Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

Probably everyone in the whole damn county was whispering about that crazy Gunderson woman.

Probably they were right.

After a quick rundown of my daily duties the next morning at the Blackbird Diner, Geneva left me to brood in the far back booth, isolated from the restaurant activity.

A shadow blocked the patchwork of sunlight. I glanced up, expecting another nosy supporter, but Shay Turnbull slid into the high-backed bench seat across from me.

I folded the newspaper and slapped it on the table. “If you want this booth, you can have it.”

The waitress appeared. “Can I getcha something?”

“Coffee. And bring candidate Gunderson a refill.”

After she waddled off, I said, “I was leaving.”

“ Was being the operative word.” Shay didn’t speak again until the coffee arrived.

Screw this. I wasn’t interested in whatever cryptic comment he’d make. I started to leave.

His hand shot out, and his fingers tightly circled my wrist. “I said you’re staying.”

“If you like that hand without broken bones, you’ll let go of my arm right now.”

“Threatening me will only cause more problems for you, Sergeant Major.”

He knew my rank? “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m so happy you asked.” Shay used his free hand to drag a wallet out of his front shirt pocket. Except it wasn’t a wallet. It was a badge. He flipped it open and thrust it in my face.

My eyes focused on the tiny text.

Fuck me. Shay Turnbull was a fed. Specifically, an agent with the ICSCU-whatever the hell that was.

“It stands for the Indian Country Special Crimes Unit,” he said as I continued to scrutinize the gold metal and black lettering.

“I still don’t know what means, Agent Turnbull.”

He released my wrist and pocketed the badge. “It means this division of the FBI works with everyone.”

“So you’re what… a super-duper double-secret agent? Able to leap from agency to agency with a single bound? Slice through bureaucratic red tape with your wit and charm? Allowed to skulk around wherever the hell you want with absolute impunity?”

“You asking if I have autonomy? Yes. And no. You asking if I answer to anyone? Don’t we all?”

Smug jackass. “So you work with the BIA?”

He nodded.

“The DEA?”

“Yep.”

“The Department of the Interior?”

“Them, too.”

Agent Turnbull studied me with the air of detachment all government clones had perfected. How had I missed the signs? His sudden unexplained appearances. Disappearances. The ominous warnings. The snappy, hip clothing and brooding good looks had thrown me off.

He angled across the table; his eyes snapped fire. “Tell me, how is it that you can fuck up a multiagency investigation, one that’s taken over five months, in a little over a week?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Which was not a lie… for a change.

“Don’t try my patience, Sergeant Major, I’m not in the mood.”

I hated that he’d used my military rank. Hell, I hated that he even knew my military rank. “You know about me, but I know nothing about you, and I don’t mind saying… that seriously pisses me off. You’ve had occasions to tell me exactly who you were, Agent Turnbull, and you haven’t. So I’m inclined not to cooperate with you.”

No response.

“If I’d known what you were up to, maybe you wouldn’t be pissy about me supposedly fucking up your op.”

Stone-cold glare.

I kicked my antagonism up a notch. “But just like all the other spooks, you prefer to follow your own agenda and place blame after the fact, right?”

“You don’t have a high opinion of the government after being in Uncle Sam’s employ for so many years,” he said dryly.

Inside I seethed, but I kept my tone even. “My opinion of the armed forces is just jim-dandy. My opinion of governmental agencies that showed up and tried to tell us how to do our jobs, while infringing upon our ability to do those jobs? That makes my blood boil. I’ve been down this road before, far too many times. Ask a question, and your ilk pulls the standard ‘We can’t discuss classified cases’ line of bullshit. Jesus. Sometimes it was easier dealing with the Taliban than the inner workings of U.S. government agencies.”

“Your past experiences with other agencies-good or bad-are not my concern.”

“Then why are you here?”

That gave him pause. “Why do you think I’m in Eagle River County, Mercy?”

“Besides to annoy me? I’m guessing if all those federal agencies are involved, it’s something big.”

“That’s vague.” Agent Turnbull folded his arms over his chest. “Come on, you’re a smart cookie, yet you’re struggling to believe what’s right in front of you.”

I allowed the same cool stare he’d leveled on me.

“Indulge me,” he prompted. “What conclusions have you drawn in your quest to find out who killed your buddy, Major Jason Hawley?”

Don’t do it. Maybe he doesn’t know diddly and he’s trolling for information.

As much as civilians claimed the right hand didn’t know what the left hand was doing, elite government agencies made it their business to know every goddamned thing.

My mouth engaged before my brain. “I’m betting you’re here because Jason Hawley had more than a couple of bottles of OxyContin in his possession. Since he crossed state lines, it becomes a federal matter, so the DEA is involved. But the group that runs the drug trade in these parts is based out of the Eagle River Reservation, which means involving the BIA. Since the BIA deals with the FBI, they’re also brought on board. So every agency knows the particulars, except local law enforcement. For some reason you’ve kept the Eagle River County Sheriff’s Department in the dark.” I mimicked his posture-arms crossed, head cocked pertly. “Am I close to getting a cookie, Agent Turnbull?”

“Not bad. With a couple of exceptions. One, the DEA turned the cases involving reservations over to us-the multigroup task force-early this year. We’ve maintained a low profile, even while we’ve been tracking the movements of the suspected key players on this specific case. Two, we haven’t kept Eagle River County Sheriff’s Department out of the loop. Sheriff Dawson is cooperating with us fully.”

My jaw dropped. I must’ve misheard him. “What?”

“Sheriff Dawson is aware of our multiagency objective. He’s not happy about us taking over all aspects of investigation of this case.”

“ All aspects of it?” I repeated inanely.

“Every bit. He’s not allowed to discuss this case with his deputies or anyone else. He cannot proceed with any line of investigation he initially started. He cannot issue a statement of any type about this case without contacting me first.”

The breath whooshed from my body. I’d jumped in the race for sheriff because I believed Dawson hadn’t been doing his job clearing up J-Hawk’s murder. When in reality, Dawson had no choice. He hadn’t been slacking in his investigative duties at all. The feds had tied his hands and his tongue.

Fuck.

My thoughts raced back to Dawson chewing out Turnbull for showing up at the crime scene at Clementine’s. It must’ve rankled Dawson, knowing he’d lose out on investigating the case before the victim’s body had cooled. Knowing his investigative techniques would be questioned again. Knowing I’d be his harshest critic. Except this time, I’d taken my concerns public, setting out to prove to the community that I was better qualified to be sheriff than Mason Dawson.

Now I really felt like tossing my cookies.