turn and pressed the accelerator, his hands confidently on the wheel.
I’ll just drive by. No stopping.
Truman’s lecture from earlier in the day filled his head. “Don’t do stupid things.”
Ollie wasn’t being stupid. He was protecting his sleep. He knew he’d lie awake forever in bed if he changed his routine tonight. It’d become a habit to slowly drive by Bree Ingram’s place after work since the day Truman asked if he’d done the vandalism at her property. He cringed as he remembered how Truman had embarrassed him in the Coffee Café with the question. His face heated at the me
mory.
It’s dark. No one will see my truck.
Twenty minutes later, he slowed as he approached the turnoff for the long driveway that wound back to Bree’s home. The house was well lit, with strong outdoor lights that showed all aspects of the front of the house. It looked quiet. He spotted Bree’s truck in front of the house and relaxed.
Why does driving by make me feel better? I can’t see her.
But he swore he’d instinctively know if something bad were going on in her house.
Now I can go home.
Hopefully Truman wouldn’t question why he was late. Truman could always tell when Ollie was lying.
Ollie squinted, studying the road’s shoulder to spot the dirt road where he’d been parked when Truman surprised him. He would turn around there and head back to Eagle’s Nest. It appeared in his headlights, and he pulled off the narrow country road. He stopped a few feet in and threw his truck in reverse, placing a hand on the back of the seat as he twisted and looked behind him before backing up.
He froze and then turned forward again, leaning over his steering wheel to see what had caught his eye.
The headlights reflected off a small chunk of metal down the dirt road.
His heart pounded as he put the truck back in drive and slowly rolled forward. The shiny object grew larger as Ollie rounded a slight curve, and his lights illuminated the rear end of a pickup truck. The original metal he’d seen had been the edge of the bumper.
The truck sat exactly where Ollie had parked.
Big dents damaged the tailgate. The truck was even older than his. And it was red.
I told him it wasn’t me!
Fear for Bree sucked away his breath. He grabbed his cell phone, snapped a picture of the license plate of the truck, and then threw his truck into reverse and floored the accelerator, shooting backward. He steered while looking over his shoulder. No fancy backup camera for him. He took a hard turn when he met the narrow blacktop and sped back to Bree’s driveway. His brakes screeched as he slowed to take the turn. Gravel flew as he raced to her house.
Call Truman.
Call 911.
Christ. I don’t even know if something has happened yet.
A Merciful Fate Page 17
