Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [117]
“I promise.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Anna was a no-show.
Since Dawson had to be in the office early, I’d stayed in his bed until right before my scheduled breakfast with Anna. My laziness was only half from exhaustion. The other half was from avoidance.
When I’d tried to talk to Dawson last night, he’d made a new rule on the spot. No talking about cases or campaigns. He wanted one night with me where it was just us. Mercy and Mason. I even called him Mason a couple of times, just to prove to him—and maybe to myself—that I saw him playing a different role in my life.
On a whim after I left the diner, I entered Pete’s Pawnshop. Anna had spent enough time in here that maybe Pete was privy to plans she hadn’t shared with me.
Pete came from the back room, a gooey doughnut clutched in his hand, frosting coating his beard. “Morning, Mercy. Sorry to hear you lost the election.”
Liar. “Thanks.”
“You don’t look as upset as I’d imagined.”
Did he expect I’d be bawling my eyes out? In public? Like that’d ever happen. “Naturally, I’m disappointed, but Dawson knows his stuff, so the county will stay in good hands for another four years.”
Pete’s smile showed the chocolate glazing his teeth. “That’s a mighty good attitude to have. Your buddy Anna could learn a lot from you.”
“Speaking of Anna”—I glanced around the dusty space—“we were supposed to meet at the diner for breakfast. Have you seen her today?”
“Sure. She was in here earlier, checking out the display cases.”
I frowned. “You mean the gun cases?”
“No. The cases up there.” He pointed to the semicircle of glass cases ringing the cash register.
I walked to the case he’d indicated. Trays of Black Hills gold jewelry lined the top and bottom shelves. Next were trays of watches. Beside that display were diamond rings and earrings. Boggled my mind that some women remembered to put that crap on every day. And people gave me grief about always wearing my gun? At least a gun was useful, not ornamental. “Anna isn’t exactly the jewelry type.”
“I know. Which is why she’s been looking at the knives.”
“Anna bought a knife?”
“Shoot. I sure hope it wasn’t a gift for you or nothin’. Forget it.”
“Can’t put the cat back in the bag, Pete. Tell me about the knife.”
His gray eyebrows squished together. “You ain’t gonna go tattling on me?”
“Nope.”
“She was interested in one that came in right before closing time yesterday. A stainless-steel Kershaw. Sweet piece. Told her I could buff off the engraving if she wanted, but she swore it was fine the way it was.”
The hair on the back of my neck raised up. My mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Mercy? You okay?”
Be cool. “Actually, no, I’m a little stunned. Anna’s been searching for a replacement knife like that since she lost mine in Afghanistan a few years ago. Do you remember what the engraving said?”
Pete began to pick dried chunks of frosting from his beard. “I dunno. Something sappy about forever.”
Son. Of. A. Bitch. J-Hawk’s missing knife had surfaced. Had she suspected it’d show up here? Is that why she’d been hanging around? Why hadn’t I seen that angle?
Because you’re not exactly a hotshot detective.
“Who’d you buy the knife from?”
“You two are peas in a pod and a nosy lot. Anna asked the same question.”
“Did you tell her?” Please say no.
“I almost didn’t, client confidentiality and all that. But Anna’s been a good customer, and I didn’t see the harm. It really don’t matter, because them yahoos who sold it to me just wanted fast money for booze or drugs or whatever they’re doin’.”
“What yahoos?”
“Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.”
I resisted grabbing Pete by his overalls and shaking him until his dentures rattled. “Be specific, Pete. Those names fit lots of folks around here.”
“Oh, you know, Cliff Garber and Tyler Lewdonsky? Cliff’s blond. Tyler’s a redhead. They’re always getting in scrapes ’cause they’re mouthy little shits. Them boys are practically joined at the hip. Don’t go nowhere or do nothing without the other. Kinda makes you wonder if they’re really just ‘friends.