A Merciful Fate (Mercy Kilpatrick Book 5) Read online

  Shane Gamble’s gaze lingered on her left hand. “You married?”

  Mercy wasn’t about to share her relationship status with the prisoner sitting across from her. “Generally that’s what a ring on that finger means.” Her engagement ring suddenly seemed ten times larger than its actual size.

  He deliberately looked at it again, and she swallowed hard at the intensity in his eyes. This is why they suggest removing jewelry before visiting. She’d shrugged off the recommendation since she would be interacting with only one prisoner.

  “Awfully shiny. Looks brand-new.” His dark eyes met hers, and she forced herself to hold his gaze.

  “I like shiny things,” she answered casually.

  Shane Gamble continued to pointedly study her. “For someone who likes shiny things, you aren’t wearing any other jewelry. Or much makeup. Seems like those two things go hand in hand with most women.” He leaned closer and squinted at her.

  Mercy held perfectly still, her hands preparing to aim a powerful thrust at his throat if he tried anything. He was chained to the table, and she knew he couldn’t reach her, but her protective instincts couldn’t help themselves. The guard standing near the door and out of listening distance cleared his throat. “Gamble,” he warned.

  Gamble leaned back in his chair. “You wear a little makeup. I was trying to determine if that was a bruise near your eye. You did a good job covering it up.”

  She did have a bruise. The fault of her inattention and a cupboard door corner. She’d painstakingly been covering it with makeup for days, not wanting strangers to wonder if a man had beat on her.

  His words and deep scrutiny made her skin crawl, and she felt as if Gamble were circling her like a predator, probing at her brain for a tender spot. His questions were seeking a weakness.

  The guard was right. He likes to toy with people.

  “Why are you talking to me without a lawyer?” Mercy asked, knowing Gamble had refused one when Darby set up the interview.

  Gamble shrugged. “First of all, I don’t want to pay a lawyer to drive all the way out here from Portland and sit for an hour listening to the same old story. Besides, what’s going to happen to me? Are you going to discover something new and have me tried for it? I’m already stuck here until I die. You can’t add another sentence for me to serve beyond the grave.” He chuckled.

  “That’s right,” Mercy said. “You killed another inmate during your first year of prison. How come?” She wanted to find his tender spots.

  Two can play this game.

  “I was defending myself. It can be a zoo in here, and new inmates are the food.”

  “It says in your file that you attacked the guy. Witnesses claim they didn’t know what triggered it.”

  “Witnesses,” he repeated. “Other inmates? You know how reputable we are.” He folded his hands, making his chains rattle on the tabletop.

  Mercy leaned closer and lowered her voice. “It’s just you and me here. You can tell me what really happened,” she said in a companionable tone.

  Gamble held her gaze and then mimicked her intimate tone. “He tried to bullshit me.”

  Like I’m doing right now.

  She’d have to try harder to get under his skin. A challenge.

  “Why are you really here?” he asked. “That murder case is done and settled, even though they never believed he was paid to kill me.”

  The murdered inmate was hired to kill him? Mercy hadn’t read that in his history and wondered if Gamble had made up the reason. Irked he’d diverted her thoughts with the paid-to-kill comment, she searched for one to do the same to him.

  “It was a beautiful drive out here today,” she said kindly. “You’re lucky the prison is so close to the Columbia River. I couldn’t believe how blue it was this morning.”

  Something flashed in his eyes. “I wouldn’t know.”

  She’d figured he never saw the water, and she wondered if the prisoners could smell the river. This corner of northeast Oregon was quite dry, and she’d smelled the crispness and minerals of the water the moment she’d stepped out of her vehicle.

  It was logical that the topic of the outdoors would annoy Gamble. He’d been locked up for thirty years.

  She’d aptly found a tender spot that made him defensive.

  “I’m here because we found a half dozen money bags from the robbery.” She dropped the single sentence and watched him.

  The slight quiver of an eyelid was all that indicated she’d surprised him.

  “And?” he asked calmly.

  “The bags weren’t alone. The money was gone, of course, but a body was left behind.”

  The eyelid quivered again, and he grew a shade paler. “Whose?”

  “Don’t know. We’re looking into it.”

  “Where was it found? Was the death recent?”

  Wow. Two questions in a row.

  She now held the power in the discussion—information he wanted.

  “The bags and body were found in a crumbling cabin on private land about an hour outside of Bend. The death scene is old—maybe even a few decades.”

  Gamble was very still, his breathing slow and calm. He didn’t break eye contact. “I don’t know anything about a cabin.”

  “Not a preplanned rendezvous or hideout location?”

  “Not that I was aware of. Jerry must have suggested it. Ellis, Nathan, or Trevor never mentioned something like that.”

  “Maybe you were deliberately left out of the loop.”

  Anger flashed and then confidence shone from his eyes. “I doubt it.”

  “Because you knew every aspect, didn’t you,” Mercy said, tilting her head to the side as if studying him. “That robbery was your baby. You did the planning.”

  “Everyone knows that.” Subtle pride.

  “From what I read in your file, you masterminded the whole thing and convinced the other guys to go along. In fact, I think I read that you regarded the robbery as a challenge. Almost a game, to see if you could outsmart the armored car company and the police.”

  “That’s correct. And I succeeded.”

  “Your plan was solid. Gutsy but solid.” She paused. “I wouldn’t agree that you succeeded. You’re sitting in prison.”

  “I thought through every detail. We got the money, and the rest of the group got away. I consider that a success.” The skin of his throat rippled as he silently swallowed, and curiosity took over his intense gaze. “What else do you know about the body?”

  Mercy paused a little too long, letting his question hang in the air, letting him believe she was debating what information to share. “I don’t know anything yet. The medical examiner is looking at the remains now.”

  Impatience flared in his gaze. “Right. But you must know . . . Clothing, shoes . . . Maybe I can help identify the body by those items.”

  Why is he interested in helping?

  “That’s very kind, but I doubt you can recall all the clothing your friends owned back then. We’ll confirm him with dental records.”

  Gamble slowly leaned back in his chair and rubbed at a few days’ stubble on his chin. “You’re probably right.”

  The tension emanating from him had abruptly vanished.

  He’s no longer interested.

  Or he’s a damn good actor.

  “I’d hoped the discovery of money bags in a cabin might remind you of some detail you’d forgotten,” prodded Mercy. “Or maybe one that you didn’t think was important at the time.”

  “You really think I’d help you find my friends?” He stretched his shoulders, hampered by the chains, and looked away for the first time in the interview.

  “Do you believe you’re the only one of the five who should be in prison for the robbery and death of the guard?”

  “More power to them if they’ve lived a normal life. I hold no ill will.”

  Mercy raised her brows. “That’s generous.”

  “They were my friends. Not their fault I ended up here.”


  “You’re saying that after all these years of silence from them as you sat in prison, their friendship still means something to you?”

  He was silent.

  A minute ago he was gung ho to help us identify the body. What happened?

  “You don’t want to help us figure out what happened after the robbery?”

  “I’d call the case solved. I’m in here paying for the crime, and the cops know the full names of who else was there, except for Jerry. And I doubt there’s any money to be recovered after all this time.” His tone was pragmatic, and he looked at her as if he were schooling a pupil. “It’s over.”

  He’s not going to share anything.

  “None of your good friends have contacted you over the years? Maybe to thank you for not helping the police?”

  He gave a half smile. “Maybe I did hear from someone. Or maybe I didn’t. Sounds like one might have been dead for a long time.”

  Mercy held his gaze. He’s heard from someone.

  “It’s possible the body isn’t related to the robbery,” she stated, slightly changing the direction of the conversation as she contemplated how one of the thieves might have contacted Gamble. Letters . . . phone calls . . . what kinds of communication records does the prison keep?

  He nodded solemnly. “I was waiting for you to realize that.”

  “Of course we’d realized it.” She internally flinched at the flicker of enjoyment on his face. Dammit. He’d put her on the defensive.

  “Then this conversation is truly pointless,” he stated. “I’m shocked the FBI is wasting valuable time talking to me when you don’t know who the remains are.”

  “Do you want me to come back when we have an identity?” Mercy shot back, annoyed that she’d reacted to his statements.

  He held up his hands in a gesture of Who knows, and the clanking of his chains echoed in the room. “It wouldn’t hurt to come back when the FBI actually knows something,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe a confirmed identity will trigger a memory. I’ll spend some time reflecting on it. I might come up with something.” His condescending smile made her toes curl. In a bad way. Not a Truman way.

  He wants me to come back.

  But is it because he’s bored or because he’s playing a game with information?

  Or both?

  She stood, knowing she needed to be the one to end the interview. “I’ll be in touch,” she said, making one last moment of eye contact with the creep. “Or maybe I won’t. I’ll spend some time reflecting on it,” she mimicked.

  Without looking back, she headed toward the exit.

  I got nothing.

  FIVE

  “I told Lucas not to bother you. It’s nothing. Probably drunk teens.”

  Truman took a long look at Bree Ingram, wondering if the woman really believed her statement. When Lucas had asked him to take a look at some vandalism on his mother’s property, Truman hadn’t hesitated. Now he stood in Bree’s small stable, looking at six horse stall doors that had each been spray-painted with a big red X. And that was in addition to the red X on the door of her pickup.

  “The symbolism bothers me,” Lucas stated, his arm protectively around his mother’s shoulders. “To me a red X means something is going to be eliminated.”

  My thoughts exactly.

  “It’s on her fucking truck,” Lucas went on, anger flushing his usually calm face. “On her driver’s door. It feels deliberate. It’s not drunk teens,” Lucas told his mother. “They’d draw dick pics and write curse words.” He tightened his arm on her, and she briefly rested her cheek against his chest. Over her head his glare met Truman’s gaze, transmitting his fury about the situation.

  Truman sympathized, understanding that the big man felt powerless against a threat he couldn’t see.

  A horse stretched its neck over the stall door toward Truman in curiosity, and Truman held his palm under its nose. Warm air covered his hand as the animal’s nostrils flared, and then its velvety lips nibbled at his hand, the horse oblivious to the threatening X on its door.

  I feel as if it’s been selected for slaughter.

  “There was a horse in each stall that received an X?” Truman asked.

  “Yes.” Bree pointed at two unmarked stall doors, a tremor shaking her hand. “No horses were in those.”

  “These horses are like her kids,” Lucas said. “Short of marking an X on my forehead, this is like threatening our family.”

  “The mare in the first stall is Sandy’s,” Bree added. “But she’s like one of mine.”

  “Sandy boards a horse here?” Truman asked. “Sandy from the bed-and-breakfast in town?”

  “Yes,” said Bree. “We do competitive trail riding together.”

  “You mean you sucked her into that craziness,” Lucas corrected. “Sandy could barely ride when she moved here, but she hung around with my mom so much, she got horse fever.”

  Truman faintly recalled Lucas mentioning his mother’s horse competitions in the past. “Cameras anywhere?” he asked.

  Lucas snorted. “No.”

  “How much land do you have?” He stroked the horse’s cheek, admiring the trust in its black eyes and wondering if the horse had looked at the vandal in the same way.

  “Ten acres,” answered Bree.

  “Have you seen any signs that someone has been on your property recently?”

  Lucas and Bree exchanged a look. Both shook their heads.

  “Any vehicles you don’t recognize hanging around?”

  Lucas’s expression darkened. “A few times recently I’ve seen a truck I don’t recognize on her road. Old, faded red Ford. Needs some bodywork. Probably from the early nineties. Even though I don’t live here anymore, usually I recognize most people out here.”

  A small chill touched Truman’s spine. Old red Ford?

  “Maybe he’s doing work on someone’s property,” Bree suggested. “We can’t recognize everyone.”

  Truman met Bree’s gaze. “I don’t know how this would be possible, but have you pissed off anyone lately? Since there is an X on your truck, maybe you accidentally upset someone on the road who figured out where you lived?”

  She paled. “I—I—don’t know. Not that I’m aware of.”

  “She doesn’t make enemies,” Lucas snapped. His chest expanded, and he seemed to hulk up a size.

  “I know that,” Truman said in a calm voice. “But it’d be shortsighted of me not to ask.” The horse jerked its head away and paced a circle in its box stall.

  Did it pick up on the increase in Lucas’s tension?

  “The chief is doing his job,” Bree stated, covering Lucas’s hand on her shoulder with her own. Her voice was still shaky.

  Truman rubbed his chin and smelled horse on his hand. Not a bad scent. “There’s been some vehicle vandalism downtown. Your place is a good two miles outside of town, so I wouldn’t imagine it’s related, but I’ve had multiple vandalism reports in the last two weeks, and before that we’d had none for months.”

  Lucas looked at his mom. “It was at Sandy’s place.”

  “Sandy told me someone had broken a few guests’ car windows,” Bree said. “She didn’t say anything about spray paint.”

  “No paint. Just the vehicle damage.”

  “So someone else did mine,” Bree said flatly.

  “It’s hard to say . . . The close timing of the incidents makes me wonder,” Truman said. “Or you are correct, and two different people started vandalizing at the same time. I have to keep both in consideration.” Truman snapped some pictures of the marred doors. “Let’s look at the truck again.” He followed Lucas and Bree out of the barn and down the short gravel road to the vehicles parked in front of the home.

  He inhaled, missing the barn’s comforting scent of alfalfa and horse but appreciating the crisp, clean air. The sky was a perfect blue, but Truman was glad for his coat. The weather of the high desert was fickle in the spring. He could wear a short-sleeved T-shirt for a warm walk at lunch and then learn th
ere was snow in the overnight forecast. He loved both elements and enjoyed the unexpected twists in the weather.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t do more to the truck,” said Lucas.

  “Maybe they got scared off before they could,” Truman suggested. He hated the idea that Bree had been targeted as much as Lucas did.

  “I want to read Gamble’s old interviews again now that I’ve met him face-to-face,” Mercy told Eddie as they dug through the decades-old Gamble-Helmet files in her office. The files were very neat, and Mercy noticed most of the perfectly printed handwritten entries were initialed “AJ.” Art Juergen.

  She’d worked with Art in the Portland office. His retirement party over a year ago had been epic, according to the people who’d gone. Mercy hadn’t been into huge social events. Still wasn’t.

  He’d asked her out one time, not long after she’d started at the Portland office, and against her better judgment, she’d agreed. But when it came time for a second date, she’d turned him down, citing the “better as friends” excuse. She had liked Art, just not in that way.

  Truthfully, she couldn’t get past the age difference. Art was almost twenty-five years older.

  She’d kept that reason to herself, but he had to suspect . . .

  Yesterday the retired FBI agent had replied with his usual cheeriness to her email asking for help, making her feel as if no time had passed. He planned to arrive in Bend the next day, and she was upbeat at the thought of catching up with him.

  Going over Art’s reports, Mercy was impressed with his meticulous work. She was still missing a few boxes of files, but they would arrive soon. She couldn’t wait to pick Juergen’s brain about the case. He’d been obsessed with it for decades.

  “What was Shane Gamble like?” Eddie pushed his glasses up on his nose, and then his hair flopped in his face as he bent over a box.

  Mercy resisted the urge to tell him he needed a haircut. Eddie always seemed younger than his thirty-some years, and she wasn’t his mom, but he was her favorite person to work with, and they formed a good team. His attitude was always positive, and his mind spotted possible investigative paths that hers missed. He also loved talking with people, which complemented Mercy’s avoidance of small talk. Eddie could pop into the bank and come out knowing the names of the teller’s three kids and that her mother-in-law had been ill for two weeks.