Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [60]
He’d have to spiff it up a lot before I’d patronize the place.
“Did you get a taste for them fancy coffees when you was traveling the world, Mercy?”
“Anything is better than the sludge the army served.”
“I hear ya. So you’re running for your daddy’s old job?”
“Yep. Can I count on your vote?”
Pete folded his arms over his beer belly. “Seein’s I ain’t got a beef with the way Dawson’s been doin’ things . . .”
At least it wasn’t a hell no. Tired of small talk, I said, “I’m looking for George. He around?”
“In the back. Be careful of the wet paint.”
George gripped a paint roller in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Soon as he saw me, he cut his conversation short. “Well, if it isn’t the woman who can stop a bar fight and run for sheriff.”
“I can whistle while I juggle, too.” I smiled. “Speaking of bar fights, I’m trying to track down some information about what went down the night Jason Hawley was killed, and I was hoping you could help me.”
“Sure. Whatcha need?”
“I heard you were talking to him in the back room at Clementine’s before the fight.”
“Yeah, so?”
“What did you talk about?”
He measured me, then shrugged. “Ain’t a big secret he was trying to get local construction workers on board with supporting the pipeline. He pulled the usual ‘great-paying jobs for skilled workers’ line of bullshit.”
“Did you believe him?’ “‘
“Some of the guys did. And they were pissed when they found out Hawley had forgotten to tell them they’d have to join the Pipelayers’ Union in order to get hired. We don’t need to pay a fucking union to get us jobs.”
South Dakota. Not such a big union state. “Were any of your guys mad enough—”
“To kill him over it? Hell no. I can vouch for every guy there that night. They may get a little crazy, drink too much, mix it up with their fists when provoked, but no way would they kill for kicks.”
“Did Hawley talk to anyone else after you?”
“Some Indian chick.”
That was new. “Know her name?”
“Cherelle something. But she was trying to talk to him, and he was blowing her off.”
“What’d she look like? Younger? Older?”
“Younger. Pretty until you noticed the scar running down the right side of her face. I felt sorry for her, but at the same time, she had this incredibly mean look about her.” George squinted at me suspiciously. “Why you asking me this?”
“Has Dawson been around asking you?”
“No.”
“Then there’s your answer. I’m following a few lines of investigation he hasn’t.” I pointed to his roller. “Thanks for your help. I’ll let you get back to work.”
Outside, the fresh air alone wasn’t clearing my head. I took off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace. Since Main Street was only three blocks long I’d run out of pavement before my mind really kicked into gear.
So far my one lead was that J-Hawk had talked to an Indian woman named Cherelle. I would’ve remembered a scarred woman.
I leaned against the brick building housing the Wipf Law Office. How long had J-Hawk been in the bank room before he came up to the main part of the bar and ordered a drink from me? Had he stuck around in the parking lot afterward because he’d been waiting for someone specific?
The reflection of a passing car flashed in my face, and I averted my eyes. My gaze caught on an SUV parked in the bank’s parking lot between a boat and a pair of Sea-Doo Jet Skis. It was angled so I couldn’t read the license plate. But I recognized it.
What was Jason’s SUV still doing here?
I crossed the street and walked around the vehicle. Then I tried the doors. Locked. No surprise. I cupped my hands to block the light and peeked in the windows. The inside was clean as a whistle.
“I could arrest you for attempted breaking and entering,” he drawled.
My heart raced a bit when I faced him. “I was just looking, Sheriff.”
“Uh-huh. I saw you pulling on the door handles.”
Busted. “Go ahead and slap the cuffs on me.”
“Being’s you’re running against me, if I arrested you, some people might see it as an abuse of power on my part, so I’m gonna let it slide.” He paused. “What’re you doing here?”
“My truck is on its