“You said Bend, Oregon?” Kelly had a distinctive smoker’s voice. “Where is that?”
Mercy paused. Wouldn’t he know where he sent a reporter? “Sort of in the middle. Did you send Tabitha Huff here to investigate a story?”
“Tabby? No. I looked over her latest story, but she’d written it during some personal time off. Why? Is she in trouble with the FBI?” Curiosity filled his tone. “Does she need some help?”
Mercy steeled herself. “No. Tabitha was murdered yesterday.”
“The fuck? Are you bullshitting me? Tabby? She’s dead? How?”
“She was shot. We don’t know much else. I wanted to see if you knew what she was investigating in our area.”
She was here because of her own curiosity?
“I know shit.” His voice grew rougher. “She asked for some personal time, and I gave it. I didn’t ask what she would be doing during the time.”
A dead end? Who else would know why Tabitha Huff came here to ask questions?
“Why is the FBI involved? That seems odd . . .”
Mercy flinched as Gordon’s voice took on a what-are-you-hiding-from-me inflection.
“We work closely with all the law enforcement agencies in the area.” Mercy scrambled for noncommittal phrasing. “If they ask for a hand, we give it.”
“Uh-huh.” Gordon wasn’t convinced.
“If you have next-of-kin information, that would be appreciated.”
“I’ll transfer you to my secretary. She’ll help you with that . . . although I can’t recall Tabby ever mentioning family.”
“Sometimes people just don’t talk about it.” Mercy knew all too well.
She thanked the editor and waited on hold as he transferred her call. I’ve stirred up his curiosity. He’ll start digging.
Why did Tabitha come here on her own dime?
Resting her head on one hand, she listened to the scratchy hold music, growing impatient. She had work to do.
Next up was a visit with her father.
EIGHTEEN
Mercy leaned against the door of her Tahoe, keeping one eye on the doctor’s office door and feeling guilty for lying in wait for her father.
Please talk to me.
Victor Diehl had died, and his last two calls had been to her father. She crossed her fingers that Victor’s death would convince him to open up. More guilt piled on her shoulders for using a man’s shooting to get information for her investigation. But with her father, all normal requests for help would be useless. Especially coming from his youngest child.
Karl Kilpatrick didn’t have any use for the federal government. Or for the daughter who—in his eyes—had abandoned her family when she was eighteen.
The fact that his daughter was employed by federal law enforcement meant she received double the disdain.
The Eagle’s Nest medical building was a relic from the 1970s. One level. Flat roof. Mustard paint. Ugly stone accents. According to its sign, the building housed two family practitioners and a pediatrician. No pediatrician had worked in town when Mercy was growing up—not that her family had visited the doctor much anyway. Doctors were expensive, and her mother’s amateur medical knowledge went a long way. Even her father’s veterinary know-how came in handy when his kids were ill.
The doctor her father was seeing today had to be near retirement, and she wondered how her father would handle the young doctor who would likely replace him one day. New ideas. New routines.
New and Karl Kilpatrick didn’t mix.
The door opened, and her father stepped out. He placed his cowboy hat on his head and started down the cement steps. Every time Mercy saw him, he seemed to have aged a bit more. More lines on his face, thinner through the chest, looser pants.
Is he ill?
She froze as a million deadly maladies fought for attention in her mind. Surely Mom would tell me . . . Rose definitely would . . . unless she doesn’t know either.
Squaring her shoulders, she pushed off her SUV and crossed the parking lot. “Dad?”
He’d reached his truck and was digging in his pocket for his keys. He turned toward her, and his surprise rapidly vanished, replaced by an emotionless facade. Annoyance had flashed too. Mercy set her chin and forced a smile. “How are you?”
“Were you waiting for me?” His brows shot together as he glowered at her from under his hat. The expression reminded her of her oldest brother, Owen. No one could intimidate with a single glance the way Owen could. Her father was a close runner-up.
“I admit I was. I have a work question for you.” Please talk to me.
“I can’t help you.” He shoved his key in the door to his old truck.
“Victor Diehl died yesterday.”
His hand stilled on the door handle. He didn’t look at her. “How?” he asked, still facing the door.
Mercy knew he’d cut her off and leave if she said the wrong thing. “He was shot.”
Now he looked at her, his eyes hard under the tan brim. “By who?” His words were mangled.
“Why did he call you twice in the last few days?”
Understanding flickered on his face and quickly turned to anger. “That’s why you’re here. Don’t people have privacy anymore? You guys pry into everything. Feel you have the right to spy on what the little man is doing.”
Mercy bit the inside of her cheek and struggled to keep a pleasant expression on her face. “His cell phone was found at the scene. It’s normal procedure to see who a victim spoke with before he was killed. Could your conversation shed any light on why he died?”
“Who killed him?” Her father’s voice was low and direct. The voice he’d used when she was in trouble as a child. It still triggered obedience.
“He was shot in defense by a law enforcement officer. Victor had already shot one agent and was about to fire at two more.”
Her father studied her face, his gaze moving from one of her eyes to the other. “So they say. Damned police twist everything to put themselves in the right light.”
“I was there.” The fact that I’m calm is amazing.
“Why were you there?” he snapped. “You saw what happened?”
Her calm shattered. “I did. Even though I was fighting to keep my bleeding partner from dying from a gunshot wound, I saw Victor come around a corner, his gun pointed at me, verbally threatening to shoot me and another agent.” She sucked in a breath, holding his gaze. “I saw his eyes as he aimed at the man standing in front of me. Victor wasn’t right in the head. His eyes were crazy, and he was ready to kill. If Art hadn’t taken the shot, we’d both have been injured. Or worse.”
Her father said nothing but continued to listen, still expressionless.
“Victor had been told the government was coming to take his guns and land. He was so convinced of this lie that he shot Eddie without warning.” She tilted her head. “Who told him that, Dad? Who would put that idea in his head? Or was he always a supremely paranoid person?”
“You were there,” he stated slowly.
Mercy saw his pressure building. He was motionless but seemed to expand and grow taller with the anger.
“Death likes to follow you.”
A low roar started in her brain. Don’t go there . . .
“You blame Victor’s paranoia for the bullet your agency put in him? Just like how it wasn’t your fault that Levi was murdered? Victor Diehl never had a chance, did he?”
“Leave Levi out of this,” she uttered through clenched teeth. “My brother died in front of me due to his poor decisions. Not because of me.”
“Everything was fine until you showed up!”
She flinched as if he’d slapped her. A slap that bared all the guilt she felt for Levi’s death. The roar in her head grew louder, and she fought to hold his gaze.
“You’ll never forgive me for Levi, will you? It gives you something to gnaw on when you’re angry, someone to heap blame upon since the man who was at fault is dead. That’s fine, Dad. If it makes you feel better t
o hate me, go ahead. But put it aside for five minutes. You’ve got a bigger problem. Victor is at the center of a major bank robbery investigation, and you are too—unless you have a clear explanation of why he called you.”
“Are you threatening me?” He moved closer, using his height to intimidate her as he had when she was a child.
But now she was an adult. An adult who’d done nothing wrong and had no reason to back down. She didn’t budge and leaned toward him, unafraid. “No. I’m telling you how it is. Why don’t you make this easier and tell me about your conversations? If you’re protecting a conversation about . . . the weather . . . or a sick animal . . . you’re simply being stubborn.” She lifted her chin. “You’ve always been the king of stubborn. A trait I inherited.”
He was in her personal space, and his presence pricked every nerve in her skin.
After a long moment, he looked away. “Victor was a bit simple, but we always look out for our own.” He threw the two words at her, emphasizing that she no longer belonged in that group. “He’s always functioned at a lower level. That’s why his house is the way it is. He called me ranting and raving that he’d been told the government was coming for him. He called me twice, saying the same thing. He was more worked up than I’d ever heard him. He knew my daughter was an FBI agent and wanted me to stop you.”
Mercy silently exhaled, knowing her father had long been embarrassed by her government job. When she’d returned to Eagle’s Nest after fifteen years away, no one had known her profession. Many had been surprised to hear that Karl Kilpatrick had a third daughter.
“I assured him that the government wouldn’t do that . . . but look what happened . . . My daughter was involved in his death.” He met her gaze as he whispered the last words. “I don’t know if that is irony or simply tragic.”
Mercy didn’t contradict him. He was talking, and she wanted to keep it going. “How long have you known him?” she asked in a quiet voice.
Karl shrugged one shoulder. “He approached me years ago—decades ago—for help in getting off the grid. I can’t remember who sent him my way. He didn’t have any skills I could use, so I gave him some basic information and let him go. I still get a couple of people every year who come to me to get started. I can tell who will succeed and who won’t.”
“Which category was Victor?”
Her father gave a short laugh. “I expected him to turn tail and go back to wherever he came from within a year. He surprised me. He worked hard, I sold him a few necessities, and he made it out of sheer luck.”
“You don’t know where he was from?”
“Nope. Never asked.”
“You sold him some equipment? How did he pay you?”
He frowned. “Cash. No barter.”
Mercy knew that was unusual. Barter was the most common currency in her father’s world. She paused and asked delicately, “Did he seem to have a lot of money?”
He stared, comprehension growing in his gaze. “You mentioned a bank robbery.”
“Yes. An old one. But recently—”
“I heard about the skeleton and bank bags. You think Victor knew something about that?”
“That’s what we were trying to find out when he fired at us.”
“I’m sorry about your friend Eddie.”
Mercy grew still as his words spawned a hole of anger in her chest. He knew about Eddie before I mentioned him. He waits until now? She wondered how much he’d already known before she approached him. Am I just a game to him? Someone to pluck for information?
“Thank you. He’s going to be fine.”
“I heard.”
“It could have been me.” She held his gaze, wondering what he’d say.
“Coulda.” He didn’t look away.
He’s done talking about Victor Diehl. “Why are you at the doctor’s? Are you ill? You seem thin.”
An invisible wall shot up between them. “I’m sixty-five. I go to the doctor when your mother makes me.”
“Why’d she send you? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He dropped her gaze.
Liar.
He has pride. Heaven forbid I rattle his ego.
He hung on to his pride as tightly as he hung on to his anger toward her.
He turned his back and opened his truck door, signaling their conversation was over, and she stepped back.
Dad, one day you’ll learn that protecting your pride isn’t worth the price.
Truman had been about to sit in a chair across from Mercy’s desk, but when he spotted her bleak gaze, he walked around and pulled her into a hug.
What on earth happened?
“You look like your best friend died,” Truman said.
She nestled into him, burying her face in his shoulder. They were alone in her office, and the door was open, but no one was in sight. She sighed, and he felt her muscles relax.
“How do you do this to me?”
“Do what?” he asked.
“Before you got here, I was ready to go home and crawl in bed . . . maybe binge watch something and eat ice cream.” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “But it’s as if I get energy from simply touching you. I feel like a vampire, sucking away your personal stamina.”
“I’ll let you know if I get completely drained.”
Her lips curved. “My point is that you make me feel better by simply appearing. Maybe I should hire you to pop into my office once a day.”
“Why are you so exhausted today?”
“It’s been one of those days. I can’t get Eddie out of my mind, and I talked with my father . . . and I have so much work to do and not enough help.”
Aha. She spoke with her father.
“A typical day. What happened with Karl?”
She pulled out of his arms and gave him a peck on the lips. “Have a seat.”
“You need me to sit down. That’s not good.” But he sat, and she did the same.
She leaned her chin on her hands as she stared across the desk at him. “Victor Diehl called him twice in the days before he died.”
“Why?”
“Someone told Diehl the FBI was coming for his guns and land, and he wanted my dad to stop it through me.”
“No wonder Diehl came out with guns blazing when you three showed up.”
“I’ve been sitting here thinking about my father’s explanation, and now I’m wondering if we were set up,” she said quietly. “It can’t be a coincidence that Victor was warned of the FBI before we showed up.”
Truman’s back stiffened as surprise shot through him. “What? Someone wanted one or all of you shot?”
If I find out that is true . . .
“My father told me Diehl isn’t quite right in the head. He wasn’t surprised at all that Diehl flew off the handle when he saw us. It’s possible someone else expected the same thing.”
“What led you to Diehl in the first place?”
“A local came to the FBI with information.”
“He walked in on his own?” Was that more than luck?
“Yep. Said the news about the money bags reminded him of an incident he had with Diehl a long time ago.”
Truman let the information percolate in his brain for a long moment. “Any way to back up your informant’s story?”
“I’ve been trying. It happened too long ago, and the other witness is conveniently dead.”
The two of them sat in silence.
“You think someone is trying to lead the FBI in the wrong direction? And get you killed at the same time?” The thought made bile stir in Truman’s stomach. “The FBI must be getting too close. Someone wants the investigation stopped.”
“Why?”
She knew why as well as he did, but he suspected she wanted him to say it out loud. “The same reason most crimes are committed. Money.”
“The robbery money has to be all spent by now . . . or nearly spent,” Mercy pointed out.
“Then the reason is the protection of someone’s ass. He d
oesn’t want to end up in prison.”
“You’re right.” Mercy leaned back in her chair and rubbed at her bloodshot eyes.
“You need to go back to the person that led you to Victor Diehl.”
“That would be Larry Tyler. Who lives off the grid about an hour away from here.”
“Mercy?” Jeff knocked on the frame of her open door. “Hey, Truman.”
Truman lifted a hand in greeting.
“We got the cell phone records from Tabitha Huff’s wireless provider,” Jeff stated.
The murdered young reporter’s face popped into Truman’s mind. Something he wouldn’t forget for a long while. If ever.
Jeff glanced at Truman, clearly hesitant to speak in front of an outsider. “I’ll step out for a few moments,” Truman offered.
“Stay, Truman,” Mercy ordered. “You were the first officer at the scene.”
As if he didn’t know. She’d said it to remind Jeff that Truman was involved.
Jeff’s face cleared. “You’ll never guess who she had multiple phone calls with.”
“Just tell me.”
“Two Rivers Correctional Institution.”
Mercy nearly rose out of her chair. “Shane Gamble.”
“The first call is from her to the prison in the evening of the day you visited him.”
“Something I said stirred him up.” Mercy spoke rapidly, lost in thought but with excitement growing on her face. “She said her source reached her through Twitter, right? Whatever he told her pushed her immediately into action.”
“What did you tell Gamble?” Truman asked. “What would make him reach out to a tabloid?”
Mercy stared back at him. “I’m not sure. It must have been something about the skeletal remains that meant more to him than he let on.”
“But what was Tabitha’s purpose?” asked Jeff. “You said she didn’t have an official assignment here, so Gamble must have sent her on a mission.”
“I need to speak to him.” The determination on Mercy’s face told Truman she wanted to go head-to-head with the convicted felon again.
Jeff checked the time. “It’s too late today. Tomorrow you can drive out there. I’ll set it up.”
A Merciful Fate (Mercy Kilpatrick Book 5) Page 15