A Merciful Secret Read online

  “Do you mind if I take these for a bit?”

  Her face said she minded very much. “I guess not.”

  He dumped them into a plastic bag from his pocket, wondering if there was any point in fingerprinting them. They would have forty years of prints. The content on the films was the key. But how would he know what the suspect had been looking up? And what good would that information do? As he sealed up the bag, he realized he needed the huge reader machine to look at the evidence.

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t take my only machine,” she stated, reading his mind.

  “I don’t want to take it,” he admitted. “I’ll come back and use it when I have time to look through these rolls.”

  “In that case, I need you to check out the rolls. This is highly irregular,” she pointed out. “I only allow people to view the rolls here.”

  Truman signed his name on the cards she produced, amused at her thoroughness. There was a reason she’d been the librarian for the last thirty years. “Don’t touch the back door or this machine anymore. I’m going to send someone to dust for prints.”

  “Just as long as they clean up after themselves. I’ve heard that powder makes a horrible mess.”

  He promised not to lose her rolls and headed back to his office.

  Inside his vehicle he sat for a few moments, his brain connecting dots. No one in town had reported a break-in in months. Suddenly he had two—possibly on the same night. Logic told him it was the same person, which was why he would collect prints.

  In a perfect world he’d find a print that matched one he’d lifted from the church, and a suspect would pop up on a search of his first fingerprint database.

  Rarely did he work in a perfect world. But it was worth a shot.

  Is it Salome Sabin?

  He’d interviewed the witness who claimed he’d seen a dark-haired woman driving a green car at the church the night of its break-in. Fred lived kitty-corner from the church and had been getting a late snack when he spotted the car around 2:00 a.m. He hadn’t seen the car stop or anyone get out, but he swore it’d slowly circled the block three times, immediately catching his attention.

  Truman had tried not to stare at the Coke-bottle lenses on Fred’s glasses. They were smeared and scratched, so he asked when Fred had had the prescription checked. Offended, the senior citizen said it’d been updated three months earlier. Truman had his doubts. Unless Fred used burlap to clean his lenses, they shouldn’t be foggy with minuscule scratches in that short a time.

  Fred’s statement was shaky. But between the driver description and knowing that Salome and Morrigan had disappeared that night, it continued to sit on Truman’s radar.

  Truman focused on the bag of film rolls he’d set on the passenger seat. Someone had looked up articles from forty years earlier. He hadn’t been born yet. He typed “Eagle’s Nest” and the corresponding year into Google on his phone and scrolled through the hits. Most referred to graduating high school classes or population counts of the town.

  The two break-ins are my cases. My town. I need to investigate.

  It wasn’t like the gray area of his involvement in the Rob Murray murder.

  He started his vehicle, remembering Detective Bolton’s frustration during Truman’s morning interview about his visit to Rob Murray’s apartment. Truman had had little to tell the detective. He’d visited the man and left. He hadn’t seen anyone hanging around, and Rob hadn’t appeared in fear for his life. Truman was still convinced someone—hopefully it was Rob—had moved his pickup truck before his death. He couldn’t see a reason for the killer to move it afterward. The murderer could have rifled through it, looking for anything of value to steal, but why move it?

  Rob had to be the one.

  He knew none of the agencies were seriously looking at him for Rob Murray’s murder, but it still bugged the hell out of him that he was even involved. It was as if he had a big black X on his perfectly clean record. He wanted it erased. And it was all because he’d nosed into a case where he had no business.

  That’s what I get for satisfying my curiosity.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The summer after we graduated from high school, I stopped by Christian’s home. I’d had an argument with my mother, and I needed someone to listen to me grumble. Christian and I had grown close over the last six months, and we leaned on each other when we were feeling blue.

  He was my best friend. My only friend.

  His parents had divorced ten years before, and he’d told me his mother still carried a lot of bitterness. I had yet to meet her. They lived in an impressive ranch home in the nicest neighborhood. I knew his father was some hotshot lawyer in Portland, and I assumed he still sent money to his ex. The elegance of the home struck a chord in me. This was what I dreamed of. A two-car garage, a manicured acre of green lawn, and neighbors whose homes were as dignified as mine. I wanted to fit in.

  Instead we had our odd cabin deep in the woods. Hiding from the world.

  I rang the doorbell and waited, admiring the terra-cotta planters overflowing with petunias. The door opened and I found myself face-to-face with his mother for the first time. Brenda Lake was petite, blonde, and rake-thin. Everything I was not. Wealth shone in her perfect hair, gold rings, and pedicured toes.

  I identified myself and asked for Christian. Her stare burned into my eyes. I exhaled and subtly sniffed. Red-orange. Anger. Sorrow. Hatred.

  Christian was right. She still carried a lot of bitterness.

  I forced a smile and asked again for Christian.

  “What do you want with my son?” Her tone was cool, but I felt the ripples of ire under the surface. Her face formed a hard mask, and she didn’t step aside to welcome me in.

  I was rattled. “He’s expecting me. We’re going out for lunch.”

  Her lips pressed into a hard line. “He doesn’t need—”

  “Salome?”

  He grinned at me over his mother’s shoulder, and I focused on that face as if I’d been thrown a lifeline.

  “Where are you going?” his mother snapped.

  “Lunch,” Christian stated. His beautiful smile faded, and he placed a hand on his mother’s upper arm to gently push by her. She guarded the door like a statue.

  “I need you for two minutes first,” she told him. Brenda glanced in my direction. “He’ll be right out.” She shut the door in my face.

  I couldn’t breathe. I stood there like an idiot, staring at the iron door knocker, as if I thought she’d swing the door back open, laughing and saying that it had been a joke. It didn’t open. I walked backward off the small porch and nearly fell as I missed the single step.

  Why is she so rude?

  Then I knew. When the door first opened, recognition had flashed in her eyes. I’d attributed her angry aura to the constant bitterness Christian had told me about, but it’d erupted because she knew who I was.

  She knew I was the witch. The slut. The whore.

  I turned to go to my car, fury heating my limbs. Most times I embraced my notorious titles, but this woman’s disdain struck me deep in my heart. I’d hoped the mother of my best friend would be different.

  Their voices came through the window and I stopped, unable not to eavesdrop.

  “You were rude!” I’d never heard Christian so angry.

  “I know who she is,” his mother hissed. “I know the type of life she leads, and my son will have none of it!”

  “You don’t know crap. It’s all bitter gossip.”

  “Her mother was a whore and her daughter is just like her. Penniless, dirt-dwelling sluts.”

  “And you’re a snob! You can’t see past someone’s clothes and car,” Christian exclaimed. “Salome is awesome and I like spending time with her.”

  My heart warmed.

  “She’s going to drag you through her mud. We’re better than their kind. I know they’re witches.” The last word sounded as if she was about to vomit.

  A long moment of silence followed.
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  “You’re a horrible person.” Christian’s anger was in control, but it vibrated through every word.

  “Where are you going? Come back here.” His mother sounded desperate. “See? She’s cast some sort of spell on you.”

  “Give me a fucking break.” His voice was suddenly closer to the door, and it opened an instant later. He smiled at me, but his eyes were furious.

  “You don’t have to go,” I told him. “We can do this another day.”

  “Ignore her. She can’t stand that I won’t let her tell me what to do anymore.” He strode past me toward the street and then spun around when he noticed I hadn’t followed. “Are you coming?”

  “I don’t want to be a problem between you and your mother.” My fights with my mother broke my heart. I didn’t want that for him.

  A sports car pulled into the driveway. I knew nothing about cars, a curse of living in the woods, but I instinctively knew this one was expensive. A gasp left my lungs as I recognized the driver. Christian’s older brother.

  Christian moved closer to me, his gaze on his brother as he got out of the car and came toward us, a grin on his face as he loosened his tie. “Hey, little bro.” Gabriel’s gaze went to me and I saw no recognition.

  The man who’d drugged me and nearly raped me didn’t even remember me.

  “Who’s this?” he asked with a kind smile.

  “A friend. We’re going to lunch.” Christian grabbed my hand and dragged me away.

  Numb, I let him open his car door for me, and I sat staring through the windshield. I shouldn’t have come.

  A moment later he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Hey.” He took my hand and tugged until I met his gaze. “My family sucks. I’m sorry both my mother and brother are horrible.”

  “It’s okay,” I answered automatically.

  “No, it’s not. No one deserves their crap. He didn’t even recognize you, did he?”

  I shook my head.

  “Asshole.”

  “Your mother doesn’t want you to have anything to do with me.” Strength flowed back into my spine. “Does she really think I bewitched you?” The absurdity of her words finally amused me. I was used to people avoiding me and whispering behind their hands. I didn’t give a fuck what others thought, but I’d hoped Christian’s mother would be more like him. Instead she was more like her oldest son.

  “Clearly she’s heard the gossip,” Christian admitted, “but I never thought she’d react like that.”

  “She knew instantly who I was. What have you told her about me?”

  “We’ve never discussed you.”

  I snorted. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.” But I said it with a smile.

  His mother had caught me off guard and stabbed her way through my shields. It wouldn’t happen again.

  “You’re not a witch, right?” he joked as he started his vehicle.

  “I only help others.” We’d touched on this topic several times. I’d shown him the ointments and teas I sold and explained what was in them. He’d ordered me to stop selling the potions with booze, worried someone could get hurt. I saw his point and stopped. Ever since school was out, the demand had dried up anyway. I’d never told him about my sensory talents. It was too difficult to explain.

  “I’m sorry she was a bitch,” he told me.

  Scents of regret and embarrassment filled the car. I touched his hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I can’t wait to get out of here for college.”

  He was going to California. Briefly I’d considered following him, but the financial numbers simply didn’t add up. I also didn’t want to scare away any potential girlfriends. His friends were uncomfortable when I was around, so I knew no girlfriend would approve of our close friendship.

  I would miss him dreadfully.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Eyes like Christian’s looked at Mercy from Gabriel’s face and unnerved her. The brothers also tipped their heads in the same curious manner, and had identical voices.

  Gabriel carefully recited his answers to her questions. She frequently glanced at Christian, wondering if he knew how much they sounded alike.

  “Why did you come here instead of go to your home in Portland?” Mercy asked.

  “The media was all over the murder,” said Gabriel. “My neighbors told me reporters had been camping out on my street. I knew Christian’s home was secluded. Besides, family is important at a time like this.”

  Christian shifted his feet and looked out the window.

  There’s not much affection in this room.

  “Have you talked with your mother?”

  “Of course,” said Gabriel. “Even though they’ve been divorced for decades, my mother still cared for my father.”

  The younger brother shifted his feet again.

  The signals were obvious. Every time Gabriel said something that Christian didn’t agree with, he couldn’t hold still. He kept his mouth shut, but the energy of his objection came out through his movements. Mercy wondered if their differences were due to the divorce. It appeared they’d both been left behind with Brenda Lake, their bonds broken with their father. But Gabriel’s commitment to his mother had continued, while Christian seemed to have slowly drawn away from both parents.

  Gabriel was painting a picture of his family, but Mercy didn’t know if it was an accurate picture or simply the one he thought the investigators should have.

  “When did you last speak to your father?”

  His shoulders slumped. “Two days before his death, I talked to him on the phone. If I’d known I’d never speak to him again, I would have said something more meaningful.”

  “What did you discuss with him?”

  “Ummm . . . I can’t quite remember. It was purely a check-in call. You know . . . ‘What’s going on? What are you up to?’”

  “You don’t remember what he said he’d been doing?”

  “Nothing’s sticking in my head, so it must have been the usual reports about his fund-raisers and golfing trips.”

  “Do you call him often?”

  Gabriel lifted one shoulder. “I’m better than I used to be. I was angry with him for a long time after the divorce, but we’ve worked through it over the last five years or so.” His face brightened. “Now I remember what we talked about!” Gabriel launched into details of a case that he’d shared with his father and some of the restaurants he’d mentioned eating at on his last trip to Palm Springs.

  Her time was ticking away. He had looked at his watch a few times while they talked, clearly marking off the minutes until he could escape.

  How can I keep him talking?

  “Did you hear about Rob Murray?” she asked Christian. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gabriel perk up.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “A guy who does some work for me,” said Christian. “What’s up with Rob? I told him I wasn’t upset about the Lexus.”

  “He was murdered yesterday.” Mercy watched both men.

  Christian stared at her, the blood draining out of his face. Gabriel tilted his head and frowned. He spoke first. “That’s horrible. Did you know him well, Christian?”

  Christian swallowed. “Wait a minute. I saw him yesterday.” His voice was hoarse. “He came up to apologize about the SUV.”

  Mercy leaned toward him, Gabriel momentarily forgotten. “What time was that?”

  He stared at the floor as he thought. “Right before lunch. I’d just finished in the gym and was starving when he came.”

  Truman had visited Rob in the morning. So Rob did go somewhere after Truman’s visit. She knew the information would relieve some of Truman’s anxiety.

  “His body was discovered not long after lunch,” said Mercy.

  “What happened to him?” Gabriel asked, his gaze probing.

  “He was killed in his apartment. I really can’t discuss more than that.”

  “You’re sure it’s murder?” asked Christian.

  “Positiv
e.”

  “I can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt him,” Christian said. “He was usually easygoing, but I guess I didn’t know him all that well. I know he did some painting when he wasn’t working here. That’s about it. Does that make me a crappy boss?”

  “Ease up on yourself,” suggested Gabriel with sympathy. “You can’t know everyone.”

  Christian turned a thoughtful gaze on his brother. “I try very hard to get to know the people who work for me. I think it’s important. But I’ve focused on my employees at the office. Not here at the house. Do they have a suspect?” Christian asked.

  “I don’t know yet. But I’ll let the detective know you saw him yesterday, so you’ll probably get another visit.”

  He sighed but nodded. “Did Rob have family?”

  “I don’t know. But he lived alone.”

  “That’s good . . . I guess.”

  “The investigator will want to talk to your manager, Brent Rollins.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Christian.

  “I saw him this morning out by the garage,” added Gabriel. “He was shoveling the walk.”

  Christian slumped a bit. “I’ll tell Brent about the death. I wouldn’t say he and Rob were friends, but he’ll still be shocked.”

  “Are you done with me?” Gabriel spoke up.

  Mercy mentally shifted back to her interview of Gabriel. “No. Did you father ever tell you he was worried for his life? Did he ever express worry for his safety during a case? Did he ever mention threatening letters, calls, or concern over a visitor?” Mercy rattled off the questions.

  “No, yes, and yes.” He didn’t expand.

  Mercy waited.

  “Come on, Gabriel,” Christian urged.

  Gabriel shot a look at his brother. “He got a lot of publicity during the D’Angelo trial. People from all over the world sent him mail and tried to call. Some positive contact, but a lot of it wasn’t. People liked that he mouthed off to D’Angelo, but they didn’t like that he wasn’t convicted. Dad got threats, but I don’t think any of the senders got physically close to him. People are comfortable hiding behind a phone or computer screen to say crap. Standing in front of you face-to-face is different.”