Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

I kept my face neutral.

“Why was a dying man spending all his time on the road, away from medical treatment, away from his family? It sent up a red flag.”

“And you’d been following him for the last month, waiting for him to… what? Make a mistake? Make a sale?” Die? I could not wrap my head around that devious, thieving side of my friend.

The maroon fake leather had no give when Turnbull sank back. “We’d been waiting for him to make a sale.”

“You know who the buyer was?”

“Again, suspected. And it was confirmed when Hawley contacted Cherelle Dupris. He had contact with Cherelle on three separate occasions, that we know of. Which indicated to us that Saro and Victor were playing hardball with him.”

“Why?”

“Who knows what goes through drug dealers’ minds? Probably Victor and Saro demanded a reduced price and it pissed Hawley off because he knew exactly what his product was worth. We’re ninety percent sure Hawley decided not to sell to them the last time he met with Cherelle.”

The night he was killed at Clementine’s. No need for either of us to point that out, but the picture for motive was becoming clearer. “Had Hawley sold much out on the open market?”

“Near as we can figure he was down to eight hundred bottles. So assuming he and LeFleur made an even split, he’d managed to dump twelve hundred bottles over the last five months.”

“Where?”

Agent Turnbull’s face shuttered. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“So it’s pointless to ask if you’ve tracked down the other six hundred sixty bottles that weren’t in Jason’s hotel room or in his vehicle?”

“Where did you get the information about Hawley’s personal effects?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” My neener-neener response made him mad, although he tried to hide it. “Where’s the money? If J-Hawk was hocking drugs, he’d have a lot of cash. The omnipotent feds haven’t been able to track it down?”

“No.” His eyes turned hostile. “Thanks to you, we’re right back where we started.”

“How can you blame any of this on me?”

“We know you discovered that Cherelle was Saro and Victor’s screen and approached Cherelle at Clementine’s. Instead of walking away when Victor and Saro showed up, you followed them and kept up the pretense of campaigning for sheriff. Any law enforcement sniffing around spooks them.”

“Ah ah ah. Wrong, bucko. No pretense. I am campaigning for sheriff. Anything I said to Victor and Saro dealt with my campaign. Since I assume you or one of your G-men were in the vicinity, you also know I never wavered from keeping the conversation about getting their votes. So try again.”

“Then explain last night at Stillwell’s? What the fuck were you doing going after Benji Bad Wound? Showing him up in front of an entire bar full of witnesses?”

“I had no freakin’ clue who he was. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not the type to sit around and let a bully have free rein to beat the shit out of someone. No one else stepped in, so I did.”

“Why do you think no one else got involved?”

It occurred to me, for the first time, that everyone in the bar probably knew Benji was Saro and Victor’s nephew. The reason no one-including Steve Stillwell-had stepped in? Nobody wanted to incur the wrath or attention of the reservation bad boys. But I’d heard that blasted “Underdog” theme song inside my head and jumped in, fists flying.

Great plan, Mercy. Maybe the logic center of your brain has been rattled by too many IEDs.

But Agent Turnbull wasn’t done railing on me. “And to make matters worse, you threatened Saro and Victor when they showed up at Stillwell’s to talk to you about humiliating Benji.”

“They threatened me, Agent. I told them the truth-I’d derive great pleasure in taking them down if I was elected sheriff. Oh, and that was after they’d dropped hints about what a tool my father was.”

“Now, thanks to your macho behavior and the chip on your shoulder about your dearly departed dad, Saro and Victor have closed ranks and holed up on the reservation where we can’t get to them.”

“Get to them for what?”

No response.

My jaw popped I clenched my teeth so hard. “You have proof one of them killed Jason Hawley?”

Agent Turnbull stared at me blankly.

“Goddammit. Tell me.”

He offered me a snakebite smile. “I don’t have to tell you a thing, Sergeant Major.”

“Is he bothering you?”

Startled, I glanced up to see Sheriff Dawson. His face was pure business, his posture pure agitation as he braced a hand on the back of the booth above my head and loomed over Agent Turnbull.

Yikes.

“Or am I interrupting something?”

“No. Agent Turnbull and I were finished.”

At my use of his title, Turnbull scowled.

“Would you like to join us?” I asked Dawson politely.

“I’ll pass.”

But Dawson didn’t move. Agent Turnbull didn’t move. I didn’t move. A machete couldn’t have hacked the thick air.

Agent Turnbull’s curious gaze winged between Dawson’s impass-ive face and mine. A knowing smile upturned the corners of his lips. “I’m not interested in muscling in on your territory, Dawson.”

“You’ve been on my territory since the second you stepped foot in this county. I’ll cooperate with the feds because I’ve got no choice, Agent Turnbull, but I don’t gotta like it.”

Dawson was purposely being obtuse. Again, I was reminded of his fierceness. Of his sweetness. He’d rather take an insult than allow one to be directed at me.

You’re such a sucker, Mercy. Maybe you oughta pucker up, bat your eyelashes, and squeeze his big biceps, too.

Turnbull, being a nosy asshole fed, didn’t let it slide. “Tell me, Sheriff. Does knowing what she’s capable of make it hard to fall asleep next to her some nights?”

I ground my teeth at hearing Turnbull voice the question I’d asked myself.

Dawson flashed his teeth. “Have a nice day, Agent.” He looked at me, no differently than usual, and said, “You, too, Miz Gunderson.”

After Dawson swaggered off, Turnbull asked, “How many people know about you and Dawson?”

I pretended to give the question serious thought. “Probably everyone, with the exception of the folks in the Restful Acres Nursing Home. Most of them have limited recall, and I doubt they even know who’s in the sheriff’s race. But everyone else knows I’m running against him.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

I know. “Excuse me.” I ducked out of the booth. I didn’t run, but with his long-legged stride I didn’t catch Dawson until we were in front of Pete’s Pawnshop. “Dawson. Wait.”

He seemed surprised to see me. Surprised and wary. He glanced over his shoulder. “If you’re gonna chew me out, I’d prefer you did it in private.”

“I didn’t chase you down to rip into you.”

“Then why did you chase me down?”

Because I’m just as much a tool and a fool as I feared. “To ask why you didn’t tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“About Shay Turnbull. Who he is, who he works for.”

The angry muscle ticked in Dawson’s jaw. “Why does it matter now?”

“It just does.”

“That’s a bullshit answer, and I don’t have time for this.” Dawson spun and started to walk away from me.

Frustrated by his dismissal, I grabbed the back of his shirt to stop him.

Within two seconds he’d snagged my wrist and strong-armed me into the alley. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m pissed off.”

Dawson snorted. “Like that’s news.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Turnbull was a fed? God, Dawson, if I’d known the feds had taken over the investigation, and you had no choice but to let the Hawley case drop, I never would’ve agreed-”