“Do the feds know where Cherelle is?”
“I don’t know.”
He pushed harder into my bloody lip. “Don’t. Lie.”
It’d be difficult to speak since he wouldn’t move his hand, but I wouldn’t ask him to move it. “I’m not lying. DEA is handling that case. Not us.” The intimate press of his body against mine kicked in my gag reflex.
“You shot the bitch who killed my brother.” Not a question.
“Yes.”
Saro released me. “If I wanted to prove a point to the tribal prez, I’d turn his niece into a drugged-out whore, not kill her. That way, she’s making me money and shaming her family. Win-win for me.”
A Sumo-looking guy, whom I assumed was Saro’s henchman, appeared from out of nowhere. He glared at me, and Saro slipped away into the darkness. Then Sumo dude disappeared as well.
My mouth bled. I hated that I’d started to shake. I hated him. I yelled, “Great talking to you, Barry.”
No answer. Not even Saro’s stupid girly laugh echoed back to me.
You’re an idiot for taunting him after you escaped with just a bloodied lip this time.
Footsteps on the gravel had me reaching for my sidearm, only to come up empty again. But it wasn’t Saro sneaking up on me from another angle. It was Shay Turnbull.
He reached for my hand. “Come on.”
I allowed myself to be led, mostly out of shock that Turnbull was here. Standing in the shadows watching while a psycho, murdering, drug thug pushed me around. I jerked my hand. “Let go.”
Shay stopped, too. “What?”
“Is there a reason, Agent Turnbull, you just let Saro rough me up?”
He shrugged. “You had it handled.”
“Handled?” I pointed to my mouth. “I’m bleeding, asshole. Couldn’t you have arrested him for assaulting a federal officer or something?”
His eyes narrowed. “Jesus, Gunderson. Why are you shaking like that?”
“Because Barry Sarohutu is deranged. And the last time I crossed paths with him? He cut me. Six slices across my neck. Oh, and then he jabbed a knife into my chest, while taunting me about carving up my family members, before he choked me out. So yeah, be glad I’m just shaking and not fucking screaming.”
Shay muttered, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me along behind him until we reached his Blazer; he deposited me in the passenger’s-side seat.
I fumed.
He fumed.
A snap. Rustling. A tearing sound. Then a terse, “Look at me.” I faced Shay, and he said, “Hold still.” He dabbed at the cut with a Wet-Nap.
“Shit, that stings,” I hissed.
“Suck it up, Sergeant Major. It’s an antibiotic wipe. Who knows what diseases a vermin like Saro is carrying.”
I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself while Shay gently cleaned me up. I felt ridiculous for letting him tend to me. I was perfectly capable of patching myself up. I opened my eyes.
“That oughta stop the bleeding and keep you from catching—”
“Asshole-itis? Douche-bag-ism?” I supplied.
Shay permitted a quick grin before he became serious. “No bullshit, Mercy. Tell me when Saro did that to you.”
I looked away. I didn’t ever want to relive that night.
“Maybe this will help loosen your tongue.”
I glanced back to see Shay waggling a silver flask. “Really, Turnbull?”
“What? Don’t all injuns carry firewater? For medicinal purposes?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not really Indian, or so I’ve been told.” Still, I grabbed the flask and drank deeply. Ooh. That went down smooth. No burn to this stuff. I took another swig before I handed it back. “That’s definitely not Wild Turkey.”
“Life’s too short to drink cheap whiskey.” He knocked back a slug and said, “Start talking.”
I told him everything from that night.
Shay didn’t respond for the longest time. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I know sorry won’t cut it, but I am sorry you had to go through that. If I’d known, I sure as hell wouldn’t have let him …” He snatched the flask and drank. His eyes shone with fury when he looked at me. “We’re not partners, but as much as we’re working together we might as well be. This is something I needed to know. I can’t mentor you, or do whatever this is, unless you’re up front with me.”
I understood where he was coming from. But there’d been no reason to mention the incident with Saro until now. I said as much.
Brooding Shay returned briefly. “Does Dawson know what happened with Saro?”
I shook my head. “Two days later I killed Anna, so we both had plenty to deal with.”
“Are you going to tell him what happened tonight?”
“Probably not.”
We didn’t speak for several long moments.
I finally said, “What are you doing on the rez tonight?”
“Thought I’d check out Verline’s wake to see who showed up.”
“Aren’t you convinced Rollie murdered Verline?”
“Yes, but it’s looking less like he murdered Arlette Shooting Star. And the real kick in the pants? My original suggestion that the cases aren’t connected would still make the most sense, if not for the digitalis found in both victims.”
“I hadn’t completely discounted Saro, but after tonight, he’s fallen farther down the list.”
“I have to agree.”
“What do you know about the BIA sending a new lawman rep?”
“Nothing. I’d like to know where Saro is getting his information. Although the BIA has a presence in Eagle River, it doesn’t maintain a permanent law enforcement agency. But they’re quick to point out under federal statutes they can, at any time, change that.”
“Awesome.”
“Are you all right to drive home?”
I rolled my eyes at his insult and his abrupt dismissal. “It takes more than a couple of sips of whiskey to affect me.”
“I’ll remember that when we go out drinkin’.”
Not if, when. Bizarre, imagining Shay and me tying one on together. “Now that you’ve introduced me to the good stuff, Turnbull, I won’t be nearly the cheap drunk I was.”
“Cheap is a state of mind. Need me to walk you to your car, Sergeant Major?”
“Need me to kick your ass?”
He snickered.
“See you tomorrow.”
Dawson had left the porch light on for me.
I trudged up the porch stairs, not out of breath, but the exertion had me trying to remember the last time I’d gone for a run. Not since before the Shooting Star case. The thought of hauling my ass out of bed at five a.m. in the dark to run in the cold … made me shudder. But I’d rather be tired than out of shape.
When I glanced up from wiping my boots on the rug, I saw Dawson had files spread over the kitchen table. Since he didn’t start gathering them up, away from my prying eyes, they weren’t confidential.
He helped me take off my coat. When I looked at him, his gaze was on my swollen lip. “Don’t ask.”
Mason placed tender kisses all around the area. Twice. When he eased back, I said, “That was way better than a Band-Aid.”
“I’ll get some ice.”
The house was quiet. “Where’s Lex?”
“In his room.”
I lifted a brow. “By choice?”
“Nope. He got mouthy. I’d had enough shit from others today, and I didn’t need it from my kid. So I sent him—”
“To bed without any supper?”
“No. Smart-ass. I sent him to his room after supper. After he did the dishes, after he fed the dogs, after he took out the trash, after he vacuumed the living room, and after he cleaned the upstairs bathroom.”
I whistled. “Hard-ass dad came to town.”
He placed the ice pack on my mouth. “Do you think I’m too easy on him? Too buddy-buddy?”
“Not at all. He’ll see how much he can get away with. Even if it’s not majo
r. Lex is a good kid, but good kids have bad days, too.”
He rested his forehead to mine. “Thanks. What’s on your agenda tonight?”
“A big tumbler of whiskey and a couple of episodes of Top Shot.”
“I’ll join you as soon as I finish this paperwork.”
“Anything I can help you with to speed things up?”
The sheriff lifted a brow. “Really? An unsolicited offer of help?”
“I know we’re not supposed to talk about our jobs, but I want you to know you can talk to me, if you need to.”
“Same goes.” Dawson returned to the table, and I noticed he had on his running clothes.
I sat across from him. “So what are you working on?”
“Double-checking incident reports. The county board has had a complaint that the ambulance crew is taking too long to respond to emergency calls. I’m compiling the data from dispatch about call time and the data from the ambulance crew about the on-scene arrival time.”
“Why don’t you have jiggly Jilly doing this? Or does her enormous rack get in the way of reading the paperwork on her desk?”
He grinned. “You really don’t like my secretary.”
“No, I don’t. She’s stupid. If I try to call your direct line? Oops. She disconnects me every time. On purpose, I’m sure.” I wasn’t jealous of the big-chested, blue-eyed platinum blonde. She just annoyed me with her frosted lipstick, and the frosty manner with which she treated me. “She isn’t doing her job if you’re bringing work home, Mason.”
“So noted.” He passed me a stack of folders. “Write down the pertinent deets. Call time, location, time of arrival. Reporting EMT.”
I’d finished half the stack when I reached an incident report that disturbed me. A call had been placed by someone at the Diamond T about a possible domestic disturbance with injury. A woman was stumbling around, bleeding, before she collapsed in the middle of the road. My eyes widened when I saw the victim’s name.
Verline Dupris.
I scoured the date on the report. Two weeks before Verline and Rollie had shown up for the dinner party. Officer Jazinski reported that no charges had been filed and that Verline blamed her injuries on falling down the steps and her confusion from dehydration. No mention of Rollie. No mention of Junior, but I’d bet money one of them had been there.
“I recognize that pissed-off look,” Mason said, startling me. “What did you find?”
“An incident report regarding Verline.” I looked at him. “A few weeks before she died. Why didn’t you mention this to Turnbull or to me at the scene when Verline was found?”
“Because it’s confidential information.”
“That’s crap. It directly affects our case.”
“Then the FBI should’ve issued a subpoena for any reports of domestic violence from the Eagle River County Sheriff’s Department involving either Verline Dupris or Rollie Rondeaux. But no one in the FBI bothered to follow up.” Dawson held up his hand when I opened my mouth to protest. “This is a perfect example of why when our jobs intersect we’re better off keeping to the nondisclosure rule.”
I angrily tapped my finger on the file. “Is this why you thought Rollie was guilty?”
He nodded.
And then I knew. “This isn’t the only incident report or domestic-violence call involving Verline and Rollie, is it?”
“No.”
“How bad does it get?”
He just stared at me.
I wanted Dawson to tell me everything. But I knew he wouldn’t. I respected that about him as much as it pissed me off. I shut the file and shoved the stack back at him. “It’s best if I don’t do this. I might find out the Eagle River County Sheriff’s Department knows exactly who murdered Arlette Shooting Star and Verline Dupris, but God forbid that information is freely shared between agencies, due to protocol and rules of nondisclosure.” I stood.
“Mercy—”
“Save it. This feels less like you’re protecting the privacy of the residents of your county and more like you’re getting back at Turnbull for slapping a gag on your department earlier this year.”
Then Dawson was right in my face. “Bullshit, Agent Gunderson. It’s not my fault the FBI didn’t follow through. And if you want total honesty? If I would’ve told you about the previous domestic calls, you wouldn’t have told Agent Turnbull anyway. Not only because you don’t believe Rollie is guilty, but you know it would’ve been a breach of trust between us.”
I fumed, mostly because he was right.
He shoved his hand through his hair and then stormed off. He came back thirty seconds later wearing a windbreaker.
I stopped him at the door. “Where are you going?”
“For a run. And no, I don’t want you to come with me.”
The door slammed behind him.
Awesome end to my day.
16
Special Agent Gunderson?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Officer Orson. From the tribal police. Remember me? We—”
“Yes, I remember you. What’s up?” Why was he calling me on a Sunday?
About fifteen seconds of silence filled my ear. Then he said, “You asked me to let you know if anything weird happened that might be related to the case.”
“And it has?”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe. About an hour ago two people came in and reported a missing person. To be honest, that happens all the damn time; then the missing person rolls back home after a couple of days being on a bender.”
“Is the missing person female?”
“That’s the thing. Yes, she’s female, but she doesn’t fit the pattern of the other two victims. First, she’s older.”
I paced. “Like how much older?”
“Old enough to be the other girls’ grandmother. And the other thing? You know her.”
I froze. “Who is it?”
“Penny Pretty Horses.”
“She’s missing? Who filled out the report?”
“Her mother. Sophie Red Leaf? Who, I understand, used to work for you. And her son. John-John Pretty Horses? Who, I understand, you used to work for at Clementine’s?”
“Yes. How long since anyone last saw her?”
“According to the report, they waited twenty-four hours.” Officer Orson sighed. “Look. I’m not supposed to do this, but do you have a fax number where I can send this report? I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the Shooting Star and Dupris cases because …”
Rollie Rondeaux was in jail. Even Officer Orson believed Rollie was guilty.
“You can send them to my home fax, and then if I think the FBI needs to get involved, I’ll talk to Agent Turnbull.”
“Thanks. I didn’t want to overstep my bounds, but I also didn’t want the feds to accuse us of dropping the ball again.”
“So noted.” I gave him the fax number.
I’d forgotten Hope was in the office working on the books. She glanced up expectantly as I came in. “A fax is coming through for me.”
She returned to her calculator.
A minute later the fax machine beeped and spit out paper. I skimmed the part about name, age, etc., and skipped to the last-known whereabouts section.
Evidently, Penny had gone for her noon walk and hadn’t returned. Sophie hadn’t immediately panicked because Penny had a tendency to go where the road took her. Sophie claimed she hadn’t kept too close tabs on her daughter because Penny was easily upset if she was treated like a child.
When Penny hadn’t returned by noon the following day, Sophie contacted John-John. They called her friends and checked the hospital, but no one had seen her.
“Mercy?” Hope asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Have you talked to Sophie recently?”
She looked at the papers in my hand and then back at me. “Not since she picked up her final paycheck. Why?”
“This can’t go any further than us, but I just got word Sophie and John-John reported Penny missing a co
uple hours ago.”
Hope’s face paled. “What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we oughta just call Sophie and ask.” Hope picked up the phone.
“Don’t. I’m not supposed to have this information.”
Hope looked at me. “Well, obviously, I won’t ask about that. But Sophie might tell me something if I call to see how she’s doing.”
I straddled the chair opposite the desk as she dialed.
She drummed her fingers on the desk, and it struck me how … confident she acted.
“Devlin? Hey, it’s Hope.” She frowned. “Jake’s wife? Yeah.” She listened for a minute or so before she said, “Is Sophie around? Oh. No. Don’t wake her. Just tell her … I miss seeing her, and I wanted to know how she was doing. Okay. Bye.” She scowled at the receiver. “Devlin is such a shithead. I’ve never liked him. He acted like he didn’t know who I was. Anyway, Devlin claimed Sophie was taking a nap, but I could hear her and John-John talking in the background.”
“But he didn’t say anything about Penny being missing?”
“Nope.”
I stood. “I think I’ll take a drive.”
“I’d offer to go,” Hope started, “but I want to get this done while Jake is taking care of Joy.”
Made me happy Hope could let go of her mama responsibilities, even for a little while, just to do the ranch books. “That’s okay. I’ve had my fill of domestic stuff. A little alone time will be good for me.”
Things had been tense in the Gunderson/Dawson household since our little blowup, and so far we hadn’t kissed and made up. Mason had a rare weekend off, so he and Lex had been inseparable and underfoot. Every day had been the same. First they’d watch a movie—a loud movie. Then they’d play video games—loud video games. All of which required popcorn, pretzels, and peanuts—loud snacks.
Earlier that morning, when I’d needed a break, I’d gone outside with a couple of guns to keep up with my shooting skills. Practice had almost become an addiction for me. With nothing better to do after supper while I was at Quantico, I spent at least two hours at the shooting range every night. Four hours on the weekends if we weren’t tasked with other training.
But my target practice session had been short-lived. Mason and Lex had decided to throw a football around. Then a baseball. When I was tempted to shoot their balls out of the air, I knew I needed to go. I’d spent the rest of the day inside.
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