Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [105]
“I don’t know. As long as she wants. Why?”
He shrugged.
I recognized the evasion. “Why do you care?”
“Because she’s bad news.”
That got my back up. “You don’t know fuck all about Anna.”
“Wrong. I know she’s dangerous.”
“Hazard of our training, Dawson. We’re all like that.”
“Wrong again. She’s nothing like you.” Dawson locked his gaze to mine. “Nothing. Maybe once you two were alike, but not anymore. She’ll drag you down to her level rather than you bringing her up to yours.”
“Why don’t you come right out and say what you mean?”
His teeth flashed. “I tried to when we first started dancing, but you didn’t want to hear it.”
Dammit, he was twisting my words. “You drive me crazy.”
He whispered, “It’s part of my charm.”
The song ended, and I attempted to leap back, but Dawson wouldn’t release my hand until Andrew acknowledged us.
“How about another round of applause for our candidates?”
The clapping had waned. People were as raring to dance as I was to put distance between Dawson and me.
Dawson’s campaign manager herded him away. I turned and smacked into Shay Turnbull.
He grasped my upper arms. “Whoa there, candidate Gunderson. What’s the rush?”
“Sorry. Just trying to escape the dance floor.”
“And here I fought the crowd so I could claim your next dance.”
A drop-dead gorgeous man like him wouldn’t be short dance partners. “Why in the hell would you want to dance with me anyway? I suck.”
He smiled. “It’s refreshing that you are as unaware of your own allure as you are brutally honest. Come on. One dance.”
“They’re your broken toes,” I mumbled.
Shay held me more formally than Dawson had. “Thousand Miles from Nowhere” by Dwight Yoakam began. I’d hoped for a fast one like Alan Jackson’s “Chattahoochee,” but this medium-slow tune would allow for conversation.
“You and Dawson put aside your differences.”
“For one dance. It wasn’t like either of us had a choice.”
“Despite the political tension, it looked like you and the sheriff had danced together before tonight.”
Nosy bastard. “Nope. First time.”
“Really? You moved well together.”
He didn’t know the half of it.
“I expected more fireworks during the debate. I thought you’d give him hell. Pinpoint why you think he’s doing such a lousy job as sheriff.”
Why was he baiting me? “You angling to join my campaign committee, Agent Turnbull? So you can teach me how to take a man to task?”
“No.” Turnbull laughed. “You don’t need help from anyone on the most efficient way to execute a task.”
Inside, I froze.
“See, that’s what doesn’t fit. You didn’t detail Dawson’s investigative mistakes. He didn’t point out your lack of experience. Neither of you went for the jugular during the debate. It was all very . . . boring and civilized.”
“Maybe. But believe it or not, Dawson and I aren’t here to publicly nitpick each other’s qualifications. We’re here as an excuse for the county residents to have a dance and call it a debate.”
He had no response for that observation.
We danced. He wasn’t as smooth on the dance floor as Dawson—not that I was comparing.
“You heard about Victor Bad Wound?” he asked.
“Hard not to in a community this size. Any leads?”
He didn’t answer beyond a grunt.
I couldn’t resist poking him. “Did the feds off him?”
“I wish. But no. We’re looking at Cherelle Dupris as the main suspect.”
I bit back asking if they’d tracked down Cherelle yet. “Does ICSCU have her locked up someplace nice with lots of mirrors as you try to get her to turn on Saro?”
Agent Turnbull gave me a measured look. “What do you know about it?”
“Nothing. No one is mourning Victor’s death except his brother. If the feds suspect Cherelle killed Victor, she’ll need protection from Saro. What better way for her to seek immunity from a murder charge than to give the lowdown on Saro’s organization?”
“You are a smart cookie, Sergeant Major. And that’d be an ideal situation . . . if we knew where Cherelle was.”
I faked surprise. “Think Saro already got to her?”
“We don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
“You’re looking for her . . . at a community