Mercy Kill

THIRTEEN

In my sleep-deprived state the next morning, I listened to proposed county budget cuts.

The proposed reallocation of state funds for the county school district.

The proposed budgetary restrictions on fire and ambulance services.

The proposed increases in county vehicle maintenance costs.

My head pounded. I knew nothing about any of this.

“Neither did he, Mercy. You’ll figure it out.”

I looked up at Kiki, startled I’d mumbled the words aloud.

“Didn’t you have to fill out requisition forms and stuff like that in the army?”

“No. The CO did it all, or I blackmailed someone into doing my portion.” I sorted through the sheaf of papers. “I can’t imagine my dad reading all this.”

“He did. Oh, he grumbled, but it was just for show. Wyatt loved scrutinizing yearly budgets and questioning the county commissioners on where they’d allocated the taxpayer’s money.” Kiki put her hand on my forearm. “We only gave you this so you’d have an overview before you debate Dawson. He’s been studying this budget for over a month, so you need to get up to speed.”

My stomach lurched. “Whoa. A debate? No one said anything about me having to debate him.”

“Part of the election process. The format is simple. You state your platform, he states his, and there’s a dance afterward.”

Overwhelmed by the responsibilities, I pushed away from the conference table and walked to the coffeepot. I was in way over my head.

I’d hoped running for sheriff would give me more insight into my father. But these meetings drove home the point that I didn’t know Sheriff Gunderson as well as I’d believed. His employees-hell, even Dawson-had known him better than me. The campaign workers planned to play on my heritage-bogus as it was. The only thing Wyatt Gunderson and I shared was the same last name. And I’d reluctantly approved the campaign slogan: “Gunderson, the name in law enforcement you can trust.”

How would the voters feel if they found out you’d torched your own building and lied about it? Or that you’d covered up a murder and lied about it?

Yeah, I was one trustworthy motherfucker.

“Mercy?”

I faced Geneva and watched everyone file out of the room. “Sorry. My head was spinning.”

“I imagine, especially after what happened last night. Has Klapperich contacted you with any additional news about what caused the fire at the Newsome house?”

“No.”

Geneva’s bright blue eyes pierced me. “Why aren’t you more upset?”

I shrugged. “I’d rather the damn thing blew up when no one lived there. And don’t think I haven’t heard whispers of the Gunderson curse surfacing again.”

“Well, it’s too bad you didn’t have insurance on it.”

“Live and learn.” I scooped the stack of papers rivaling Stephen King’s latest novel from her hands and jammed it into my messenger bag. I met Geneva’s skeptical gaze. “I’ll read it. I promise.”

“No more the-dog-ate-my-homework excuses, okay?”

“It’s better than the truth that I spilled whiskey on it.”

After I ditched my bag in my truck, I stood on Main Street debating my next move. Then I noticed George Johnson’s construction van sitting in front of Pete’s Pawnshop.

Pete Parnell should’ve named his store Useless Crap No One Wants, because it wasn’t as much a pawnshop as a place for Pete to shitpile the junk he scavenged from auctions. Or to take advantage of people low on cash by letting them hock everything from heirloom star quilts to wedding rings.

The place had a musty machine smell that hadn’t improved since my childhood. My dad loved a bargain, and I’d spent what seemed like hours listening to Dad and Pete haggle. But beneath the familiar scent was another. New construction. The tangy pine of freshly cut lumber, the chalky smell of Sheetrock mud, and the sourness of paint primer.

Holy hell, the entire left side of the room was walled off.

“Looks good, don’t it?”

I glanced at Pete, twirling on his bar stool behind the glass display cases. He wore too-small striped engineer overalls with a red hankie hanging out of the front pocket. His seen-better-days ball cap was emblazoned with PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN across the front. Pete was bald as a pool ball beneath that hat-or so I’d been told. I’d never seen him without a cap of some sort covering his head.

“What are you building, Pete?” I dodged plastic milk crates overflowing with mysterious machine parts and stacks of old National Geographic.

“A coffee shop.”

That stopped me. “In here?” Eww. Who wanted dust and metal flakes in their coffee?

“Yep. Re-Pete’s wife Sabrina has been going on and on about how popular them fancy coffee places are. We thought we’d get a jump on putting the first one in Eagle Ridge.”

Pete’s son, Re-Pete, had actually been born Pete Parnell Junior, but everyone-mostly his father-thought calling him Re-Pete would be the height of hilarity. I didn’t envy Re-Pete the nickname during our school years, and certainly not now.

“’Course, I promised Sabrina I’d spiff up the pawnshop a bit.”

He’d have to spiff it up a lot before I’d patronize the place.

“Did you get a taste for them fancy coffees when you was traveling the world, Mercy?”

“Anything is better than the sludge the army served.”

“I hear ya. So you’re running for your daddy’s old job?”

“Yep. Can I count on your vote?”

Pete folded his arms over his beer belly. “Seein’s I ain’t got a beef with the way Dawson’s been doin’ things…”

At least it wasn’t a hell no. Tired of small talk, I said, “I’m looking for George. He around?”

“In the back. Be careful of the wet paint.”

George gripped a paint roller in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Soon as he saw me, he cut his conversation short. “Well, if it isn’t the woman who can stop a bar fight and run for sheriff.”

“I can whistle while I juggle, too.” I smiled. “Speaking of bar fights, I’m trying to track down some information about what went down the night Jason Hawley was killed, and I was hoping you could help me.”

“Sure. Whatcha need?”

“I heard you were talking to him in the back room at Clementine’s before the fight.”

“Yeah, so?”

“What did you talk about?”

He measured me, then shrugged. “Ain’t a big secret he was trying to get local construction workers on board with supporting the pipeline. He pulled the usual ‘great-paying jobs for skilled workers’ line of bullshit.”

“Did you believe him?’ “‘

“Some of the guys did. And they were pissed when they found out Hawley had forgotten to tell them they’d have to join the Pipelayers’ Union in order to get hired. We don’t need to pay a fucking union to get us jobs.”

South Dakota. Not such a big union state. “Were any of your guys mad enough-”

“To kill him over it? Hell no. I can vouch for every guy there that night. They may get a little crazy, drink too much, mix it up with their fists when provoked, but no way would they kill for kicks.”

“Did Hawley talk to anyone else after you?”

“Some Indian chick.”

That was new. “Know her name?”

“Cherelle something. But she was trying to talk to him, and he was blowing her off.”

“What’d she look like? Younger? Older?”

“Younger. Pretty until you noticed the scar running down the right side of her face. I felt sorry for her, but at the same time, she had this incredibly mean look about her.” George squinted at me suspiciously. “Why you asking me this?”

“Has Dawson been around asking you?”

“No.”

“Then there’s your answer. I’m following a few lines of investigation he hasn’t.” I pointed to his roller. “Thanks for your help. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Outside, the fresh air alone wasn’t clearing my head. I took off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace. Since Main Street was only three blocks long I’d run out of pavement before my mind really kicked into gear.

So far my one lead was that J-Hawk had talked to an Indian woman named Cherelle. I would’ve remembered a scarred woman.

I leaned against the brick building housing the Wipf Law Office. How long had J-Hawk been in the bank room before he came up to the main part of the bar and ordered a drink from me? Had he stuck around in the parking lot afterward because he’d been waiting for someone specific?

The reflection of a passing car flashed in my face, and I averted my eyes. My gaze caught on an SUV parked in the bank’s parking lot between a boat and a pair of Sea-Doo Jet Skis. It was angled so I couldn’t read the license plate. But I recognized it.

What was Jason’s SUV still doing here?

I crossed the street and walked around the vehicle. Then I tried the doors. Locked. No surprise. I cupped my hands to block the light and peeked in the windows. The inside was clean as a whistle.

“I could arrest you for attempted breaking and entering,” he drawled.

My heart raced a bit when I faced him. “I was just looking, Sheriff.”

“Uh-huh. I saw you pulling on the door handles.”

Busted. “Go ahead and slap the cuffs on me.”

“Being’s you’re running against me, if I arrested you, some people might see it as an abuse of power on my part, so I’m gonna let it slide.” He paused. “What’re you doing here?”

“My truck is on its last legs. I’m considering an upgrade. Thought I’d check the repo lot first. See if the bank’s prices were better than at Stevenson’s car lot in Viewfield.”

Dawson grinned, but I couldn’t read his eyes beneath his sunglasses. “You always have an excuse handy?”

“Only when I need one.”

“So what’s your excuse for not telling me you’d agreed to run in Bill O’Neil’s place? You know, the night I spent in your bed?”

Mature of me, not to look around to see if anyone was listening to our conversation. “I hadn’t decided.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s the truth. They asked me, and I told them I needed time to think it over. Then some stuff happened and…” Stop talking, Mercy. You owe him nothing.

“You running to spite me?”

“No, I’m running in spite of you, Dawson.”

That startled him. “Good to know. But you’re not going to win.”

I offered him a bold smile. “Cocky much?”

He shrugged. “You wanna bet on it?”

“If I do win, will you stay on as a deputy?”

No answer.

“Don’t want to work under a woman?” I taunted.

“Oh, if you’ll recall, darlin’, I do my best work when I’m under a woman.”

I blushed. Damn him.

“I heard about the fire. Glad no one was hurt.”

“Me, too. I was surprised you weren’t there.”

“Why?”

“You seem to be everywhere.”

“You mean I’m present at all your catastrophes?”

“Not nice, Sheriff.”

“Gotta admit, Sergeant Major, you’ve had more adventures in this county in the last nine months as a civilian than most residents have in their entire lives.”

“Is this where you bring up the Gunderson curse?”

Dawson peered at me over the top of his sunglasses. “Is this where you tell me why you’re somehow involved in every suspect thing that goes on around here?”

I opened my mouth to shoot back a retort, but approaching footsteps caught our attention.

Bob Schofield, bank president, hustled between us. “Should I be worried you two are coming to blows?”

“Ask the sheriff. I’m unarmed.” I smiled with my teeth.

“That’s a first.” Dawson smiled with his teeth right back at me.

Hey, he was enjoying this.

So are you.

“Everything is all right?” Bob prompted.

“Me ’n’ Miz Gunderson were just having a friendly discussion.”

“A friendly wager, you mean.”

Dawson’s eyebrow winged up.

Bob said, “Really? What’s the bet?”

“I told the sheriff if he wins the election, I’ll kiss a pig. In public.”

“And Sheriff? What about you?”

When Dawson gave me that lethally sexy cowboy grin, I knew I was totally hosed.

“If she wins? I’ll play the part of the pig and let her kiss me in public.”

That pigheaded jerk.

Dawson eased away from the MasterCraft boat he’d leaned against. “Bob. Nice seeing you.” He shook the banker’s hand. Then he took a step toward me and offered his hand.

I had no choice but to take it. I expected he’d stroke his thumb on the underside of my wrist, or squeeze a bit harder than necessary. He did neither. He simply shook it and said, “See you around, Mercy.”

The retort “Not if I see you first” automatically jumped from my mouth, and both men laughed.

Mature, Gunderson.

Tongues would be wagging about our exchange, and I wouldn’t put it past Bob Schofield to start a betting pool. Bankers. Opportunistic bastards.

I walked to the Blackbird Diner and selected a table close to the front door. Starved, I ordered the noon special, a patty melt with potato dumpling soup.

My mind kept replaying every word of my exchange with Dawson, like some teen crush. Maybe I was a little shocked he wasn’t more pissed off about my running for sheriff, just that I hadn’t told him sooner. That was the kicker; Dawson wasn’t aware he had been the first person I’d told.

I looked up when the door chime jangled. Deputy Moore ordered a cup of coffee to go. She meandered over.

“Mercy. How you doing?” she asked, like she hadn’t spent an hour with me, strategizing a campaign to overthrow her boss.

“Hungry. Got a minute to join me?”

“Only about that. I’m on a coffee run for the sheriff.” She tossed her bag on the chair across from me. “Mitzi, bless her heart, always brews Sheriff Dawson a fresh pot, since he’s so damn picky about his coffee.”

How well I knew that about Mr. Coffee Connoisseur. “So have you heard about Pete’s new venture? Enticing the masses in Eagle Ridge to buy four-dollar cups of coffee?”

“I imagine that we, in the sheriff’s department, won’t have a choice but to patronize it. Can’t be accused of showing favoritism.” She kept her eyes on mine. “I have a package for you. When the coast is clear, I’ll slide it under the table.”

“Okay.” I watched Mitzi duck down beneath the hostess stand. “All clear.”

With stealth I admired, Kiki passed it to me, while nonchalantly sipping her coffee. My fingers briefly grazed the edges of a manila envelope before I secured it in my trusty wonder bag. “What is it?”

“Is Mitzi hovering anywhere nearby?”

“No. She’s wiping tables.”

“She’s got hawklike hearing. I swear she’s Dawson’s best source in this town. I debated coming in here or bringing it to you later.”

“How’d you know where I was?”

Kiki quirked a brow. “Dawson’s web of spies. How do you think he tracked you to the bank parking lot so fast after you left Pete’s?”

Damn.

“Besides, I thought you’d want to see this right away. It’s the coroner’s report on Jason Hawley.” Kiki leaned forward. “And the list of Jason’s personal effects.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“Wasn’t easy. It came yesterday, and the boss immediately locked it in his desk.”

I frowned. “Is that standard procedure?”

“No. Which is why I know something is up. He didn’t show it to Jazinski or me. And neither of us was allowed to catalog the contents of the victim’s vehicle or the motel room.”

A small sheriff’s department meant all employees, from the deputies to the office support staff, knew damn near everything that went on in the county office. So why wasn’t Dawson sharing with his coworkers?

Maybe because he suspects those coworkers are leaking information about an open case to his competition.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Kiki removed her hat and raked a hand through her hair. “As a candidate for sheriff, you should be in the loop on current cases. Plus, I think you actually care about catching whoever killed Jason Hawley. Dawson doesn’t seem to have the level of dedication you do. Which bugs the crap out of me and is also why I’m backing you.”

“I appreciate it, but does Dawson know you’re supporting me?”

“No. He never would’ve left me alone at the station today.” Her nose wrinkled. “At least Jolene was working and not Jilly.”

“Jilly?”

“The receptionist who fancies herself a supermodel?”

Ah. Robo-Barbie. “Who hired jiggly Jilly?”

“Who do you think?”

Dawson. Typical he’d chosen a hot chickie to play fetch and carry for him. “How’d you find out about the report?”

“Claire Montague dropped it off personally.” Kiki scowled. “Stupid woman was all puffed up like a peahen, bragging that her instructions were to give it only to Dawson. That’s not all she wanted to give him, if you get my drift.”

A burst of jealousy flared inside me. “Is he interested in her?”

“Not in the slightest. When Dawson left to go home for lunch, I snuck into his office and copied the file.”

“Did you have a chance to look at it?”

“Only to see a bunch of medical gibberish. You’ll have to do some research to decipher it, which is why I wanted to give it to you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.”

Mitzi delivered my food. The mix of fried onions, melted cheese, tangy horseradish sauce, and toasted bread smelled heavenly, but I’d lost my appetite. All I wanted was to hole up in my office at the ranch and dissect the reports.

Kiki stood. “I’ll let you enjoy your lunch.”

I didn’t linger after the plates were cleared.