Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

Hope would get suspicious if a tragedy befell the Newsome house the very day she’d announced her intention to inhabit it. I’d give it another day.

Looked like John-John’s vision was about to come true after all.

In the meantime,I hit the ground running investigating J-Hawk’s murder. I locked myself in the office and took out the three lists I’d photocopied. Winona’s was the most detailed. I cross-checked the customers’ descriptions I’d jotted down. When an hour passed and I hadn’t made progress, I realized I’d have to ask for help deciphering the names. Hopefully Winona wouldn’t ask how I’d gotten ahold of a list that was supposed to be confidential.

The parking area at Clementine’s was deserted, except for Winona’s rusted-out Toyota Camry and John-John’s El Dorado.

But John-John wasn’t behind the bar; Muskrat was.

His eyes lit up. “Have mercy.”

Before I braced myself, Muskrat picked me up in a bone-crushing hug. When he set me down, I wheezed, “That couldn’t have been good for your back.”

Muskrat scowled. “John-John oughten been telling you stuff like that about me.”

“He was worried.” I straightened the collar on his plaid shirt. “And he didn’t tell me anything you wouldn’t have told me if you’d been around.”

He grunted.

“Where’s Winona?”

“Taking a smoke break. Why?”

“I need to talk to her.”

“Pull up a stool while you’re waiting. You want a drink?”

“A Coke.” As long as there weren’t customers around, I spread the lists out on the bar.

“What’re those?” Muskrat asked.

“The lists Dawson asked for, detailing who was in here the night Jason Hawley was killed. I don’t know everyone, so I’m trying to figure out who was who.”

“Why?”

“Because Dawson isn’t doing dick on this case.”

“So as the new candidate for sheriff you trying to solve the case and show him up?”

“The news already spread out here?” Another thought occurred to me. “Or did John-John have a vision about it?”

“No, he was here when the campaign committee asked you to fill in, remember?”

“Yeah, but I intended to say no.”

“But you didn’t say no. You said yes.” Muskrat pointed to the lists. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Please.” I cross-referenced and jotted down observations, Muskrat’s mostly, which proved enlightening.

“What about Vinnie? Or any of his buddies? You’ve known them longer than I have. Vinnie and Jason did get into it that night.”

“Vinnie is on parole. His parole officer shows up in here from time to time to keep an eye on him. And if I’m right”-he pointed to another name I hadn’t recognized-“this Brad dude is Vinnie’s voice of reason.”

“I’ll bet that’s the guy who kept Vinnie from jumping in.”

“Probably. If Vinnie gets another violent offense on his record, they’ll throw Big Bertha at him.”

“Big Bertha” was slang in law enforcement for the three-strikes rule. A fourth felony conviction in the state meant you’d be a permanent guest at the penitentiary in Sioux Falls.

Muskrat tapped a finger on Trey’s name. “I’m surprised he ain’t at the top of your list.”

“Asshole. I wish I could just shoot him and be done with it. Part of me believes Trey could’ve had a hand in Jason’s murder. But a larger part of me can’t find the motive.”

“You really are taking this investigative angle seriously.”

“I have to since Dawson isn’t.” I scratched at Trey’s name, as if it would erase him from existence. “See, Trey is lazy. Shooting and stabbing someone takes effort. There’d have to be monetary gain for him. Although Trey works for Kit, I don’t see Kit ordering the hit.” I also knew Trey couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He’d need to brag to someone that he’d offed Jason.

Winona joined us, and we batted possible suspects back and forth. Muskrat tapped the last question marks on my list. “These guys are bad news, Mercy.”

“You know them?”

“By the description of their jackets. Lone eagle feather dipped in blood? That’s Sarohutu’s bunch.”

I frowned. “Eagle feather? That mean they’re from the Eagle River rez?”

“Based out of there, but yeah, they’re on all the reservations.”

“But he sounds Japanese.”

“He is. Half. Sarohutu’s mother was Lakota. A Japanese doctor on an exchange program on the rez knocked her up and left the country before Barry was born.”

“Barry Sarohutu?”

“He goes by Saro.”

“Does his group have a name?”

“Nothin’ official like the Banditos, or the Hombres. They’re into the same illegal shit as those other clubs. Biggest cash enterprise is drugs; they run every bit of the drug trade around here. They’re also in the sex trade. Buying and selling stolen stuff-everything from cars and government commodities to artifacts. But they’re also security for several Indian casinos, and they employ Indians to rip off tourists for authentic Indian experiences, like sweat lodges and spirituality quests.” He shook his head. “I ain’t happy they’ve started coming in here.”

From behind me, Winona said, “Luckily for us they’ve only been in four or five times in the last couple weeks.”

“They must’ve come in on my days off.” Except for the night J-Hawk was killed.

“If we tell them they ain’t welcome, they’ll retaliate.”

I compared the lists again. “Is that why John-John didn’t write that group down?”

“Probably.”

“Those are the guys you didn’t want to wait on,” I said to Winona. “The finger snappers.”

“I’d rather spit on ’em than wait on them. My cousins on Rosebud said even the tribal cops have a hard time dealing with them.”

Was that why Dawson hadn’t run an investigation? But without looking at the lists, Dawson wouldn’t have known who’d been in the bar that night. Scratch that excuse.

Muskrat’s eyes, body, voice turned menacing. “Steer clear of them, Miz Mercy.”

Fat chance. “That’s weird. I know there was a woman along, but I don’t see her name listed.”

Winona opened her mouth. Closed it. Slightly shook her head. She knew which woman I meant. She’d tell me-just not in front of Muskrat.

I changed tactics. “What about Rocky and Mike? Think they could’ve lain in wait for Jason outside and finished what he’d started inside?”

“No. If they’d been gunning for anyone, Mercy, it woulda been you. You showed ’em both up in front of the entire bar.”

Somebody in the bar had to have seen something. It was just figuring out who, by process of elimination.

Now I had the perfect excuse to canvass the entire county and its residents to find answers. I drained my Coke. “Thanks for the help.”

“Where you goin’?” Muskrat asked.

“To hit the campaign trail.”

Five of the guys on the list in Rocky’s group lived around Flat Bluffs, ten miles up the road from Clementine’s. Few locals kept their address and phone numbers unlisted, so matching names with addresses was easy.

Rocky Blount lived in a 1970s split level next to the lone ball field in Flat Bluffs. One big Dodge Cummins diesel was parked on the concrete slab next to a Dodge minivan.

I smoothed my hair and climbed out of my truck, practicing my campaign spiel. Then I knocked on the door.

“Mercy?” Rocky squinted at me. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Campaigning. I’m running as the replacement candidate for Bill O’Neil for Eagle River County sheriff.”

His bushy black eyebrows lifted. “You don’t say.”