TWENTY
Early the next morning Mercy watched the evidence techs remove the weapons from Landon’s house. Every registered weapon had been accounted for, and Mercy had half expected they’d find a few illegal weapons, but they did not. Landon’s mother leaned against a wall and smoked as her steely eyes watched every move. She’d known the officers were coming but had still given them a mouthful of grief when they arrived.
Mercy saw her resemblance to Landon. His mom was incredibly skinny and looked as if she subsisted on cigarettes and dry toast. She worked at the grocery store in Bend, and it took Mercy a moment before she realized she’d rung up Mercy’s groceries several times. His mother wasn’t a service-with-a-smile checker, but she was fast and efficient and never had to look up the produce codes, which was more important to Mercy than a fake smile.
No recognition had shone in her eyes as she met Mercy that morning.
She’ll remember me after this morning. I’ll have to go through someone else’s checkout line.
“Come look at this,” Eddie said to Mercy. After ignoring an angry stare from Landon’s mother, she followed him out the back of the house. They walked for several minutes, heading to the far end of the property. Mercy looked up at the gentle hills that bordered the Hecht property. The sun was just peeking over the rise, and she watched her breath float away. The sky was clear, but it was going to stay cold all day.
“How many acres do they have?” Mercy asked.
“About ten.”
“Have you found any other outbuildings?”
“Just the big one beside the house. It’s got a couple of dirt bikes, quads, and an old truck that hasn’t run in over a decade.”
“Get copies of the tread patterns from the bikes?”
“All of them.”
“Ms. Hecht didn’t protest?”
“I know how to turn on the charm. She would have handed over her brand-new iPhone if I’d asked.”
Glancing sideways at Eddie and taking in the handsome profile and nice build, Mercy agreed. He was excellent at schmoozing.
“Maybe you could freelance as a gigolo,” she said dryly.
“We prefer to be called escorts.”
Mercy spotted Truman far ahead, bending over next to a tech and a few Deschutes County deputies. They wore gloves and were picking up shells and tossing them in a bucket. As Mercy drew closer she saw the bucket was nearly full and the ground was still littered with shells. “Jeez. If he’d spent sixty seconds after each practice to clean up after himself, it wouldn’t look like this.”
“Did you see his bedroom? I doubt the phrase cleaning up is in his vocabulary,” said Eddie.
She had seen it and was thankful that the techs were responsible for finding the weapons. She would have needed to shower before returning to work.
They reached the others, and Truman handed her a pair of gloves. “Hope your back feels strong this morning.”
Mercy eyed the group as they bent and squatted to get the shells. “If I say no, can I just watch?”
“No.”
“I’m going to show her the targets,” said Eddie. “Then we’ll help.” He pulled Mercy past the working group and toward another tech who was far downfield, meticulously digging bullets out of wooden targets.
“What about the targets?” she asked.
“Whoever has been shooting here is damn good, and there aren’t any shells closer to the targets. They’re all back there.” He gestured back at Truman and the group.
Mercy looked ahead and then back. Landon’s three-hundred-yard claim looked accurate to her. “So Landon wasn’t exaggerating about his skills last night.”
“Assuming he’s the shooter.”
“With this many shells, it has to be him or his mother. No one else lives here, right?”
“Nope. And I already asked Mom if anyone else uses their range. She said Landon occasionally has friends over, but it’s usually just him.”
“He needs a different hobby.”
“Or a job,” added Eddie.
Mercy’s phone rang and she answered as they continued their trek. “Kilpatrick.”
“Agent Mercy?” said a female voice.
“Yes.”
“This is Tilda Brass.”
“Good morning, Tilda. I hope everything is all right?” Mercy stopped walking and gestured for Eddie to continue ahead. He raised a brow at her but kept walking.
“I found that phone number I told you about. I don’t know how the piece of paper ended up in this drawer, but if I hadn’t been looking for my candy thermometer, I wouldn’t have found it for another month. I need to make some divinity for Thanksgiving. I’ll make a few more batches when Christmas gets closer.”
“What’s the number, Tilda?” Mercy wasn’t a fan of divinity. Too sweet. But she respected the skill it took to get the candy to set just right.
The woman read off the number, and Mercy punched it into the notes on her phone. “Is there a name?”
“Jack Howell. Is it okay if I call him to let him know I’m reconsidering his offer?”
“Can you wait twenty-four hours? I’ll mention you’re still interested.”
“I hope hearing that the FBI is poking around doesn’t make him change his mind,” she fretted. “I’m ready to move on.”
“Has anything else happened?” Mercy asked sharply.
“No. Nothing has. It just feels like this house is telling me to leave.” She cleared her throat. “I hear voices sometimes . . . not as if someone is actually in the house—they’re more like echoes of old conversations. And I swear one of my old dogs still wanders around. Last night I could feel him sleeping on my bed like he used to, but when I looked nothing was there.”
Mercy didn’t know what to say.
“I know. You’re thinking that I’m an old woman who shouldn’t be living alone.”
“No—”
“Well, I am old. And I should set myself up in a safe place while I’m still able to make my own decisions.” Her voice fell. “Although I do like thinking that my good Charlie is sticking close. He was always a protective dog.”
“I suspect he is,” agreed Mercy. “He’s watching over you. He’ll probably be happy if you’re living where there are more people around.” She believed the spirit of a beloved pet would hang around a vulnerable owner. Tilda ended the call, and Mercy did a quick Google search on Jack Howell as she jogged to catch up with Eddie.
“He’s a real estate agent,” she said in surprise as she reached Eddie.
“Who?”
She brought him up-to-date.
“Sounds like you need to find out who his client is,” said Eddie. “Unless he’s one of those agents who personally buy property as an investment.”
“She really should sell,” Mercy said. “I don’t think she should be living alone.”
“Does she need to sell to afford to move?”
“I didn’t ask. From our conversations, she implied it.”
“Do you want to call and ask who his client is or set up an appointment to talk to him?”
“I’m always about asking first,” said Mercy. “Why jump through hoops if people will tell you what you want to know over the phone?”
“I’m always shocked by the personal stuff people tell me,” Eddie said. “I’ll call to ask a question about a purchase they made and get their life history.”
“Every time,” Mercy agreed. She dialed the number and the agent answered the phone.
“Jack Howell here!” he said with gusto. “What can I do for you today?”
Mercy identified herself. “Tilda Brass said you were interested in buying her property.”
“Brass . . . Brass . . . ,” he muttered. “Oh! The spread out east. Oh yes. That’s a great piece of land. Way too much for her to handle.”
“You know Tilda?” Mercy asked, slightly irked that this stranger had voiced a judgment about the woman.
“I met her twice,” he said. “Lovely woman, but she seemed overwhelmed by the amount of land she had to manage.”
Such a salesman.
“How big is the property?” Mercy asked. She faintly remembered that her parents had talked in awed tones about how big the property was when her childhood friend lived there, but she’d assumed it’d been sold in parcels and winnowed down over the decades.
“Six hundred acres.”
Mercy had to agree with the agent that it was a bit much for one woman to handle. “Who are you representing?”
Jack was silent for a moment. “Are you interested in buying the property?”
“No, I’m interested in who you’re representing.”
More silence. “Well, my buyer has asked to remain anonymous,” he finally said. “I’m sure you can respect that.”
Mercy’s interest level quadrupled. “Actually, Mr. Howell, I can’t. We’re investigating the two murders of police officers on the property, so I’m sure you can respect that I’d like to know the name of the person who was interested in buying this property before its barn was set on fire.”
Listening, Eddie grinned and gestured with his hands for her to keep it up.
“Can I call you back?”
“Have you forgotten the name of your buyer?”
“No . . . I need him to tell me it’s all right to tell you his name. He’d been very emphatic about his confidentiality.” His earlier gusto had evaporated.
“You do realize I can get a warrant for the information, right? But I’d much rather spend the time working on the deaths of these officers instead of filling out paperwork.”
“I understand.” Judging by the amount of discomfort in his voice, he was squirming in his seat and reluctant to let his buyer know the FBI was demanding his name. “You’re creating an ethical issue for me. When a client asks me to keep—”
“Mr. Howell.” Fury filled her. “I don’t give a damn about your code of ethics at the moment. I care about finding a killer. I’ll give you five minutes to call your client and get back to me.” She rattled off her number and ended the call.
“Nice,” said Eddie with an admiring grin. “I suspect he’s dialing as fast as he can.”
“Jerk. Who do you think his client is?”
“I suspect we’ll know in five minutes.”
They continued to the end of the target range, and Mercy had to agree with Eddie that whoever had used the range was an excellent shot. Five minutes came and went. And then ten.
Mercy called Jack Howell, and the call went to his voice mail. She dialed again with the same results.
She fumed as they traced their steps back to where Truman and the others had just finished picking up the shells.
“Nice timing,” he told her as he deliberately stretched his back.
“Sorry.” She told him about her phone call with the real estate agent.
“Sounds like you need to pop into his office and have a chat with him,” said Truman.
“It’ll be my next stop.”
Truman shook the door handle of Jack Howell’s real estate office. It was a one-man shop, and it appeared the agent had stepped out for a midmorning coffee. He glanced at Mercy; she was ready to strangle someone.
“I left two more messages,” Mercy stated. “Clearly he’s avoiding me.”
“Not for long,” Truman said.
“Damn right.” She stared at the name on the glass door as she chewed on her lip. Inside they could see two desks, but only one had a computer set up. Flyers advertising homes for sale papered part of the building’s windows. The office was a tiny storefront in a small strip mall that also housed a vape shop, a pawn shop, and a Hispanic bakery.
“Hungry?” Truman asked as the smell of fresh pastries reached his nose. He knew the bakery was a good one. He tried to stop by whenever he was on this side of Bend.
“No.” Mercy scanned the parking lot, looking frustrated. “I’ll get his home address and pay him a visit.”
“Why do you think his buyer would want to stay private?” asked Truman.
Clear green eyes met his. “They have something to hide.”
“Or maybe they had a bad history with Tilda or her husband and were afraid she wouldn’t sell to them,” he suggested.
“Could be. But she’s been adamant that she doesn’t know of anyone who’d burn her barn, so I don’t know if there is someone she’d refuse to sell to.”
“Are there any financial issues with the property?”
“I don’t think so. I know Bill Trek investigated any possible liens and title issues on his end. He said there were no problems.” She checked the time and made a sour face. “I need to get back to the office.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Truman. He hesitated, enjoying their time together though they were hunting for a Realtor who clearly didn’t want to be found. They’d had too little time together lately and he didn’t like it. He took a quick look around the parking lot. Seeing they were alone, he kissed her, a lingering kiss with his hands on her face. She leaned into the embrace and sighed.
“When this is over . . . ,” he started.
“We’ll find a place to relax. Together,” she finished.
He reluctantly let her go, promising to meet up later.