Chapter 20 MERCY

Chapter 20

MERCY

Mercy glanced at the list in her hand to verify Taggert had driven them to the right address for the next tip. "This looks abandoned." They'd pulled into the parking lot of a small strip mall that looked as if it had been empty for decades. All the windows were boarded up. Trash and weeds covered the parking lot.

It looked like a place to make a drug deal.

"There's a car," said the sheriff after driving to the far end of the parking lot. The front half of a newer Mercedes sedan was visible behind the strip mall. Taggert cautiously drove closer and stopped a dozen feet away. A man in sunglasses stepped out of the car, and he hesitated, eyeing the SUV.

"Hang on." The sheriff popped the plate into her dashboard computer. "Registered to Pete Conrad." She pulled up his license. "Does that look like him?"

Mercy studied the license photo and then the man waiting for them. "Think so. Hard to tell with the sunglasses, but he's tall. License says six three."

"Agreed. Did he really think his tip would be anonymous when he shows up in his own vehicle?"

"He's not what I expected," muttered Mercy, studying him. The man had claimed to have information about Vanessa Mullen but had refused to give his name or come to the station. Mercy had suspected it would be a false tip or that they would meet someone from the dregs of society. Instead the man before them was in a suit and tie. His hair was neatly trimmed and his shoes shiny. Light glinted off his sunglasses as he took quick looks to the left and right.

"Someone doesn't want to be seen with us," the sheriff said quietly.

The women got out of the county SUV and approached. The sun was hot on Mercy's head and back, her black vest immediately soaking in the rays.

"Morning," said the sheriff. "You called the tip line about Vanessa Mullen?"

"I did," said the man, shifting his weight from foot to foot, discomfort on his face.

He does not want to be here.

"What's your name?" asked Taggert.

"I'll tell you in a minute," he said. "Maybe. I need assurances first."

Someone watches too many cop shows.

"Can you take off your sunglasses?" asked Mercy. "We can move into the shade." She jerked her head to the shade near the empty building. He stepped to the side but didn't remove the glasses until Taggert and Mercy stared at him silently for a long moment, waiting. He sighed and took them off, reluctantly meeting their gazes.

Definitely Pete Conrad.

He was in his forties. The suit was nicely tailored, the tie expensive, and his nails perfectly trimmed.

"I'm facing a legal charge. I want it dropped in exchange for the information I'm about to share," he stated.

Mercy exchanged a look with the sheriff.

Yep. Too much TV.

"You must have some awfully important information about this young woman's horrible murder," said Mercy.

You selfish prick.

He toyed with his sunglasses. "Not about the murder per se, but I have the name of a possible suspect."

"Tell us what you know, and if it's strong, I'll see what I can do," said the sheriff. "But no DA will make a deal before hearing what you have to say." She paused. "What are you charged with?"

Mercy had a hunch. This upper-income man who wanted to meet behind a building and not give his name meant it'd been a crime he wanted to keep secret. Since their meeting involved Vanessa, she placed money on drugs or prostitution.

"It wasn't my fault," he started. "It wasn't fair—"

"What are you charged with?" Taggert repeated.

He looked away, tightening his grip on the sunglasses. "Solicitation of prostitution." His gaze shot back to them, fury in his eyes. "It was a fucking sting operation. Totally unconstitutional. My attorney says—"

"We don't care what your attorney says," said Mercy. "We want to know what you have to say about Vanessa." She stared at his wedding ring, and then met his gaze.

I knew it. And it was not his fault, of course.

Frustration filled his face. "I need to know you can get the charge dropped."

"You're looking at up to a year in prison, aren't you?" said the sheriff. "Sorry, can't promise a deal without knowing what you have." In unison, she and Mercy turned away and took a dozen paces back to the SUV.

"Wait!"

They paused and looked back.

His shoulders slumped. "I'll tell you. If it's valuable, I want a deal."

"I'll try my best," said Taggert. They rejoined him.

"I used to ... used to see her." He swallowed hard, struggling to look at them.

"You mean you paid Vanessa money for sex," said Mercy, loudly emphasizing the word sex. "We know her history. What about it?"

"I used to go to her motel, and a guy stayed there with her." His eyes turned hopeful. "I know his name. She'd always say I had to leave before he returned."

Another useless tip.

"We know that Vanessa stayed at the Shady Acres Motel with Jimmie, who at this moment is sitting in jail," said the sheriff. "We're not convinced he's involved, so what else do you have for us?"

Anger and disappointment flashed across his face.

"That's it?" asked Mercy. "Sorry we aren't able to help you out." She looked at Taggert. "We done here?"

"Yep. Have a nice day, sir," the sheriff told him in an upbeat voice. "The county appreciates your help." The annoyance in her eyes contradicted her tone, and she headed back to the vehicle.

Mercy lingered. "Here's a tip," she said quietly, leaning closer to the man. "Don't screw around with prostitutes. Who knows what you've taken home to your wife and kids, Mr. Conrad."

His mouth fell open at her use of his name.

Before he could speak, she spun around and strode away to join Taggert in the SUV.

"Asshole," Mercy said as she climbed in. "Can you imagine meeting a prostitute in Jimmie's nasty motel room? I saw the sheets; they were disgusting."

Taggert shuddered. "A condom wouldn't be enough. Full-body latex coverage would be needed."

Mercy chortled. "Moving on." She checked the list. "Next tip is also anonymous." She sighed. "I hope your deputies are having more luck running down tips."

"What's the address?" asked Taggert, who wrinkled her nose after Mercy told her. "That's in a sketchy part of town."

"Makes sense. The caller claimed Vanessa hung out there a lot and that the people in the home know her really well. Caller didn't think they'd contact the police, so he was doing it." Mercy's stomach rumbled. "Can we get something to eat first?" she asked. Her breakfast was long gone.

"On it."

Thirty minutes later, Mercy felt much better. The sheriff had taken her to a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant with surprisingly authentic food. Two enchiladas and a ton of chips later, they were back on the road.

"I wish the heart tattoo had brought in some tips," said Mercy.

"It's early," said Taggert, watching the road ahead. "We might get information on it. Or our next stop could be the tip that blows everything open."

"That's optimistic of you."

The sheriff shrugged. "If it's not, we'll continue moving forward. Crossing off each lead."

"And knocking on doors."

Taggert went silent, and Mercy noticed her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. She waited a few seconds, but the sheriff didn't volunteer her thoughts.

None of my business, I guess.

A few minutes later, Taggert turned down a gravel road and drove by several run-down homes.

"You were right about it being sketchy," said Mercy, spotting two chained-up dogs, who barked their heads off as they passed a home.

"We get calls on this road all the time," said the sheriff. "Usually domestics." She pulled to the side of the road and nodded toward a house set back from the road. "That's the one. It's owned by someone out of state and is a rental. No recent calls at this specific address, but it racked up a lot a few years back. Those people must have moved out. We'll see how cooperative the new occupants are."

The house was a faded-brown ranch style with an attached single-car garage. The front door was a cheery bright yellow with a small awning overhead. Three steps led up to a wide concrete porch at the door.

"No cars," commented Mercy, wondering if anyone was home. "Yard hasn't been touched for a while." The grass was a dry yellow with bare spots.

"Yard looks pretty normal for around here," said Taggert. "Not worth it to water during this summer heat. You'd have to constantly drown it to keep it green." She touched her holstered weapon and tugged on her vest under her shirt. "Ready?" There was an air of apprehension around her that Mercy hadn't noticed before.

It's a sketchy location. She's being prepared.

They climbed out of the SUV and took a good look around. Mercy saw curtains shift at the home directly across the street.

Someone is curious. Or nosy.

The neighborhood was quiet as they moved up the crumbling walkway. Taggert had sweat on her temples, and the hot humid air made Mercy feel as if she were in a tropical country. At the front door they each stepped to one side. Taggert met her gaze and then knocked.

The home was silent. A few moments later the sheriff knocked again. "Randolph County Sheriff's Department!"

Mercy strained to hear any noise from inside. "Check the back?" she whispered.

The sheriff nodded. "Go."

As Mercy turned away, the crack of a weapon reached her before a bullet crashed into her back, hurling her off the porch. She body-slammed onto the ground, her lungs not functioning. She fought for air.

I'm shot!