A Merciful Secret Page 17

  “Why?” asked Mercy. She tamped down the excitement in her stomach, impatient to grab any opportunity to sink her teeth into the ongoing murder case.

  “The agent Jeff sent to conduct the interview was turned away and told to contact Gabriel’s lawyer. Of course, no one went to work today because of the snow, so there is no reaching his lawyer until tomorrow at the earliest. I don’t have time to wait around, and I think Christian will let you in.”

  A silent cheer erupted in Mercy’s brain. “I can’t guarantee his brother will talk to me. And the roads out here are a nightmare. I’m surprised the first agent made it to the house.”

  “He said he almost didn’t. But I know you can. My efforts to reach their mother, Brenda Lake, have hit the same lawyer speed bump. She was happy to chat with me the other day, but my second interview request was shot down, and I was referred to her lawyer.”

  “Considering Malcolm and Gabriel are both lawyers, that doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

  “It bothers me that the family is suddenly uncooperative.”

  Mercy understood. “I’m sure they’re just protecting their rights, but it does make them look bad. Has Christian been informed of Rob Murray’s death? Since Christian was willing to loan him that SUV, I assume they have a good working relationship.”

  “To my knowledge, neither we nor Deschutes County have been able to talk to the Lake brothers since our visit. If Christian knows, it wasn’t from us. Has there been media coverage?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  “I assume there’ve been no sightings of Salome or her daughter?” asked Ava.

  “I’ve heard nothing. Jeff mentioned that local police are checking hotels, and they have a BOLO out for her vehicle, but they could be miles away by now.”

  “Dammit. I hope she’s still close by,” said Ava.

  “I’ll let you know if I hear something, and I’m happy to give you whatever help you need.”

  “Can you go to Christian’s home this morning?” pressed Ava.

  Mercy thought about the snow-covered roads. The chance that her route to Christian’s had been cleared was extremely small. A challenge.

  “I’m on it.”

  Mercy unclamped her hands from the steering wheel, turned off the ignition, and exhaled.

  It’d been a bitch of a drive to Christian Lake’s home. She’d had to shovel her way out of one snowdrift when an oncoming car hadn’t stuck to its side of the road. Jerking the steering wheel to avoid him hadn’t been a good move. And the asshole had kept driving, not caring that she was stuck.

  The things I do for justice. And my own curiosity.

  That damned reporter had wanted to use her to interview Gabriel. She had considered calling Michael Brody, simply to have someone with her for the treacherous drive, but she’d rejected that idea immediately. This was an official visit, not a press tour. After Ava’s call she had changed her clothes and then checked the supplies in the back of her Tahoe. Now she looked dressed to go ice climbing instead of to an FBI interview. She’d grabbed a few bottles of water from the break room, not wanting to tap into the water jugs she always carried. A quick inventory of her duffel had assured her she could last a week if she got stranded.

  Peace of mind.

  But damn, the drive had sucked away her energy. She’d slacked on her exercise over the winter. Her treadmill had been silent for several nights in a row. Staying healthy and fit was an important part of her paranoid lifestyle. Who knew what medical services could be like after a disaster? She was getting lazy.

  Unacceptable.

  She looked up at Christian’s grand house and sighed. It was as glorious as she’d remembered. Part of her had believed that she’d built it up in her mind since her last visit. Nope.

  No vehicles were visible, and she wondered if Ava had ever gotten the warrant to take tire prints from the old Hummer. She assumed it was safely tucked away in the long garage today. Mercy had no idea how to take tire prints, but maybe a photo of the treads could be helpful. Now to come up with an excuse to get in the garage.

  Did Gabriel Lake drive out here? Or did Christian send a car to meet him at the airport?

  A search on Gabriel Lake had revealed a man who resembled Christian. Attractive and tall. Gabriel headed up a successful law firm, and she discovered many articles singing about his skill in the courtroom.

  A man appeared on the front porch. Brent Rollins.

  Mercy grumbled. She’d hoped to avoid the watchdog and get to Christian first.

  He jogged down the freshly shoveled stairs and strode to her vehicle, a grim expression below his hat brim. Mercy slid out of her Tahoe and closed the door, indicating she wasn’t about to leave.

  “Christian and Gabriel aren’t seeing anyone today,” Rollins announced as he drew closer. Recognition flashed in his eyes as he reached her.

  “I think Christian will see me.”

  “No. We already told the FBI to go through the lawyers.”

  Mercy gestured at the snow. “No lawyer is working today. In Bend or in Portland. We’re losing time to find who killed their father.”

  “They’re not available.” His gaze was ice as he studied her from head to toe. “You don’t look like an FBI agent.”

  “I wasn’t aware there was a standard. And I wasn’t about to tackle that drive without dressing appropriately. I’m lucky I only had to shovel my truck out of one drift.”

  Respect flitted across his face.

  Mercy seized the momentary dropping of his defense. “Did you ever meet Malcolm Lake?” she asked. “I know he and Christian were estranged.”

  “That’s none of your business.” He continued his imitation of a statue.

  “Why are you trying to stall this case? Their father was murdered. Some might even accuse you of obstructing justice.” She was fuzzy on the legalities of her statement but didn’t care.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Call the lawyer.”

  Mercy played a wild card. “Did you hear about Rob Murray?”

  The stocky man showed no surprise. “What about him?”

  She stayed silent but raised a brow and gave a half smile. I know something you don’t.

  “What about him?” Rollins repeated.

  “I think I should tell his boss what happened to him.”

  Irritation shone in his eyes as he weighed his choices. The decision was snatched from him as Christian stepped out on the porch and waved. “Hey, Mercy!”

  She gave Rollins a satisfied smirk. I’m in.

  He deftly controlled his emotions and waved her toward the stairs.

  Christian greeted her like a long-lost friend and hustled her into his kitchen, offering her coffee and something to eat. Mercy gawked at the luxury kitchen, which was the size of her apartment. A glassed-in wine room, two huge stainless-steel refrigerators, a cooktop with enough burners for a small restaurant, an island big enough for a king-size mattress, and a built-in espresso machine the size of her SUV’s dashboard. “Jeez, Christian. Do you operate as a restaurant on the weekends?”

  He slightly ducked his head. “The builder said it had to match the rest of the house.”

  “It definitely does.” She eyed the espresso machine. “Can you make me an Americano?”

  “No problem.”

  She leaned against the island and watched him push buttons and clank metal.

  “Why are you here, Mercy?” He met her gaze as his hands automatically made the espresso. “I assume this isn’t a visit between friends?”

  She wished it was. “We need a statement from your brother.”

  He nodded and finished her drink. “Cream?”

  “Heavy cream if you have it.”

  “I do.” He added the luxurious white liquid and stirred with a slender spoon. He handed her the mug, holding her gaze. “Gabriel doesn’t want to talk to the police without his lawyer present.”

  He sounded like a recording.

  Mercy took a sip, weighing her n
ext move. “I’m surprised he’s in your home. At our last visit you implied that you don’t get along.”

  Christian poured himself a cup of coffee from a ready pot. “We have our differences, but he’s my brother.”

  “And this is about your father. He was murdered, Christian. Horribly. We need to move fast, and it’s already been too many days.”

  A struggle filled his handsome face. Mercy stayed silent, letting him battle his own demons. He was dressed in cargo pants and a half-zip sweatshirt, looking ready to go for a hike except for the heavy slippers on his feet. He wore his wealth casually without a pretentious bone in his body, and she wondered how he was still single.

  “What did Brent say to you outside?”

  Is he stalling? “He told me to go home and call the lawyer.”

  “Who needs a lawyer?”

  Mercy immediately identified Gabriel Lake as he stepped into the kitchen and refilled his coffee mug. He took a long drink and studied Mercy, curiosity on his face.

  “This is Mercy Kilpatrick, Gabriel. We go back a long way.”

  Why didn’t he identify me as an agent?

  “Nice to meet you,” Gabriel held out a hand and Mercy shook it, echoing his statement. “You drove out here in these conditions?”

  “It wasn’t too bad,” she said. “How long are you visiting Christian?”

  “I haven’t decided. With the passes closed, there’s no point in trying to get home to Portland.”

  Mercy fished a business card out of the pocket of her coat. Handing it to him, she said, “I’m with the Bend FBI office.”

  His fingers automatically took her card but he stiffened; surprise filled his face but was quickly replaced with irritation. “No comment.”

  “I’m not the press,” Mercy pointed out. “I’m here because your father was murdered. It’s standard operating procedure to interview family. You’ve been avoiding us.”

  “Call my lawyer.” He shot an annoyed look at Christian and turned to leave.

  “Gabriel,” Christian snapped. “What the hell is keeping you from helping the police?”

  His brother stopped under the glorious rugged rock arch that separated the kitchen from a back hallway. “I know how the standard operating procedure works. Every family member is regarded as a suspect until they’re cleared. I don’t need to be treated that way.”

  “Then clear yourself! You’re prolonging the inevitable. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “How about you answer only the questions you’re comfortable with?” Mercy suggested, desperate not to let the older brother slip away. “We’re trying to get a picture of your father’s last days.”

  Gabriel stood silent, his gaze darting between her and Christian.

  “She doesn’t bite,” Christian added.

  “I’ll give you twenty minutes,” stated Gabriel, looking at his watch for emphasis.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Mercy couldn’t contain the retort.

  “Make that fifteen minutes.”

  “Let’s sit down,” Christian suggested and pulled out a bar stool at the island for Mercy.

  She sat and pulled out a small notebook. Gabriel slowly took a seat, giving her his attention.

  My, won’t this be fun.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Truman opened the door to Eagle’s Nest’s tiny library, noting someone had already cleared snow from the steps and several yards of walkway and then spread salt. The smell of old books, dust, and a touch of mildew reached his nose. Fluorescent lighting, ancient tables with hard chairs, and shelves and shelves of books greeted him. He was definitely in a library.

  “Ruth?” He spoke loudly. “It’s Truman.” No one answered.

  He moved to the tall counter where the librarian processed checkouts. The counter was the sole piece of luxury in the bare-bones library. It had originally been a welcome desk in a fancy hotel that had been torn down in the 1950s. After being found in someone’s garage four decades earlier, it’d been transferred to the library, where it’d stood like a silent sentry ever since. It was solid oak and elaborately decorated with hand-carved nature scenes that must have taken master craftsmen months to create. It easily weighed a thousand pounds.

  Ruth Schultz appeared from a doorway behind the counter. “Truman! Good to see you. Ina gives me reports on you as if you were a favored grandson.”

  If Truman were to look up librarian in a dictionary, there would be a picture of Ruth Schultz. She looked as if a Hollywood studio had outfitted her to play a cranky librarian. Gray hair in a bun. Reading glasses on a chain around her neck. Cardigan, slacks, dull shoes. But she was one of the kindest women he’d ever met. Constantly in motion, full of chatty conversation, and a fountain of knowledge on any random subject.

  “I’m surprised you’re open today,” Truman said after her hug. “Two-thirds of the businesses are closed on account of the snow.”

  Ruth dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “Of course I’m open. The city pays me to be available, so I’m going to be here. A little snow won’t stop me.”

  “Did you clear the steps?”

  “First thing when I got here. We get a lot of older patrons. I can’t have someone slipping and breaking a hip.” Her pale-blue eyes twinkled. “It’d be hard to get them to the hospital today.”

  “Next time call the station. I’ll send Lucas or Royce to take care of your snow.”

  “Now aren’t you polite.” She nodded in approval and leaned forward to whisper, “How about sending Ben Cooley? I haven’t chatted with him in forever.”

  Truman knew why she hadn’t seen his senior officer. Ben was terrified of Ruth. Even though he’d been married over fifty years, Ruth still flirted with him as if they were teenagers. He froze and clammed up every time he saw her. A silent Ben Cooley was a wonder to behold.

  “I hear you had a problem.” Truman knew it was time to change the subject.

  “Absolutely. After I did the steps this morning, I went to shovel off the concrete slab at the back door and discovered the lock was broken. The door was closed, but anyone could open it.”

  “Anything missing?”

  “I immediately checked my little cash box. It doesn’t hold much. Just enough to make change when someone pays their overdue fees. It hadn’t been touched.” She frowned. “There isn’t much of value in here to steal. Why steal a book when you can just borrow it? Seems like a lot of work to break into a library when you could stroll right in.”

  “Any cameras?”

  Ruth snorted.

  “I know. Your budget,” he admitted. “But I had to ask. Did this happen last night? Or at least sometime after you closed up yesterday?”

  “I wasn’t open yesterday. We’re on a reduced schedule and only open three and a half days a week now. Tax cuts, you know,” she said with disdain. “But I know the door was locked when I left the evening before last. It’s part of my closing routine to check it.”

  Truman took a slow look around the library. Ruth was right. He didn’t see anything to motivate someone to break open the door. His brain wouldn’t let him ignore the fact that two nights earlier someone had broken into the church. Someone who possibly drove a car similar to Salome Sabin’s. Did she break in here too?

  He was jumping to conclusions.

  “What about rare books?” he asked.

  “I sent them to the county library. They have the facilities to take proper care of them.”

  “I wonder if someone was looking for a place to get out of the cold.”

  “That was my thought too once I didn’t see anything missing.” She paused. “But there was one unusual thing I noticed . . . but possibly I didn’t take care of it before closing.”

  Truman waited.

  “Two microfiche rolls left out near our machine.” A frown flitted across her face. “I swear I checked that table before we closed.”

  “Microfiche? People still use that?” Truman remembered the old system from his high school library. A d
ated technique of preserving newspapers and magazines on film.

  Ruth sniffed. “We don’t have the money to transfer the film records to a digital system. I won’t replace something that isn’t broken.”

  “Where is it?”

  She led him to the far end of the library, where a table holding what looked like an ancient computer monitor sat on top of a film feeder. Next to the table was a long wooden storage unit with dozens of small drawers. “Is that where the films are filed?” He noted the drawers didn’t lock.

  “Yes.”

  “What publications are on film?”

  “Well, I have decades of The Oregonian going back into the eighteen hundreds, but once they started digitizing their records we no longer got new ones. I also have the Bend Bulletin up to about twenty years ago and our own local paper, which goes back to the middle of the century. It used to be published every day, you know. But about five years ago, it dropped to a weekly paper. Pretty soon that will probably be my library’s schedule.”

  “I hope not,” Truman told her. “I know you do an important service.”

  “No one researches in books anymore. It’s all available online. Even our fiction circulation has dropped. People are switching to digital book subscription services.”

  “There will always be a place for libraries.” Truman hated the sad look in her eyes.

  “I still see some regulars every week, and moms bring in their toddlers for story time, but I never see teenagers.”

  “You said some rolls of film were left out. Do you remember which ones?”

  Ruth grabbed a small box off the top of the storage unit. “I haven’t refiled them yet.”

  Truman took the box and pushed the rolls around with his pen, reading their labels. “This one holds a few months of The Oregonian from about forty years ago, and the other is our local paper from the same time period.” He smiled. “But they fit a whole year of our town’s paper on one roll.” He met her gaze. “You sure these weren’t accidentally left out?”

  Ruth’s face was a study. He knew she was convinced nothing had been left out when she closed, but there was an infinitesimal chance she’d missed them. “I’m ninety-nine percent certain this table was clean.”