SIXTEEN
Truman couldn’t sit idly by. Curiosity about the two murders was driving him insane.
Feeling like a spy, he’d looked up Rob Murray, the employee who had borrowed the Lexus, and decided to pay him a visit. After all, the car had been found in Truman’s jurisdiction . . . well, almost in his jurisdiction . . . and it was his responsibility to see that the man hadn’t been injured.
Right?
Rob Murray lived close to Bend. He definitely didn’t live in the Eagle’s Nest city limits, but Truman was a thoughtful cop. He liked to know everyone was okay. Maybe Rob would say a good citizen of Eagle’s Nest had helped him out when he abandoned the SUV, and Truman could go thank them. Community involvement should be recognized.
I’m full of shit.
Shoving away his guilt at sticking a finger in a case that wasn’t his, he knocked on the door of the apartment. Rob Murray lived on the second floor of a building that had seen better days. Truman dared not touch the outdoor iron stair railing, fearing its one remaining support would give way. On the second level he’d walked by apartment windows with curtains made from sagging floral sheets and one covered with a Seattle Seahawks beach towel. Rob hadn’t bothered with window coverings. Through his small apartment window, Truman could see Rob’s chipped kitchen sink, piled with a half dozen milky bowls and plastic spoons. An open box of Lucky Charms sat to the right of the sink.
Bachelor diet.
The door opened, and a man dressed in splattered white painter’s clothing glared at him. “What?”
His eyes were dark, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. He looked about thirty, and he had the pasty skin and the soft, round body of a man who lived on cold cereal and beer.
“Rob Murray?”
He squinted, and his suspicious gaze bounced from the business card Truman held out to the badge on his coat. He took the card and didn’t look at it. “Yeah?”
“I’d like to ask you about the Lexus we found on Goose Hollow Road yesterday.”
The suspicion cleared. “It’s not mine. I borrowed it, and the owner got it back already.”
“Why was it just left there?”
“Because it died. I don’t know what happened. It needed a tow.”
“How come it sat there for a few days? Why didn’t you call for the tow right away?”
Rob shuffled his feet and looked away. “I forgot,” he muttered.
“You forgot about a vehicle? An expensive SUV you’d borrowed?” Bull.
The man worked his cigarette for a moment and reluctantly moved his gaze back to Truman’s. “My buddy who picked me up wanted to party. It slipped my mind.”
“How long was this party?”
Rob winced. “A day or two. He had some great weed.” Defense squared his shoulders. “It’s legal here now. We can do that.”
“Don’t I know it.” Truman tried a different approach. “Christian Lake told me you work for him.”
“Yeah, I’m sort of a handyman for his place. It takes a lot of upkeep. Stuff’s always breaking.”
“I’ve seen the house and can I imagine it takes a lot of work. It’s massive. I guess I assumed Brent Rollins took care of that sort of thing.”
Rob gave a short laugh. “Rollins doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. I’ve always said my job is to do the stuff Rollins thinks he’s too good for.” Resentment simmered in his gaze, and he sucked hard on his cigarette.
Truman prodded. “Not the best boss?”
He blew a cloud of smoke to the side. “Rollins is the pain in the butt, but Lake is great. That’s why I asked Christian for the loaner when my truck wouldn’t start. I knew he’d help me out.”
“Nice loaner.”
More puffing on the cigarette. “Yeah, I expected him to offer the Ford truck. It’s a little beat up and used for hauling stuff on the property. I knew he kept every vehicle stocked with gas and emergency supplies in this type of weather. Surprised the crap out of me when he handed over the Lexus keys.”
Truman gestured at the white clothing. “You doing some painting up there today?”
“Nah, I’ve got another job today. Rollins called and told me to stay home for a few days. I have a painter friend I help out when they don’t need me.”
“That makes it hard to count on a paycheck.”
“Christian pays me a salary. Some weeks I have sixty hours of work to do; some weeks I have ten. It all balances out, and I get a regular paycheck in my account.”
“What day did he loan you the Lexus?”
Rob screwed up his face, thinking hard. “Three days ago . . . No, four. It was the day I repaired the greenhouse. The snowstorm cracked some panels. I finished up and my truck wouldn’t start.”
Truman remembered how Rollins had to step into the garage to confirm the SUV was missing. “Is the greenhouse close to the main house?”
“Nah, it’s back a ways through the woods. There’s an open area that gets good light.”
“Your own truck was parked out of sight of the home?”
“Yeah, until yesterday after Christian called me about the Lexus. The tow truck driver who returned the Lexus checked my battery and gave me a jump. I figured that’s what it was.”
“Why didn’t you just ask Rollins for a jump that day?” With a six-car garage, surely there was a vehicle to use for a jump.
He smirked. “And risk the engine of one of Christian’s precious vehicles? I knew what he’d say.”
“You know, you’re lucky you have a job after leaving the boss’s precious vehicle on the side of the road for days.” Truman would have fired his irresponsible ass.
Rob managed to look contrite. “Rollins chewed me out.”
But didn’t fire him?
“Christian didn’t say anything?”
“No, he’s cool.”
Cool enough not to care about a ninety-thousand-dollar Lexus?
“Why were you on Goose Hollow Road? That isn’t on your way home from the Lake house.”
“I was headed to my buddy’s house.”
“Can you give me his name and address?”
“Why? We didn’t do anything.” Rob’s scowl grew. “I don’t have to give you that. You know there’s privacy laws and shit, right?”
I’m speaking to a lawyer.
“Just asking,” Truman said as he gave his best troubled look. “There were some disturbances out on that road a few days ago,” he lied. “And I wondered if you or he saw anything. It’s part of the reason I came to you about the Lexus. I didn’t know if the car being abandoned was a result of one of them. You didn’t see anything suspicious on that road, did you?”
Rob stroked his chin, his suspicion gone. “No. It’s a quiet road.” He rattled off his friend’s address and phone number, and Truman wrote them down.
He thanked Rob for his help and excused himself, feeling like the world’s biggest con man. He reviewed the discussion in his mind, making certain he hadn’t asked anything that could affect the true investigation.
Will the FBI question Rob too?
They’d shown interest in the abandoned car, hoping to link it to Christian Lake’s whereabouts on the nights of the two murders. But clearly Rob Murray had been the driver.
A dead end?
Truman climbed in his SUV, wanting to call Mercy and wondering if they’d tracked down Salome Sabin yet.
Not my case.
It wasn’t her case either, but she was in it up to her neck.
Ava’s charming phone call to ask Christian for permission to print the Hummer tires didn’t work, and Mercy wasn’t surprised when he told her to get a warrant. Back in the Bend offices, Ava asked Eddie to write up a request for the warrant and then started to review the next steps in the investigation.
Mercy inched away from the duo, toward the office door. Jeff had more work for her. She couldn’t hover around Eddie and Ava, expecting to be informed about every little phone call on the murders of Olivia Sabin and Malcolm Lake.
“I think we need to go back to Portland,” Ava abruptly stated.
Mercy halted her slow escape. “You just got here.” If Ava and Eddie left, she’d be out of the loop.
“I’ve seen the scene and talked to Christian Lake. The warrant will take a little time, and the tire treads need to be taken by a crime scene tech, not us. I don’t see what else there is for us to do right now. Any other evidence results can be emailed to me, and I don’t want to sit around waiting for it. What I want to do is meet with the judge’s assistant, check the video footage, and see if there is any truth to the mystery visitor. I also want to talk with the judge’s ex-wife again. Christian painted a different picture of Brenda Lake compared to what I picked up during my first interview with her.” She looked at Eddie. “You’ll go with me.”
Eddie glanced at Mercy, and she spotted the sympathy in his eyes. He knew she was personally invested in the case and wanted to be close to the investigation. “Just for a few days,” he agreed.
“Then you need to go today,” said Mercy reluctantly. “The next round of storms is supposed to start tonight, and the passes will get hammered with snow.”
Ava checked the clock on the wall. “Good idea. Can you be ready in a half hour?” she asked Eddie, who blanched.
“Give me an hour.”
“Seriously?” Ava asked. “Clothes, toothbrush, and toothpaste. What else do men pack?”
Mercy coughed. She’d seen Eddie spend twenty minutes on his hair and iron three different shirts before he was satisfied with how he looked. Packing with urgency wasn’t something he knew how to do.
“I need an hour,” he confirmed.
“Fine. Meet back here. One hour.”
Mercy told them both good-bye and called to see if Truman could meet her for lunch. She got in her vehicle and decided to get a big dessert to soothe her disappointment about being left behind as the investigation moved to Portland. She walked into her favorite farm-to-table café and spotted that damned reporter at a window table, sinking a fork into the exact gooey chocolate bread pudding she’d planned to order. Michael Brody spotted her and waved her over.
Not who I want to talk to.
But she went anyway and even sat down when he stood and gestured at an empty seat directly across from him.
What am I doing?
“You’re looking at me as if you suspect I stole your car.” He took an enormous bite of the dessert and her stomach growled.
“Ava confirmed she knows you.”
“I don’t lie. Not too much, anyway.” Another bite disappeared into his mouth.
The waitress stopped at the table, her hands full of dishes. “The usual, Mercy?”
“Please.”
“Is Truman coming too?” she asked.
“He’s trying to. Don’t put his order in yet.”
She nodded and took her load into the kitchen.
Michael raised a brow at her. “That confirms my impression that the food here is really good. My sandwich wasn’t a fluke.” He looked at his dessert. “And this makes me consider moving to Bend.”
“When are you leaving?” Mercy asked. The reporter made her want to scratch her neck. She couldn’t relax around him.
Amusement lit his green eyes. “Ready to get rid of me so soon?”
Mercy said nothing.
He took a sip of coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I still need to interview Christian Lake. I’m doing a big article on his father’s legacy. I can’t do it justice without talking to the sons, but he’s not taking my phone calls.” He held her gaze.
There’s no way he found out that I know Christian.
“Maybe you should start with the other son,” she suggested.
“I plan to talk to Gabriel after I talk to Christian. Brenda Lake too. She’s already agreed to meet with me to talk about her ex.” His big smile told her he’d charmed the judge’s ex-wife into an interview. “I’ve done all my research about Malcolm Lake’s role in the D’Angelo case. Of course, I remember a lot of it from when it happened. It was hard to miss.”
Mercy agreed. The notorious movie star Beau D’Angelo had murdered his wife during a visit to Portland. Malcolm Lake had shot to fame as the trial judge who told D’Angelo to shut the fuck up when he complained during a witness’s testimony. The national press had already blanketed the trial with coverage, and D’Angelo’s marriage and career were daily news staples. But once the judge’s curse caught the media’s attention, their repetitious reporting created a new celebrity. Eventually D’Angelo walked on a technicality and the public uproar was deafening. For a brief time Judge Malcolm Lake was a household name. In Portland he became the most wanted guest for every elite dinner party and fund-raiser. He fed on the attention, and lawyers whispered that the coverage had inflated his ego.
Mercy faintly remembered reading about Christian in some articles during the trial, usually as one of the judge’s successful sons. She wondered how he had felt about the publicity. Now it was back again, and she’d heard the judge’s murder was the top news story every evening. National media had descended on Portland and filled its airtime with flashbacks of the famous Beau D’Angelo trial. Before the trial the movie star had backed out of a signed contract because he would be stuck in a courtroom for a month. His career tanked. A few years later he popped up on a reality TV show, stranded on an island with other minor celebrities. D’Angelo was the first one kicked off the island, hated by the other contestants on the show. Last night Mercy had watched an online interview clip in which D’Angelo had shared kind words about the judge, stating his thoughts and prayers were with the judge’s family.
Thoughts and prayers.
Mercy tried not to snort.
Not a word had been said in the news about the death of Olivia Sabin. So far the reporter across the table appeared to be the only member of the media who had connected the two cases. Mercy crossed her fingers that time would stay on their side, keeping the media out of this aspect of the investigation.
The waitress set down a spinach salad topped with a few slices of medium-rare steak in front of Mercy. Michael eyed it. “I should have known you were a salad person.”
Then her own serving of chocolate bread pudding appeared.
He grinned. “That’s more like it.” His gaze shot over her shoulder, and Mercy knew Truman had arrived.
Truman squeezed her shoulder and leaned down to kiss her before shaking Michael’s hand. Mercy spotted the same caution in Truman’s gaze that she felt around the reporter. He wouldn’t let his guard down either. He took the chair next to her and raised a finger at their waitress across the restaurant, who nodded and winked at him.
Truman always gets the female winks.
Or the lingering stares and the second glances. Especially when he wore his coat and badge. He naturally exuded stability, integrity, and honor. He was crack for women. Single or married.
“Are you getting a salad too?” Michael asked.
“Not today. It’s a BLT for me,” answered Truman. He picked up a fork and took a bite of Mercy’s dessert. “Sweet baby cheeses, that’s as incredible as always.”
Truman had not had a sweet tooth until he met her. Sugar was one of Mercy’s primary vices. One she’d been unable to shake. That and caffeine. She’d laid in a huge store of the luxury items at her cabin.
Her father wouldn’t have approved.
“Mercy didn’t tell me we were meeting you for lunch,” Truman said.
“You weren’t. You got lucky.”
Mercy suddenly wondered if the reporter had been lying in wait for her again. She ate lunch at the restaurant at least twice a week. I shouldn’t be so predictable.
“Why are you here, Michael?” she asked. The subtle twitch of one eye implied her suspicion had been correct.
“I want you to get me an interview with Christian Lake.”
She sighed.
“Why ask Mercy?” asked Truman.
“They know each other.”
“Barely,” added Mercy. “I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Except for yesterday,” added Michael with the lift of one eyebrow.
“I can’t tell him what to do.” Mercy stabbed her spinach, aware there was no point in asking how the reporter had gotten his information.
“Did he tell you his brother Gabriel is in town?” Michael asked.
Her head jerked up and Truman tensed beside her. “He’s back from California? Why didn’t he go home to Portland?” she asked.
“That was my question too. He flew in this morning and headed straight to Christian’s home.”
“Did you tell Ava this? She needs to interview him.”
“Not yet. I’ve called her twice and asked her to get back to me. It hasn’t happened yet.”
Mercy checked the time. “She and Eddie just left for Portland.”
“I guess Gabriel’s interview will have to wait until they get back.”
She tamped down the urge to leap out of her seat and drive to Christian’s home.
Truman’s phone buzzed. He scowled at the screen and excused himself to take the call outside.
Mercy stared at Michael, her appetite gone. Even the bread pudding held no appeal. The reporter’s minibomb about Gabriel clogged her thoughts. Silent tension floated between her and Michael.
“You know you want to go out there,” Michael said quietly. “I’m a good excuse for you to go to his home. You’ll simply be making an introduction. Your presence will smooth the way for Christian to open up to me.”
He sounded like the devil sitting on her shoulder. “Do you always manipulate your conversations?”
Michael shrugged. “I like to be efficient with my time.”
She grudgingly respected that. No doubt their two encounters had gone exactly as he’d planned. But she wasn’t ready to lead him to Christian. She respected their old friendship too much. Michael would have to find another way. She opened her mouth, ready to tell him exactly that, when alarm crossed his face as he looked past her.
She spun around in her chair. Truman was striding toward their table, his face grim.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Rob Murray has been murdered. I need to go.”
Her mind scrambled to place the name. “The guy who abandoned Christian’s car?”
“Yep. That was Evan Bolton from the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office. Murray’s neighbors reported that my vehicle was at his apartment building a few hours ago, so the detective called me.”
“Were you at his apartment?” asked Michael.
“Yes.” Truman was tight-lipped, his face pale. “But he was breathing when I left.”
“I’m coming with you,” stated Mercy.