A Merciful Secret Read online

  EIGHTEEN

  Truman’s stomach churned.

  Who killed Rob Murray? Does the killer know I was there?

  He marched up the unreliable stairway to Rob’s apartment, Mercy right behind him. The officer out front had signed them in, not questioning why an FBI agent was at the scene. Mercy was skilled at pretending she was where she needed to be, and few people questioned her.

  His mind raced through his earlier conversation with Murray, searching for a clue that the man had been in fear for his life.

  Nothing came to mind.

  Deschutes County detective Evan Bolton met them in front of the apartment. Truman was relieved that he’d already met the man at the scene of Olivia Sabin’s death. A familiar face. Bolton’s expression narrowed as he shook Truman’s and Mercy’s hands.

  “Why are you here?” Bolton bluntly asked Mercy.

  Mercy exchanged a glance with Truman. “This murder might be related to Olivia Sabin’s,” she said.

  Truman admired the way Bolton’s countenance didn’t flicker.

  “Explain,” the detective ordered.

  “It’s complicated,” Mercy hedged.

  That’s putting it mildly.

  “I’m not in a hurry.” The detective’s gaze darted from Truman to Mercy. “Will I also be handing this case off to the FBI?”

  “It’s very possible.”

  Bolton finally showed an emotion: resignation. “Spill it.”

  Mercy gave an abridged version, tracing the connections from Olivia Sabin to Malcolm Lake to Christian Lake and then to Rob Murray.

  Realization dawned in the detective’s eyes, and Truman jumped on it. “What? You’re thinking of something.”

  The detective took a deep breath. “It’s not quite the same, but Murray was killed with a blade of some sort. I don’t see the deliberate pattern of cuts that I saw on Olivia Sabin, but I can’t ignore the similarities.” Bolton turned a pensive gaze on Truman. “You’ve turned up at two of the murder sites.”

  “So have I,” Mercy interjected.

  “Not before this guy was killed,” Bolton pointed out.

  Truman said nothing. He wouldn’t let the detective get under his skin.

  “Tell me again what brought you to see Rob Murray earlier this morning?” the detective asked.

  Truman explained his curiosity about the abandoned vehicle after learning Murray worked for the murdered judge’s son.

  “How did Murray seem?” asked Bolton.

  “Mellow. He was about to leave for a painting job and wasn’t concerned that he’d left his boss’s expensive vehicle on the side of the road. I would have been more contrite about an SUV that probably cost three times my salary.” A thought struck him, and Truman turned to the parking lot. “I take it that’s Rob’s truck?” He pointed at a beat-up Chevy being photographed by a crime scene tech on the far side of the lot.

  “You’re sharp.”

  Truman ignored the dig. “It was parked right next to the stairs this morning. I had to walk around it. I remember because of the obnoxious hitch cover.”

  “What’s the hitch cover have on it?” Mercy asked.

  “A dangling pair of balls.”

  “What’s obnox—oh. Never mind,” she finished.

  “My point is that he moved the truck at some point after I left,” stated Truman, knowing he had no way to prove that the truck had been parked near the stairs. “Who reported the murder?”

  “That doesn’t mean Murray was the one to move the truck,” said Bolton. “His painter friend called it in. The guy was pissed that Murray was a no-show and came over to chew him out. He said the door was slightly open when he arrived.”

  “And?” Mercy asked.

  She’s itching to see inside.

  Bolton was silent, a struggle in his gaze, and Truman saw the moment he gave in. “Bootie up,” he ordered. “This is against my better judgment, but since you saw the Sabin scene, I’d appreciate any insight.”

  Truman and Mercy accepted booties and gloves from an officer. Apprehension rolled off Mercy, and he wondered if she was second-guessing her desire to see the scene. He knew finding Olivia Sabin’s killer was a personal goal of hers, but he doubted she wanted to see another murder scene.

  Unsurprisingly, the inside of Murray’s apartment reeked of cigarette smoke. An overflowing ashtray sat on the coffee table in front of a sofa that had bits of stuffing peeking out of its cushion holes. A flat-screen TV nearly twice the size of Truman’s hung on the wall.

  Priorities.

  The two of them glanced into the minuscule kitchen, and Mercy’s nose wrinkled at the mess. Bolton led them down a short hallway and past a small bathroom where Truman glimpsed black scum growing in the shower.

  “Sheesh,” muttered Mercy. “Men.”

  “Hey.” Bolton looked over his shoulder. “I scrub my shower every week. With bleach. Don’t lump us all together.”

  “Sorry.”

  Bolton stepped aside and gestured to the doorway of the sole bedroom. Truman swallowed and halted at the door, Mercy beside him. She caught her breath.

  “There’s never a way to prepare for this,” she said softly.

  Rob Murray lay on his back on the floor, and his sightless eyes stared directly at Truman. Bolton had been right about the use of a blade. Murray had multiple slashes across his face and torso, but the death stroke had to have come from the knife left in his neck. His white painter’s uniform was soaked with darkening blood.

  Mercy pressed the back of her hand against her nostrils; the odor in the room was reminiscent of sewage.

  “He left the weapon,” she stated.

  “He or she,” corrected Bolton.

  “It has quite the ornate handle,” Mercy pointed out.

  “Possibly stolen from the Sabin house?” Truman suggested, looking back at Bolton.

  Bolton nodded. “I’d wondered the same. Maybe even the same weapon used on Olivia Sabin.”

  Truman took a careful step forward and squatted, taking a closer look and breathing through his mouth. He didn’t see the distinctive patterning Mercy had described to him from the bodies of Malcolm Lake and Olivia Sabin. The slashes in Rob’s clothing looked random. Brutal. Angry. Multiple cuts covered his hands and arms. Rob Murray had tried to protect himself.

  “I take it the ME hasn’t been here yet?” Truman asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Truman noticed Mercy examining the room and did the same. Grimy bare walls, a bed with no bottom sheet, dirty clothes left on the floor. The open closet was nearly empty, a few wire hangers dangling. It appeared Rob left most of his clothes on the floor or in the overflowing laundry basket. Mercy peered at a crime novel next to another full ashtray on the nightstand.

  She turned in a circle, frowning. “I don’t see anything that reminds me of the other murders except for the use of the knife. It looks like he put up a fight. No neighbors heard anything?”

  “We’re still checking. Anything else?”

  Truman noted the hopeful tone in Bolton’s voice. He needed a lead.

  “I don’t see anything,” Mercy said. “Can we get out now?”

  I don’t blame her.

  Truman was done too. Leaving, he noted a crime scene tech rooting under Rob’s bathroom sink with a wrench, removing the trap to search for evidence the killer might have left behind. Outside he took a breath of clean icy air and removed his gloves and booties, dropping them in an evidence bag.

  “I heard Morrigan’s mother returned,” said Bolton.

  “She did,” answered Mercy. “Morrigan only spent one night in temporary care.”

  “That’s good. Hate to see kids kept away from their parents.” His eyes were questioning, and Truman heard the unspoken question about Salome Sabin.

  “Salome wasn’t arrested,” he stated.

  “Good. I didn’t want to think that Morrigan’s mother would leave her behind after that murder. She must have been cleared?” Another leading question.


  Truman looked to Mercy. Do we tell him?

  She nodded, but she wasn’t happy about it. No law enforcement wanted to admit a suspect had slipped away. “She hasn’t been fully cleared.” Mercy cleared her throat. “She disappeared with Morrigan last night.”

  “No shit?” Bolton’s expression vacillated between amusement and concern.

  “I know,” said Mercy. “We’re not happy about it. She’d agreed to an interview this morning and we trusted she’d show up. Her concern about her daughter made us all believe that she wouldn’t have left Morrigan in such a horrible situation. We were suckered.”

  “That means she could have been here today,” Bolton said softly.

  His first instinct was to defend Salome, but Truman knew Bolton was right. “Three victims make a serial killer. Is this the third?”

  “Actually the FBI recently defined it as two, but we aren’t positive the same person killed Judge Lake and Olivia,” Mercy pointed out. “Murray could be totally unrelated. Let’s not get the media believing we’ve got a serial killer in the area.”

  “The first two similar death scenes can’t be ignored,” Truman argued. “I agree the method of murder used on Murray appears a bit different, but that fancy knife sticking out of his neck makes me think it’s at least related to Olivia Sabin’s.”

  Mercy watched a uniform going from door to door, asking if residents had heard or seen anything unusual. “You’d think in an apartment building where the walls are this thin, someone would have heard something. I can’t believe Rob Murray died silently. I hear plenty of racket from my neighbors, and my building has pretty thick walls, but there are some things you can’t tune out.”

  Like the screams of death?

  “Another reason I want to move out of there,” she added.

  Truman froze, wondering if she’d bring up her new real estate hunt. Instead she said good-bye to Bolton, and Truman followed her down the stairs. Why hasn’t she talked to me about it?

  A heaviness weighed him down, and his steps slowed.

  Maybe Mercy didn’t see them living together in the future. Or she could be overprotective of Kaylie, not wanting to set an example by shacking up with her boyfriend. But wouldn’t she have told me?

  He shoved the paranoid thoughts out of his head. He liked what he had with Mercy. She made him smile and look forward to getting out of bed each day. He’d been focused on his job to the exclusion of everything else during the six months before she came to town. Now the world looked and felt different to him. He liked it.

  She stopped at her vehicle as her phone rang. “It’s my mother.” Her forehead wrinkled. “We had coffee recently, I don’t know why she’d be calling.”

  Her relationship with her mother wasn’t as close as she wanted, and Truman knew Mercy kept trying. But she didn’t want to come between her father and mother. Right now her mother’s first loyalty was to her husband, and he didn’t want Mercy in their lives.

  “Mom?” she said into the phone. As she listened, her forehead wrinkled even more and her lips parted. “She did what? What did Dad say to her?”

  Truman waited.

  “Jesus H. Christ. Are you sure I should come?” Mercy met Truman’s gaze and slowly shook her head, rolling her eyes.

  Not too serious.

  She hung up. “Dad is upsetting Rose. Something to do with the cradle that was delivered. Mom thinks I can calm her down.”

  “Rose upset? That doesn’t sound right. She’s the calm one in your family.”

  “Exactly. If something set her off, it must be pretty rough. I’m headed over there.”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Truman stated.

  NINETEEN

  Her father opened the door, and Mercy took a step back.

  He had never been one to show emotion, but she immediately knew he was frustrated and possibly angry. “Your mother wants to see you,” he stated.

  Your mother. Not me.

  His gaze shifted to Truman, and he gave the police chief a polite nod as he gestured for them to enter. In the living room Mercy spotted the beautiful cradle from Nick Walker.

  “That’s amazing,” said Truman. “Walker made that?”

  Mercy had given him a brief account of her visit to the lumberyard. “He did an incredible job.”

  Truman ran a hand along the polished wood. “This would cost a fortune in a store.”

  Mercy agreed, wondering where her mother and Rose were. A door closed upstairs and she recognized her mother’s footsteps on the hardwood stairs. Deborah Kilpatrick’s eyes were red and her lashes damp. She gave Mercy a brief hug and greeted Truman.

  “What happened?” Mercy asked. “Where’s Rose?”

  “In her room,” her mother said, with a glance at her husband, who stood stiffly out of the way. “I think we pushed too hard.”

  Mercy didn’t buy that, knowing it was her father who had pushed too hard. “Is this about the baby again? You know you can’t force Rose to settle down in a house with a white picket fence with a man she barely knows just because you think the baby needs a father. I thought we’d settled that.”

  “Nick Walker has intentions,” her father stated.

  What an old-fashioned term.

  “We could see it when he dropped off the cradle,” her mother clarified. “It was clear he’s soft on Rose. Of course, she can’t see it, and when we told her—”

  “You told Rose that Nick is interested in her? You thought she didn’t know that?”

  “He’d make a good husband,” Karl Kilpatrick intoned. “Solid. Stable. A good provider. She can’t do any better.”

  Does he think that little of Rose? Mercy fought to find her voice. “Did you tell her she can’t do any better?”

  Her parents were silent.

  Poor Rose. Do they believe she’s incapable of finding love?

  “Did you embarrass her before or after Nick left?” Mercy fumed.

  Her mother put a hand on Mercy’s arm. “She didn’t get upset until Nick left,” she clarified. “Karl and I received the exact same impression when he was here, and we believe he’d be a good man for her. The way he looks at Rose can’t be denied . . . and the fact that he made her a cradle shows he’s accepting of her child.”

  Do they think her baby is undesirable? “Any decent man will accept Rose’s baby. Don’t tell me you told her that too.”

  Her parents exchanged a look.

  “Dammit! Could you have torn her down any more? I suppose you suggested a spring wedding?”

  “They just need to go before a judge—” her father started.

  “Stop talking!” Mercy held up a hand. “Rose decides who’ll she marry and when she’ll get married. If she wants to get married. No one else. Where is she?”

  Deborah pointed up the stairs, and Mercy concentrated on not stomping as she went up the steps. She knocked on the door to the bedroom she’d once shared with Rose and Pearl. “It’s Mercy.”

  After a few silent seconds the door opened, and Mercy saw her father’s temper in Rose’s expression. Her beautiful sister was livid.

  “They’re crazy,” she told Mercy. “When is this going to end? At least Owen doesn’t pester me about finding a father for my child anymore, but Dad hasn’t given up. They think no one could ever want me!”

  “What happened?”

  Rose moved to sit on the bed and Mercy followed, sitting beside her. The bunk beds from her youth were gone, replaced by one double bed. A desk sat under the window, piled with several Braille books, and more filled a small bookshelf. Mercy knew Rose often listened to audiobooks, but she’d said she preferred to read on her own. The room was a pale, icy green. The walls were empty of paintings or pictures, but several stuffed animals looked at home on the bed.

  “Nick dropped off the cradle. We were having a pleasant conversation, and Mom and Dad chatted with him a bit too. As soon as he was out the door, Dad jumped all over me about not being kind enough to Nick. I had no idea what he was talking a
bout. I’d thanked Nick for the cradle a dozen times.” Her eyebrows came together. “Then he told me that I needed to invite Nick to dinner and be more flirtatious.”

  “Flirtatious? Dad actually used that word?” Are we in the 1950s?

  “Right? So I asked if he’d set Nick up to build the cradle and be nice to me. He denied it, saying I better not let Nick slip away because he’s the best I could do, but I think Dad orchestrated the entire thing.”

  Rose slumped, looking crushed, and Mercy’s heart broke into a million weeping pieces as she remembered the joy on her sister’s face at the lumberyard. It’d been full of happiness and hope.

  “I don’t think Dad set Nick up.”

  “I can’t be sure. Several times he’s tried to maneuver me to meet with some man he thinks would be a good husband. It’s infuriating. Now he’s done the same thing with Nick. I honestly thought . . .”

  “You know when we first saw the cradle at the lumberyard?” Mercy began. “I knew that day Nick was sincerely interested in you. It was written all over his face. I wish you could have seen the way he looked at you, Rose. It was as if you were a gleaming piece of jewelry; he was mesmerized.”

  Rose caught her breath. “What?” Cautious hope flowed into her expression.

  “I’m serious, Rose. It’s rare that I see a man look at a woman the way Nick looked at you. He didn’t hide anything.” Her face warmed as she remembered how Truman always looked at her. Hungry, infatuated, hopeful. “I wish you could see a man’s face when he feels strongly about a woman. There’s nothing like it.”

  “You think he’s genuinely interested in me?” Rose’s voice was hoarse.

  “I know he is. I doubt even Dad could scare him off.”

  Rose’s face fell. “It can’t be possible.” Her hand went to her belly. “Everyone knows how I got pregnant. No man will take on both of us.”

  Mercy caught her breath, torn by her sister’s pain and doubt. Relationships weren’t Mercy’s strong suit. And advising her sister about love made her feel as if she were standing in front of a college physics class, expected to teach a subject she’d never taken.

  But she’d taken the crash course.