A Merciful Secret Read online

Mercy took a deep breath. “We need to know where she was when Olivia died. I wouldn’t call her a suspect, but we—I mean Eddie needs to talk to her. According to Morrigan, Salome appears to be the only person Olivia interacted with for the last few years.”

  “That’s sad,” said her tenderhearted sister. “Now I wish I’d gotten to know Olivia.”

  “You’re a good person, Rose.” Her sister had always been the voice of love and affection while they were growing up. She’d known how to skillfully soothe each of Mercy’s other three siblings and their parents. Now she embraced the idea of having a baby—one fathered by the man who’d raped her and murdered their brother.

  He’d died when he fired at Mercy and Truman. Mercy was mostly at peace with the fact that she’d helped kill the man who had grievously wounded her family.

  “Would you be able to drive me to the lumberyard tomorrow on your lunch?” Rose asked, interrupting Mercy’s thoughts.

  “I don’t see why not. What are you doing there?”

  “Nick Walker has something for me to pick up.”

  “Nick, the owner? What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. He says it’s a surprise.”

  Mercy didn’t miss the note of curious excitement in Rose’s voice. Is that about the surprise or Nick? They’d both known Nick all their lives. He’d been friends with their brother Levi—or was it with Owen? Mercy remembered him as a quiet man. He hadn’t gotten the best grades in school, but had been known for his woodworking skills. Understandable, since his father had owned the local lumberyard. Mercy had learned Nick was now the owner when she and Truman went in to pick up boards for one of her cabin’s sheds. He was still a quiet person but had a sadness in his eyes that Mercy hadn’t recalled in their past. Truman later told her Nick’s wife had died from breast cancer five years before.

  Hmmmm. “I’d be happy to take you.”

  I want to satisfy my own curiosity.

  NINE

  The next morning the ping of Truman’s cell phone relaxed the knot of stress between his shoulder blades.

  Mercy’s reply to his good-morning text had arrived two seconds after he sent it. He didn’t need a repeat of the anxiety of yesterday morning. His worry and subsequent search for her had disturbed his mind-set for the entire day. Not a good thing.

  Or was it? His concern showed he cared deeply about her. Something he hadn’t experienced for a woman in a long time. If ever.

  A good thing.

  Now that he’d heard from Mercy this morning, he could focus on his day’s work and then do a little Internet digging about the judge whose death had been linked to Olivia Sabin. Truman scanned Ben Cooley’s incident report from a 3:00 a.m. call. A car wreck on Old Foster Road. One of two drag-racing teens had hit a slick patch and rolled his car. An ambulance had taken the teen to the hospital, where he had been diagnosed with a concussion and a broken arm. He was lucky.

  Who races on snow-packed roads?

  Truman had never been that stupid as a teen. Correction: Truman had been extremely lucky in his stupid moments as a teen. No one had died or broken any bones. A few trips to the local jail had been the worst he’d experienced.

  The memory of Salome’s dark eyes and lush curves flashed in his brain.

  Yes, that was one of my stupider moments.

  Luckily he’d escaped unscathed.

  The woman had frequently popped into his thoughts since yesterday. He hadn’t thought of her in two decades, but for the last twenty-four hours he’d struggled to get her out of his mind. The memories of her were like a serpent, slithering about his brain, refusing to be ignored.

  Did she kill her mother?

  He’d walked away from his long-ago encounter with Salome knowing she was dangerous. A woman to avoid. He’d dipped a foot in her murky waters and was thankful he’d broken off the encounter when he did. She’d unnerved him and rattled him to his soul.

  Doesn’t mean she’d commit murder.

  Morrigan’s charming smile pushed her mother out of Truman’s thoughts. He saw nothing of the mother in the daughter, but for her daughter’s sake he hoped Salome turned up soon. The girl shouldn’t be with living with strangers after watching her grandmother die.

  A mother would never kill someone and leave her ten-year-old daughter to discover the body.

  Right?

  Ben Cooley rapped his knuckles on the frame of Truman’s office door. “Mornin’, Chief.”

  “Did you get that wrecked car towed?” Truman asked, thankful for the interruption by the gray-haired officer.

  “Yep. Took the tow truck long enough to get out there. Nearly froze my ass off.”

  “The boy was lucky. He could have been killed or hurt someone.”

  “You shoulda heard his father cuss him out. He won’t be driving again anytime soon, and once that broken arm heals, his dad said he’d be shoveling manure for the next six months.”

  “Good.”

  Ben hovered in the doorway, mangling a pair of gloves, his forehead wrinkled in concern.

  “Something else on your mind, Ben?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that Sabin murder. It’s all anyone in town can talk about.”

  Truman gave him his full attention. “What about it?”

  Ben glanced over his shoulder and then lowered his voice as he held Truman’s gaze. “They’re saying she was a witch.”

  This rumor is getting old.

  “Don’t tell me you believe in witches.”

  “They say all three of them practiced magic . . . mother, daughter, and granddaughter. They make up their own coven, handing down secrets from generation to generation,” he whispered.

  Enough malicious rumors. Truman exploded. “Fuck me, Ben! Are you seriously giving credence to that bullshit? I met that little girl. She’s an innocent child who doesn’t deserve to be gossiped about.”

  Ben had the decency to duck his head, looking abashed. “It’s crazy talk. But I think some of the tales about Olivia might be true.”

  Truman noted the familiar use of her first name. “Did you know her, Ben?” Augustus’s claim that Olivia had “known” many men ricocheted in Truman’s head, and acid filled his stomach.

  Ben Cooley? The man who just celebrated fifty years of marriage? Tell me it isn’t so.

  “I didn’t know her, but my older brother did.”

  Truman exhaled. “Explain.”

  Ben relayed a story that echoed Augustus McGee’s.

  How many similar stories will the investigation uncover?

  Truman was ready to hear something positive about the women who lived in the woods. “Why are you telling me this, Ben? That doesn’t shine any light on who might have killed her.”

  Ben squirmed and twisted his gloves. “I know. But if the daughter is anything like the mother, there might be a lot of men with an ax to grind. I’m just theorizing.”

  “Sounds more like vicious gossip.” Curves, soft flesh, welcoming eyes. “Let’s keep a lid on the chatter in town. Let people know it’s wrong to spread rumors and stories. It’s no help to the investigators. If someone can come forward with some facts, that’d be helpful.”

  “Hard to keep tongues from waggin’.”

  “Do your best,” Truman ordered. “Refer anyone with facts to Detective Bolton at county or to the FBI.”

  Ben’s head jerked up. “The FBI? Why the FBI?”

  Truman bit his tongue, silently cursing at himself. The similarity between the judge and Olivia Sabin’s deaths was not public knowledge. Yet.

  The older officer raised his brows as he spotted Truman’s discomfort. “Ah. Can’t say?”

  “Said too much already.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  “Thank you, Ben.”

  Lucas’s face appeared above Ben. The six-foot-four former high school football star dwarfed the older officer. “You’ve got a visitor, boss.” Lucas scowled. “He’s a reporter from The Oregonian. Won’t tell me what he wants to talk to you about, so I told
him you could only spare a minute.”

  “We done, Ben?” Truman asked.

  “Yep.” The officer squeezed past Lucas’s bulk in the narrow hallway.

  “You willing to see him?” his office manager asked.

  “Why not?” Truman was ready for a distraction from witches and rumors.

  “Hey!” Lucas hollered down the hall. “Reporter guy. Come on back.”

  Truman winced.

  A tall man about Truman’s age appeared and did an awkward passing hallway dance with Lucas. Truman knew Lucas was being difficult on purpose. The visitor was nearly as tall as Lucas and also moved with the confidence of an athlete, but he resembled a nimble quarterback rather than an offensive lineman. Truman stood and held out his hand, and they exchanged names. Michael Brody’s grip was strong, his gaze direct, and the watch on his wrist the same as that of Truman’s brother-in-law, the Microsoft executive. Translation: way out of Truman’s price range.

  He can afford that on a reporter’s salary?

  “What can I do for you?” Truman asked as he took a seat and gestured for the reporter to do the same.

  Brody perched on the end of his seat, his torso leaning toward Truman. “I’m investigating the story of Judge Malcolm Lake’s death.”

  Truman kept his expression even.

  Brody studied Truman’s face. “I see you’ve already heard of the connection between Lake and Olivia Sabin.”

  Again Truman showed no response. “I’m not sure what that has to do with me. I didn’t know either one of them.”

  “But you were at Olivia Sabin’s home yesterday morning. Why would you respond to a death that was out of your jurisdiction? And you were there pretty early . . . too early for news of her murder to have gotten out.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Does it matter? And the FBI was there even earlier. How did they know her death would be connected to a federal investigation?”

  “They didn’t—” Truman clamped his lips shut.

  The intensity of the reporter’s stare lightened a degree. “So they didn’t suspect the deaths were connected. Then why was Agent Kilpatrick on the scene so soon?”

  “I don’t think I’m the person to answer your questions.” Truman started to rise to dismiss the nosy asshole.

  Brody held up his hands. “I’ll back off. When I get on the scent of something big, I pry wherever I can.”

  Truman settled back in his seat, never taking his gaze from the reporter. “I don’t like your career choice.”

  The reporter laughed, flashing perfect teeth. “I hear that a lot. But I give a voice to people who might never be heard. I think of it as helping out the little guy . . . sorta like what you do in your position.”

  Truman’s annoyance multiplied. “Now—”

  “My story last year on prescription drug abuse led to the arrest of more than twenty dealers. And two drug recovery programs stepped up to offer free help to the three mothers I featured whose lives had been turned inside out by their addiction. Results like that is why I do my job.”

  Truman was silent.

  “I already approached Agent Kilpatrick. She shut me down.”

  Good.

  “But as I looked at who else was at the scene and I dug deeper, I found you to be another anomaly.” Brody tilted his head, and his green stare seemed to penetrate Truman’s brain, probing and assessing. “The more I dug into you, the more I wanted to meet you face-to-face. The officer who nearly died trying to rescue a woman from a car explosion two years ago.”

  Instant nausea triggered sweat at Truman’s temples.

  “And had every reason to never return to the big-city police force, and then he turns up in this remote town. Possibly licking his wounds? Looking for a slower pace?” The gaze softened slightly. “Couldn’t leave the job completely, could you?”

  Truman couldn’t speak. The asshole was baiting him.

  “I don’t know if Agent Kilpatrick has ever mentioned Ava McLane to you, but I’ve heard Ava talk about Mercy and a police chief who caught her eye. And then she packed up and moved.”

  He knows about Mercy and me? Confusion swamped him. The reporter had nimbly danced, faked, and jabbed Truman in the chest when he wasn’t looking—multiple times. As much as it pissed him off, a small part of Truman reluctantly admired the reporter’s interview skills.

  “What do you want, Brody?”

  The reporter was silent for a moment. “I never know when I’ll need to rely on good people. You’re staring daggers at me right now, but you’ve kept your cool. No name-calling, no blaming others, no slime. I might be able to help you one day. And vice versa.”

  Is he trying to convince me to make a deal with the devil?

  “My soul isn’t for sale,” Truman drawled.

  Brody’s smile filled his face. “I expected no less.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now. Someone needs to follow up on the anonymous visitor to Judge Lake’s office. This person came in one of the days before his death. I know there’s video—”

  “Wait. Why are you telling me this? And how the fuck do you know that?”

  “You’ll soon learn that asking for my source is a question I never answer. And I’m telling you because I try to spread myself around. I can’t push every leak through the same person.”

  Leak?

  “Look,” started Truman. “This case has nothing to do with me and—”

  “I know. Go tell it to someone who matters. But I think coming from you instead of me, it might get a little more notice. Interview the judge’s executive assistant. She’s turned over the visitor logs, but they’re not complete. Video should back up her story.” Brody frowned. “If it hasn’t been tampered with.”

  “Why doesn’t the assistant just tell the investigators?”

  “Because she believes she’s following the judge’s wishes. Total dedication and all that bullshit.”

  “Doesn’t she understand this is a murder investigation?”

  “She does. But I think she’s afraid of making the judge look bad.”

  “An affair?”

  Brody shrugged. “He was single. I don’t see the problem.”

  Maybe she’s protecting someone else.

  “I’ll mention it to Mercy. She’ll figure out who to tell. Why are you covering your ass?”

  “I always cover my ass,” said Brody, lifted one shoulder. “I think of it as being smart.”

  “All I have to do is say I got the lead from you.”

  “Very true. But every law enforcement agency I’ve ever worked with hates to admit they got information from a reporter. They don’t like attributing leads to us. Makes them look lazy. And possibly gullible if it goes nowhere.”

  True.

  “If you’re done manipulating me, you can get out of my office now.”

  “Can you recommend a place to get a good cup of coffee? Not the watered-down diner brew.”

  “Coffee Café,” Truman said reluctantly. “Two blocks up on the left.”

  The tall man touched two fingers to his brow in a casual salute and silently left.

  Truman stared after Brody, feeling as if he’d been professionally dissected and glued back together.

  What the fuck just happened?

  Mercy knocked on the door of the small Craftsman home and waited.

  The three snowmen in the front yard had lifted her spirits as she parked at the curb. The silent trio testified that good people lived here. People who believed in getting their kids outside to experience the elements. She hoped Morrigan had helped build them.

  Mercy had been driving to work when she’d abruptly pulled over and made calls until she received permission to visit Morrigan’s temporary foster home. She’d awoken with the child’s face front and center in her brain, and knew she’d never focus at work if she didn’t see that the girl was in good hands.

  A sense of responsibility for Morrigan poked at her consciousness. For her own sanity, Mercy knew that she’d keep tabs on th
e child until her mother returned. Maybe even after Salome returned.

  What if Salome isn’t fit to care for her? Or is arrested?

  She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

  The woman who opened the door had a toddler on her hip. “Good morning,” said Mercy. “You must be Hannah?”

  Hannah was around Mercy’s age, very slim, and wore her blonde hair pulled back in a messy but stylish bun that Mercy immediately wanted to duplicate. Her smile was kind, but the lines around her eyes indicated she’d been up half the night. Somehow Mercy suspected the woman didn’t mind. She’d immediately picked up a sense that Hannah was happy to dedicate her time to caring for children.

  “Yes, and you’re the agent that Morrigan has been talking about nonstop.”

  Mercy couldn’t hold back her smile. “How’s she doing?”

  “I’ll show you.” Hannah flashed a deep dimple and gestured for Mercy to follow. The toddler’s round blue eyes stared over Hannah’s shoulder as Mercy trailed behind through the home. She must be Hannah’s child. They have the same hair and eyes.

  The home was neat and clean and smelled like pancakes. Peals of girlish laughter reached Mercy’s ears. All good signs.

  They entered a family room where Morrigan sat cross-legged on the floor next to another girl of the same age. Both gripped video game controllers and were focused on the television, where they’d dressed an animated model in denim shorts, green hair, and spike heels. Giggles ensued as one of them changed the hair to bright pink.

  “She’d never held a game controller before,” Hannah whispered to Mercy. “I almost hated to let her do it. I loved the idea that she’d never been plugged into electronics, but Jenny insisted they both play. Morrigan mastered it within minutes.”

  Mercy nodded, understanding Hannah’s reluctance. This generation of children would never know what life had been like before the Internet, video games, and social media. Morrigan had been innocent and pure. A rarity.

  Survival without electricity and modern amenities was bred into Mercy’s bones. But every day it grew harder to stay on her toes, ready to respond if the electrical grid failed or a catastrophic natural disaster occurred. Some days she needed to vegetate in a jetted tub and watch movies on Netflix and forget that these luxuries could vanish in the blink of an eye. The relaxation never lasted long; awareness of an alternate harsh reality always simmered just below her skin.