“They’re like a teeter-totter,” Truman said. I swear they broke up recently. There’d been some sort of romance drama that made Mercy bang her head against the wall.
“They’ll grow up.” His expression grew serious. “I heard threats were made against Bree Ingram.”
“What? When?” Truman’s stomach dropped.
Glenn frowned. “I thought you saw them. The Xs on her property.”
“Oh. That.” Truman exhaled. “When you said threats, I assumed something verbal.”
“I’d call red Xs on my stock and vehicle threats.”
“I agree, and I’m looking into it.”
“Do you have any leads? She lives alone. I don’t like it.”
“There’ve been some possibilities,” Truman hedged. He wouldn’t discuss Lionel Kerns.
Glenn waited a long second. Disappointment shone in the man’s eyes when he realized Truman wasn’t going to expand on his comment.
“Do you have an idea who did it?” Truman asked, studying the man carefully. He didn’t know Glenn all that well. The Pruitts had lived outside of town for a long time and were well regarded. Most of his encounters with Glenn had also involved Cade and Kaylie. He’d never heard a bad word said against the man. And in a town that gossiped as much as Eagle’s Nest, that was something.
“I don’t,” admitted Glenn. “If I find out it’s a bunch of stupid teenagers, their parents are going to hear from me.”
“They’ll hear from more than just you.”
After a brief discussion on the weird behaviors of today’s teens, the men shook hands, and Glenn left.
We sounded like a couple of old men.
As Glenn walked away, Truman’s attention was caught by a young woman in a car across the street and a few buildings down. She sat in the driver’s seat of a small Ford and abruptly turned her face away as she realized he was staring at her. Purple flashed in her blonde hair.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered as he strode toward the car.
Both Mercy and Ollie had mentioned the Voice reporter’s purple hair, and the white car looked like a typical rental to Truman.
Which one of us was she watching?
Assuming she had been watching any of them at all, but Truman’s gut told him the young woman had been keeping an eye on someone. If it was Kaylie, the reporter was in for a session with an angry stepfather . . . stepuncle . . . whatever Truman was to Kaylie.
The reporter started the car, and Truman held up a commanding hand as he moved closer. If she takes off . . .
Luckily she rolled down the window and smiled as he approached. “Can I help you, Officer?” Her sugary tone didn’t fool him.
Truman rested his hands on the top of her door and leaned down toward her window. “Why are you parked here?” was his greeting.
Concern filled her face. “Uh . . . I didn’t realize I couldn’t park here. I didn’t see the signs.”
“Let me rephrase that,” Truman stated, putting on his best stone-cold-cop face. “Who are you following? If you say Kaylie Kilpatrick, we’re going to have a serious discussion.”
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. The engine was still on, but he could see the car was in park. “I’m not doing anything. I just got a cup of coffee back there.” Unease settled in her features.
As she spoke, a spicy scent that he recognized as Ben Cooley’s favorite coffee drink reached him. Sure enough, a cup from the Coffee Café was next to her seat. But she didn’t deny following anyone or ask who Kaylie Kilpatrick was. No doubt she was one of the reporters who’d spoken with Kaylie that morning.
“I know who you are, and I know what you wrote yesterday.” Truman struggled to keep his temper in check. “And by the way, Special Agent Kilpatrick is one of the sharpest agents I’ve ever worked with.”
“Worked with or slept with?” Snark replaced her discomfort.
“Both. If you need information for your story, why don’t you ask for a media release instead of writing crap about the agent who ignored you? That’s what a professional would do.”
“I know what I’m doing,” she snapped.
“No, I don’t think you do. Act like a professional and stay away from my family. All of them.” He glanced up as engines rumbled. Two white vans had pulled up and parked down the street, a local news station logo on their sides. Damn. The gate has been opened.
He knew it was just the beginning.
“Looks like my story got some attention,” the reporter stated. “That’s what happens when you print the truth.”
Truman pinned her with a glare. “Write the truth. But pay attention to how you frame it. If you’ll excuse me, I have some real reporters to talk to.” Like hell I will. “And don’t forget what I said about my family. Kaylie and Ollie are kids. Don’t mess with them.”
“Ollie is eighteen.”
“Don’t mess with them.”
Truman pushed away from her door and headed back to the Coffee Café, where a small crowd had gathered outside to eye the news vans in curiosity.
Dammit.
Mercy was cautiously optimistic. A man had walked right into the Bend FBI office and asked to talk to the investigators of the Gamble-Helmet Heist.
“He says he heard people talking about an old body that was found with a bunch of money bags,” Eddie told Mercy. “And that made him remember a guy who bragged about money. He claims he saw the stacks of cash a long time ago.”
Mercy looked across the conference table at Art Juergen. “What do you think?”
“He’s a local?” Art asked.
Eddie nodded, scanning the information he’d found on Larry Tyler. “He’s sixty-two. Has a current driver’s license, but I don’t see any work history. No tax issues. No arrests. No property in his name.” He looked at the other two agents. “Sounds like someone who likes to stay off the grid.”
“We have a few of those around here,” Mercy said, trying to make a joke. “Let’s hear what he has to say.” She didn’t recognize Larry Tyler’s name, but she understood the people who tried to live under the government’s radar. Eddie left the room to get Larry Tyler.
“Have you dealt with this sort of person before?” she asked Art.
“What type of person?” Art asked. “According to what Eddie found, all we know about him is his age.”
Mercy controlled her smile. “A lot of people out here avoid anything that has to do with the government. Most of them are good, solid families who just want to be on their own, but some are fervently antigovernment. The fact that Larry has an up-to-date driver’s license makes me hope he’s one of the calmer ones.”
Art looked baffled.
He’ll just have to watch and learn.
Art Juergen had been in robbery at the Portland FBI office during his time there. A department that didn’t see the number of sovereign citizens or militia members that the domestic terrorism department did. Mercy’s experience with both groups had increased since she’d joined the Bend office, but she was hoping that Larry Tyler was neither.
Eddie appeared with Larry. The small man shook hands with Mercy and Art and then took a seat. He was a rancher. Mercy saw it instantly in his sun-aged skin, his durable clothing, and his well-used boots. His gray hair was a touch too long, but his eyes were blue and clear.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Tyler?” Mercy asked. Her pencil hovered over a yellow pad, showing the man she would listen carefully to anything he offered.