Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [88]
“Why do you think no one else got involved?”
It occurred to me, for the first time, that everyone in the bar probably knew Benji was Saro and Victor’s nephew. The reason no one—including Steve Stillwell—had stepped in? Nobody wanted to incur the wrath or attention of the reservation bad boys. But I’d heard that blasted “Underdog” theme song inside my head and jumped in, fists flying.
Great plan, Mercy. Maybe the logic center of your brain has been rattled by too many IEDs.
But Agent Turnbull wasn’t done railing on me. “And to make matters worse, you threatened Saro and Victor when they showed up at Stillwell’s to talk to you about humiliating Benji.”
“They threatened me, Agent. I told them the truth—I’d derive great pleasure in taking them down if I was elected sheriff. Oh, and that was after they’d dropped hints about what a tool my father was.”
“Now, thanks to your macho behavior and the chip on your shoulder about your dearly departed dad, Saro and Victor have closed ranks and holed up on the reservation where we can’t get to them.”
“Get to them for what?”
No response.
My jaw popped I clenched my teeth so hard. “You have proof one of them killed Jason Hawley?”
Agent Turnbull stared at me blankly.
“Goddammit. Tell me.”
He offered me a snakebite smile. “I don’t have to tell you a thing, Sergeant Major.”
“Is he bothering you?”
Startled, I glanced up to see Sheriff Dawson. His face was pure business, his posture pure agitation as he braced a hand on the back of the booth above my head and loomed over Agent Turnbull.
Yikes.
“Or am I interrupting something?”
“No. Agent Turnbull and I were finished.”
At my use of his title, Turnbull scowled.
“Would you like to join us?” I asked Dawson politely.
“I’ll pass.”
But Dawson didn’t move. Agent Turnbull didn’t move. I didn’t move. A machete couldn’t have hacked the thick air.
Agent Turnbull’s curious gaze winged between Dawson’s impass-ive face and mine. A knowing smile upturned the corners of his lips. “I’m not interested in muscling in on your territory, Dawson.”
“You’ve been on my territory since the second you stepped foot in this county. I’ll cooperate with the feds because I’ve got no choice, Agent Turnbull, but I don’t gotta like it.”
Dawson was purposely being obtuse. Again, I was reminded of his fierceness. Of his sweetness. He’d rather take an insult than allow one to be directed at me.
You’re such a sucker, Mercy. Maybe you oughta pucker up, bat your eyelashes, and squeeze his big biceps, too.
Turnbull, being a nosy asshole fed, didn’t let it slide. “Tell me, Sheriff. Does knowing what she’s capable of make it hard to fall asleep next to her some nights?”
I ground my teeth at hearing Turnbull voice the question I’d asked myself.
Dawson flashed his teeth. “Have a nice day, Agent.” He looked at me, no differently than usual, and said, “You, too, Miz Gunderson.”
After Dawson swaggered off, Turnbull asked, “How many people know about you and Dawson?”
I pretended to give the question serious thought. “Probably everyone, with the exception of the folks in the Restful Acres Nursing Home. Most of them have limited recall, and I doubt they even know who’s in the sheriff’s race. But everyone else knows I’m running against him.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
I know. “Excuse me.” I ducked out of the booth. I didn’t run, but with his long-legged stride I didn’t catch Dawson until we were in front of Pete’s Pawnshop. “Dawson. Wait.”
He seemed surprised to see me. Surprised and wary. He glanced over his shoulder. “If you’re gonna chew me out, I’d prefer you did it in private.”
“I didn’t chase you down to rip into you.”
“Then why did you chase me down?”
Because I’m just as much a tool and a fool as I feared. “To ask why you didn’t tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“About Shay Turnbull. Who he is, who he works for.”
The angry muscle ticked in Dawson’s jaw. “Why does it matter now?”
“It just does.”
“That’s a bullshit answer, and I don’t have time for this.” Dawson spun