“Tabitha Huff reached out to me.”
Liar.
“There are several calls between the two of you.” She dug a sheet of paper out of her other pocket and pretended to study it. “The calls on her cell phone coordinate with the times you made or received calls here.”
“What else do you have in your pockets?”
She grinned, appreciating his wry comment. “Nothing.”
“She’s a reporter. She was digging into the story just like someone does every few years. I usually speak with them—I’ve got nothing better to do. I never have anything new to share with them, but usually they’re thrilled and get off on the fact that they spoke with me. It makes them feel accomplished.” An empty smile. “It’s the least I can do.”
Feeding his ego.
Then it hit her: He wants this case to never be solved. As long as America still wondered what had happened to the money from the notorious robbery, he would be relevant. Once the robbery was solved, he would fade into obscurity. No more visits from the FBI, no more attention from reporters.
I wonder if he gets fan mail.
“You’re saying Tabitha learned nothing useful from you.”
“Everything I know has already been in print. Several times.”
“Is she going to contact you again?”
“Who knows?” He shrugged, looking away.
His answer was too breezy. He cared. He cared very much about continuing his conversation with Tabitha Huff.
“She was murdered yesterday. Shot in the head and left in her car.”
Is it wrong that I love his look of surprise?
She’d finally coaxed a genuine reaction out of the felon. The score on her side of the board increased tenfold.
“Who killed her?” he whispered. His gaze darted about her face as he desperately sought for something to regain control of the conversation.
“We don’t know.”
They sat silently for a long moment, each regarding the other. A subtle dawning in his eyes told Mercy that he’d finally realized she was a worthy opponent in his constant game.
“Maybe you should try to remember the conversations between the two of you,” she suggested. “Perhaps you’ll recall something that can help us find this young girl’s killer.”
The prison randomly listened to and recorded phone calls. Two of Gamble’s four conversations with Tabitha Huff had fallen through the cracks. The recorded two had been listened to and deleted due to nothing of note. Standard procedure.
Mercy had cursed up a storm when she found out.
“I don’t understand how something I told her could have gotten her killed . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Think of something?”
“No.”
Behind his gaze, Mercy sensed his wheels were spinning at top speed. He’d stumbled onto something and was weighing whether or not to share.
Damn, I wish we had the recordings.
She’d have to speak carefully if she wanted to hear what had just occurred to him.
“Who did you suggest she talk with to find more information on her story?”
“No one.” He moistened his lips; the brain cells were still in full frenzy.
“Why would someone kill a reporter?” she asked.
Now his gaze truly focused on her. “Because they’ve discovered something that someone wants to remain hidden.”
Mercy waited.
“She must have gotten close to the money,” he said quietly. “But not because of what we talked about . . . She must have done it on her own.” Wonder filled his tone.
He’s surprised a reporter found something?
“I agree.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “You might be getting close too, Agent Kilpatrick. Maybe you should be looking over your shoulder. I’d hate for something to happen to you.”
Ice encased her. “Is that a threat?”
He shook his head, his gaze never leaving hers. “No. I have no power over what happens outside of these walls.” His voice quieted. “It’s a sincere concern for your safety.”
Ugh.
The creep factor in his gaze scattered over her skin, and she ached for a shower to clean it away.
“Seriously, Agent Kilpatrick, be careful. It sounds like someone will do anything to protect their secrets.”
“What did you tell her to do?” She tried to speak normally, but it came out as a whisper.
He sat quietly, a silent struggle on his face. “I offered her an inside scoop on the robbery. Our agreement was that she couldn’t tell anyone—even her boss—until she did something for me. I asked her to deliver a message to an old friend. I warned them to be careful because of the finding of Ellis Mull. That discovery could stir up trouble.”
That’s the most honest statement he’s said to me.
“Clearly it did. Who is this friend?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t share that. I won’t put more lives at risk.”
Like he gives a shit about anyone but himself.
“By being silent, you risk more.”
He didn’t reply, and Mercy was startled by a moment of vulnerability in his eyes that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His casual mask of indifference returned.
He’s done.
Mercy stood. “Thank you for your time. Let me know if you wish to speak with me again.”
He leaned back in his seat, his shoulders down, his gaze distant.
Fuming, Mercy left.
Damn you, Gamble. Who or what are you protecting?
TWENTY
Ollie’s phone vibrated with a text from Truman.
Where are you?
Dairy Queen, Ollie sent back.
Ollie set the phone on the truck seat beside him and stretched to grab his backpack. He was parked down a dirt track in the woods a little way from Bree’s house, nowhere near the Dairy Queen. He’d parked there a few times since her place was vandalized, just to keep an eye on things, hoping he could catch who had targeted her.
A sharp rap on his window made him jump in his seat and turn toward his door.
Truman glared at him.
Oh shit.
Ten minutes later Ollie sat in Bree’s living room as the two adults silently stared at him.
Ollie couldn’t look Truman in the eye.
The police chief stood with his feet planted far apart and his arms crossed on his chest, his focus drilling a hole in Ollie’s skull.
Ollie shrank into Bree Ingram’s comfortable sofa as if it could protect him.
“Go easy on him, Truman,” Bree stated. “You’re scaring him.”
Ollie straightened. I don’t need her to protect me. He looked to Truman. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Then explain why your truck is tucked into that grove of woods on the edge of Bree’s property. And not at the Dairy Queen like you just told me?”
“Not illegal,” he muttered, dropping eye contact again. “Just keeping an eye on things.”
“Ollie.” Bree’s voice was kind. “Were you at the park the other day, watching Sandy and me?”
Disbelief hovered around Truman. “Did you do that, Ollie?”
If a giant wormhole abruptly opened next to him on the couch, Ollie would be fine with that. He looked at Bree. It was easier than looking at Truman. “Yeah, that was me. I’m just worried about you. You go everywhere alone.”