Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

“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.”