Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [38]
“Geneva called me for moral support, you know, since I’ve spent time in the county slammer. She’s afraid Molly will become a hard-core criminal after a single night behind bars.”
No smirk. No biting remark. Were we beyond a smile or a snarky comment easing the tension between us?
“I won’t apologize for doing my job, Mercy.”
“You made that clear.”
His focus shifted to my right cheekbone. “Jesus. Is that another bruise?”
Under normal circumstances I’d tell him about the stupid sow knocking me into the stock tank. We’d laugh. He’d tease me about being blind as a bat. But I kept the tale to myself. “Yeah. I seem to be collecting them.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
We stared at each other uneasily.
I brought the conversation back around to business. “Did you get the lists?”
“Yes. I haven’t had much of a chance to look at them.”
“Been too busy staking out teenage pranksters?” Right after it tumbled from my mouth I knew it’d been the wrong thing to say.
His lips compressed into a thin white line. “Like I said, I won’t apologize for doing my job.”
“But are you doing it?”
Flared nostrils, clenched jaw, eyes hard as granite. I’d struck another nerve, this time intentional. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you’ve got time to waste in Otis’s pasture, does that mean you’ve made progress on finding out who killed Jason Hawley?”
No answer. No change in his demeanor. He offered a flip “Why do you care?”
I had my answer.
“Maybe the question should be why you don’t.” I turned on my heel and walked out.
The parents grilled me the instant I cleared the doorjamb. I suggested that if they were worried the incident would show up on their kids’ permanent record, they should head out to Otis Brandhier’s place and convince him to drop the charges.
Evidently that hadn’t occurred to them; they took off en masse.
I meandered through town, dwelling on what Dawson wasn’t doing. It was frustrating. Dawson hadn’t changed or learned from his mistakes from last year. Talk about a case of déjà vu—I’d had these exact same issues with his investigative technique last summer. It appeared that after he left the crime scene and finished interviewing the witnesses at said crime scene, he rarely followed up.
You don’t know that. Maybe he’s changed.
Doubtful, from what I’d seen. He hadn’t even checked the lists yet. It bugged me he wasn’t more concerned with a murderer running loose in Eagle River County. But not as much as my suspicion he’d dismissed J-Hawk’s murder as an unfortunate accident, affecting a no-account out-of-towner that no one liked anyway. I’d expected that attitude from locals—not local law enforcement.
NINE
Ranch work used different muscles than running or yoga. Despite three days off from bartending, my entire body was sore. I couldn’t continue closing the bar after midnight and then hauling my butt out of bed at six a.m. to start chores. So I gave notice, effective immediately after my scheduled shift. John-John took it in stride, given Clementine’s increased popularity in the last month. Then again, he might’ve seen my resignation in a vision and already hired a replacement.
As soon as I stepped behind the bar, Winona was on me. “Did you hear? Bill O’Neil had a heart attack.”
“Really? I had no idea.” Bill and my dad might’ve had their differences, but he’d been my dad’s deputy for ten years, and I was surprised no one had called us. “That’s too bad. When?”
“They medevaced him to Rapid’s cardiac care unit late last night.”
“Any word on how he’s doing?”
“Nope, but I’m sure someone who comes in tonight will know more.”
Clementine’s was hopping with new customers. Old customers. Package sales customers. Being busy meant time sped past, although I was glad the place emptied out at eleven-thirty.
I groaned when the door opened again at eleven forty-five as I finished closing duties. But my “We’re closed” response dried up when Geneva strolled in.
“Hey. I never thought I’d see you in here.”
Her wide-eyed gaze lingered on the bar’s back shelves, which were lined with liquor bottles. Most bar