Chapter 15 MERCY

Chapter 15

MERCY

As they drove to Shady Acres Motel, Mercy had an image stuck in her head of Vanessa's two-year-old sucking on a baggie of drugs. Vanessa was lucky she hadn't murdered her child.

Lucky? Vanessa is dead.

Mercy studied the screen of the sheriff's computer console in the SUV. Jimmie Elkins's weathered face stared back at her. For someone in his thirties, Jimmie showed a lot of mileage. The lines around his eyes and mouth were more common for a fifty-year-old, and his gaze was full of disdain and suspicion.

His record was extensive. Possession, dealing, domestic assault. He'd been in and out of prison since he was nineteen. He was not who you wanted your wife—or anyone else you knew—hanging around with. He was the type to drag his friends into deep water and then climb on their shoulders, not caring if they drowned.

Taggert turned off the rural highway and into the motel parking lot. Brown streaks ran down the plastic face of the Shady Acres sign, and it had a big, jagged hole that looked as if someone had shot at it. The run-down motel sat alone, a skinny, two-story building surrounded by scrubby fields that stretched on for miles. Mercy had seen dozens of its kind on rural roads in Oregon.

The SUV bounced through the potholes in the parking lot; they were impossible to avoid. The sheriff swore under her breath, and Mercy grabbed the handle above her door. Taggert parked in front of the office, a squatty protrusion from the motel. An OPEN sign hung crookedly on the dirty glass door.

It looked like a motel that simply brushed off the sheets before making the bed for the next occupant and then used the same sponge to clean both the toilets and sinks.

"Lovely," Mercy muttered, thankful she had hand sanitizer in her bag.

"I know," said the sheriff. "And I swear there's someone different working in the office every time I'm out here. They can't keep staff."

"Come here often?" Irony filled her tone.

Taggert cracked a grin. "More than I'd like. It's a cesspool."

They stepped out of the vehicle, and Mercy fell in behind the sheriff to let Taggert handle the desk clerk since she was in uniform. Mercy had considered wearing an FBI jacket but decided it was best to keep a low profile to avoid questions about her presence. Instead she'd dressed in her usual black pants and black lightweight blazer—necessary to cover her shoulder holster. The sheriff pulled open the door, and the scent of mildew slammed into them as they entered.

No one was working the counter. Behind it was an old TV with two Kardashian sisters arguing on-screen. Three Big Gulp cups with tall straws sat beside the TV. Scanning the room, Mercy spotted an ancient coffee maker on a rickety table at the far end of the lobby, a stack of Styrofoam cups beside it with a handwritten sign: one cup of coffee per person!!!

I wouldn't drink anything out of that machine. Or the cups.

The sheriff tapped the rusty service bell. It clanked.

A large young man sucking on a Big Gulp appeared from a doorway and approached the desk. His gaze narrowed on the sheriff's uniform. "Help you?" he said around the straw.

"We need a room number for Jimmie Elkins," stated the sheriff.

He sucked noisily before answering. "That's private. I can't do that."

"Because this place always follows the rules," said Taggert. "We can go pound on all the doors and bother your guests, or you could keep everyone happy and tell us the number."

"Get a warrant."

Mercy took a half step forward and held out her ID. "FBI, asshole," she said politely. "Maybe knowing that federal law enforcement is interested in Jimmie Elkins would change your mind?"

The man's gaze narrowed, and he stopped sucking.

"You up to date on your taxes?" asked Mercy. "I can have a word with a good friend at the IRS if you continue to block our investigation." She'd found that mentioning the IRS encouraged a certain type of person to cooperate. The agency was more alarming than the presence of the FBI.

He slammed down his Big Gulp. "One twelve."

Mercy smiled sweetly. "Thank you so much." The two women turned and left.

"You've had people harassed about their taxes?" asked the sheriff as they walked across the parking lot.

"No." Mercy shrugged. "We have no influence with the IRS. And of course I don't know anyone there."

Taggert chuckled. "Think he gave us the right room number?"

"We'll find out." She scanned the motel doors. Room 112 was three-quarters of the way down the building. They were about thirty feet away when the door opened a few inches and someone peered out.

That looks like Jimmie.

It opened wider, and a man tore outside.

"He's running!" Mercy shouted, and the women darted after him.

That asshole at the desk warned him.

"Stop! Randolph County Sheriff!" yelled Taggert.

Jimmie disappeared around the corner of the building, heading behind the motel. Mercy was full-out sprinting, the sheriff matching her pace.

She has the added weight of her tactical vest and belt.

A split second of panic raced through Mercy. No vest. She had her Glock in her holster but no protection. The panic vanished quickly as she recalled that Jimmie had dashed out of his room wearing nothing but baggy athletic shorts and shoes. No shirt. His shorts had flapped around his thighs—nothing in a pocket to weigh down one side. If he was armed, it wasn't with a gun.

The women turned the same corner and spotted Jimmie racing away from the motel across a large stretch of dirt spotted with bushes and tall, dry grasses.

Mercy panted, her feet pounding the ground. It was only midmorning, but the heat and humidity were in full force, and it felt as if she were in a sauna. "Stop! FBI!" she shouted. Jimmie took a glimpse over his shoulder and turned up his speed.

Shit.

She scanned the landscape. Far ahead the field gave way to densely packed trees, which seemed to be Jimmie's target. Taggert continued to match her stride for stride, apparently used to running through saunas.

Ahead Jimmie suddenly yelped and dropped out of sight.

Did he fall?

As they drew closer, Mercy realized he'd tumbled into a deep gully and was now running awkwardly along the bottom, heading to their left. His back and hair were coated with dirt from his fall.

It's a dried-up creek bed.

It wasn't completely dry, and Jimmie's pace slowed as he tried to avoid areas of thick mud.

Without a discussion, Mercy jumped and sidestepped down the embankment as the sheriff stayed at the top, sprinting parallel to the dry creek. Mercy ran after Jimmie, careful not to plant a foot where he'd left deep prints in the boggy mud. "Stop! FBI!" she yelled again.

He didn't stop.

Mercy turned on a burst of speed and drew within ten feet of the running man. Up top, Taggert passed them and rapidly shuffled down the embankment to cut him off. Jimmie dashed to the opposite side to climb out of the gully.

Bad choice.

He had picked a steep spot and had to scramble, his hands clawing the dirt to keep his balance. Mercy lunged. She caught the waistband of his shorts and used her weight to yank him backward, hurling him to one side. He tumbled out of her grip and into the mud, landing on his stomach directly in front of Taggert. "Don't move!" the sheriff yelled, her weapon trained on him. Jimmie raised his head, one side of his face covered in sticky mud. He peered up at the sheriff and then back at Mercy, who now had her weapon aimed his way as well. He sighed loudly and clasped his hands behind his head.

He knows exactly what to do.

Panting, Mercy met Taggert's gaze, and a wide grin filled the sheriff's face. "That was fun!"

Mercy laughed.

She's right.

Ten minutes later, they were in Jimmie's motel room, where Mercy had cranked up the air-conditioning. The machine was pitiful, puffing out weak breaths of mildly cool air.

Jimmie sat on the edge of the bed, his hands cuffed behind him. He'd asked to wash his face, and Mercy told him he could once he'd answered their questions. She enjoyed watching the mud rapidly dry and crack on his cheeks.

The room was a pit. It smelled of ancient cigarette smoke mixed with the skunk scent of weed. Mercy eyed the bed, wondering how long it'd been since the sheets were washed. Clothing was scattered about the room. Men's clothing. She saw nothing that would belong to a woman.

"What's all this water on the floor?" she asked, moving toward the bathroom. "You got a leak?"

"Huh?" He craned his head to see past her. "Shit."

Mercy stepped carefully around the small lake that extended into the bathroom and found the source of the problem. The toilet had overflowed, and floating at the top of the bowl were several plastic baggies. Pills, crystals, and powders. She looked closer and recognized an imprint code on the pills that filled three of the baggies. Opioids. Clearly the hundreds of pills weren't just for personal use.

He tried to flush his drugs and clogged the toilet. Then ran.

Idiot.

While examining the bathroom she decided she wouldn't bring him something to wash his face even after they talked. There was no way she was touching the rusty sink faucet or any of the graying, limp towels. The dark mildew stains in every crevice and the sheets of scum on the tub walls made her want hazard gear.

The drugs give us grounds to arrest him.

She stepped out. "Can you call someone to take him in?" she asked the sheriff. "There's a pharmacy of drugs floating in his toilet." Taggert nodded and spoke into the mic at her shoulder.

"Am I under arrest?" he asked, sourly looking from one woman to the other.

"Yep," answered Taggert.

"Why did you run?" asked Mercy.

Jimmie shrugged, his bony shoulders nearly touching his ears. He was thin, and Mercy could see every rib. He had the same type of facial sores she'd seen in the last photo of Vanessa. Another meth user. Mercy recalled her discussion with the sheriff about their suspect being able to lift a suitcase with a body in it. If Jimmie was their man, he must have had help. He didn't look strong enough to lift a bag of dog food.

"We're looking for Vanessa Mullen," she said.

"Ain't seen her in months. Whatever she's done has nothing to do with me," he said emphatically.

"Can you be more specific about the date you last saw her?" asked Taggert.

Jimmie screwed up his face in thought. "She bailed on me for Christmas. We had plans to hang with some people, and she didn't text or nothin'. I called her and kept getting voice mail. She never called back or came around." He shrugged again. "Guess she found something better."

Mercy exchanged a look with the sheriff. "She'd been living with you? Here?"

"Yeah. Sometimes she'd take off for a few days."

"You didn't ask where?"

"None of my business. She doesn't ask what I do, and I don't ask her. We're free adults."

Mercy noted he spoke of Vanessa in present tense.

"She in trouble?" he asked.

He had the smallest note of concern in his voice, and Mercy suspected he had some feelings for the woman no matter what he claimed.

"Did she take her belongings?" asked the sheriff.

"Yeah, she packed up everything. Stole my money. Took my stash too." He straightened and blinked rapidly, probably realizing what he'd admitted. "It was her stash, not mine."

Mercy tried not to laugh. Maybe he'd forgotten she'd found a toilet full of drugs. She jerked her head for Taggert to follow her to the bathroom. As the sheriff wrinkled her nose at the overflowing toilet, Mercy said in a low voice, "He's more concerned about a drug charge than anything else. He seems clueless about Vanessa."

"I was thinking the same. But he could be a good actor." Taggert looked skeptical, and Mercy agreed they'd found nothing to rule Jimmie out as a suspect in Vanessa's murder.

"For now let's take him in," said Mercy. "We can search the room once he's gone. Maybe something will turn up."

Taggert surveyed the bathroom. "Better double glove."

"You read my mind."

Maybe something will lead us to Paige.