A Merciful Secret (Mercy Kilpatrick #3)(56)

“It definitely does.” She eyed the espresso machine. “Can you make me an Americano?”

“No problem.”

She leaned against the island and watched him push buttons and clank metal.

“Why are you here, Mercy?” He met her gaze as his hands automatically made the espresso. “I assume this isn’t a visit between friends?”

She wished it was. “We need a statement from your brother.”

He nodded and finished her drink. “Cream?”

“Heavy cream if you have it.”

“I do.” He added the luxurious white liquid and stirred with a slender spoon. He handed her the mug, holding her gaze. “Gabriel doesn’t want to talk to the police without his lawyer present.”

He sounded like a recording.

Mercy took a sip, weighing her next move. “I’m surprised he’s in your home. At our last visit you implied that you don’t get along.”

Christian poured himself a cup of coffee from a ready pot. “We have our differences, but he’s my brother.”

“And this is about your father. He was murdered, Christian. Horribly. We need to move fast, and it’s already been too many days.”

A struggle filled his handsome face. Mercy stayed silent, letting him battle his own demons. He was dressed in cargo pants and a half-zip sweatshirt, looking ready to go for a hike except for the heavy slippers on his feet. He wore his wealth casually without a pretentious bone in his body, and she wondered how he was still single.

“What did Brent say to you outside?”

Is he stalling? “He told me to go home and call the lawyer.”

“Who needs a lawyer?”

Mercy immediately identified Gabriel Lake as he stepped into the kitchen and refilled his coffee mug. He took a long drink and studied Mercy, curiosity on his face.

“This is Mercy Kilpatrick, Gabriel. We go back a long way.”

Why didn’t he identify me as an agent?

“Nice to meet you,” Gabriel held out a hand and Mercy shook it, echoing his statement. “You drove out here in these conditions?”

“It wasn’t too bad,” she said. “How long are you visiting Christian?”

“I haven’t decided. With the passes closed, there’s no point in trying to get home to Portland.”

Mercy fished a business card out of the pocket of her coat. Handing it to him, she said, “I’m with the Bend FBI office.”

His fingers automatically took her card but he stiffened; surprise filled his face but was quickly replaced with irritation. “No comment.”

“I’m not the press,” Mercy pointed out. “I’m here because your father was murdered. It’s standard operating procedure to interview family. You’ve been avoiding us.”

“Call my lawyer.” He shot an annoyed look at Christian and turned to leave.

“Gabriel,” Christian snapped. “What the hell is keeping you from helping the police?”

His brother stopped under the glorious rugged rock arch that separated the kitchen from a back hallway. “I know how the standard operating procedure works. Every family member is regarded as a suspect until they’re cleared. I don’t need to be treated that way.”

“Then clear yourself! You’re prolonging the inevitable. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“How about you answer only the questions you’re comfortable with?” Mercy suggested, desperate not to let the older brother slip away. “We’re trying to get a picture of your father’s last days.”

Gabriel stood silent, his gaze darting between her and Christian.

“She doesn’t bite,” Christian added.

“I’ll give you twenty minutes,” stated Gabriel, looking at his watch for emphasis.

“Are you going somewhere?” Mercy couldn’t contain the retort.

“Make that fifteen minutes.”

“Let’s sit down,” Christian suggested and pulled out a bar stool at the island for Mercy.

She sat and pulled out a small notebook. Gabriel slowly took a seat, giving her his attention.

My, won’t this be fun.





TWENTY-TWO

Truman opened the door to Eagle’s Nest’s tiny library, noting someone had already cleared snow from the steps and several yards of walkway and then spread salt. The smell of old books, dust, and a touch of mildew reached his nose. Fluorescent lighting, ancient tables with hard chairs, and shelves and shelves of books greeted him. He was definitely in a library.

“Ruth?” He spoke loudly. “It’s Truman.” No one answered.

He moved to the tall counter where the librarian processed checkouts. The counter was the sole piece of luxury in the bare-bones library. It had originally been a welcome desk in a fancy hotel that had been torn down in the 1950s. After being found in someone’s garage four decades earlier, it’d been transferred to the library, where it’d stood like a silent sentry ever since. It was solid oak and elaborately decorated with hand-carved nature scenes that must have taken master craftsmen months to create. It easily weighed a thousand pounds.

Ruth Schultz appeared from a doorway behind the counter. “Truman! Good to see you. Ina gives me reports on you as if you were a favored grandson.”