The clock over the stove showed it was nearly eight o’clock. She and Eddie still needed to check in to their hotel. “I’d like to come back tomorrow when it’s daylight and see the rest of the property,” she told the chief. “We also need to visit the other scene.”
“Just call the department and leave a message. I’ll meet you here,” Truman offered. His energy had dimmed and resignation dipped his shoulders. The house felt quieter than when they’d first entered.
“Thank you.” The tour and its guide had made the case personal. Mercy was now determined to solve Jefferson Biggs’s murder for the nephew as much as for the victim.
FIVE
“Here ya go, Chief.”
With a wink and a smile, Diane set a beer in front of him and darted off to help another patron before Truman could thank her. He wrapped his fingers around the cold glass and held it below his nose for a few seconds. The stress of the tour of his uncle’s home melted away at the smell of hops and citrus. The bar was a dive, but it was the only bar in Eagle’s Nest. The wood floor needed serious help and all the tables were uneven, but the service was five star and the burgers beat anything he’d ever eaten in San Jose. After the Deere dealership, it was the main hangout for the men of the town. Opinions were freely expressed with few consequences. There was an occasional brief fistfight, but Truman had yet to lock someone up for fighting at the bar.
It was a good place.
A slap on his back made his beer slosh over his hand, and Mike Bevins slid onto the stool next to him, sporting a wide grin.
“Asshole.” Truman grabbed a napkin to wipe off his hand.
“Sorry, didn’t see the beer.” Mike pushed up on the brim of his Oregon Ducks cap.
“Yes, you did.”
Mike caught Diane’s attention, pointed at Truman’s beer, and held up one finger. She nodded and whipped a glass under the right tap.
Mike had been one of the guys he’d bummed around with during the three high school summers he’d spent in Eagle’s Nest. Each summer they’d pick up the friendship as if Truman had never left town. When Truman had accepted the police chief job, Mike had been one of the first to congratulate him and treat him as if he were one of the locals. Their friendship had always been easy and sincere, and he’d smoothed Truman’s move to the small town. He was always ready to introduce Truman to a new face or offer his support during the city council meetings.
Truman liked having Mike at his back.
“How’s work?” he asked Mike.
“Same shit, different day.” Mike nodded his thanks at Diane for his beer. “The old man is pressuring me again.”
Truman knew Mike’s father wanted him to take more responsibility at the big Bevins ranch. The ranch was a huge machine that used a dozen hands to keep moving. He also knew Mike wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. He had a dream of living in Portland and teaching survival classes to middle-class suburbanites who had money to burn. There was nothing Mike loved better than disappearing into the wilderness for two weeks, living out of his backpack. Truman had thought it was cool when they were eighteen, but now he preferred the comfort of his bed, a hot shower, and fresh coffee.
Mike’s father didn’t support his dream; he wanted his son to take over his legacy.
Considering Mike was inching close to forty, Truman wondered if he’d ever jump ship.
“What are you going to do?” Truman asked, knowing Mike needed to vent.
“Dunno.” Mike focused on downing a third of his beer. “I’ll know when the time is right. I heard the FBI shipped in some agents from Portland to work on the murders.”
Truman didn’t mind the subject change. “They did, and I’m glad. We need all the help we can get on the prepper murders.”
“You don’t see them as elbowing you out and taking over?”
“Heck no. Do you know how limited my resources are in Eagle’s Nest? I rely on Deschutes County and the state police for almost everything. I’m used to playing nicely with others.”
Mike looked into his beer. “I’m sorry about Jefferson. I know I’ve said it before, but I can’t imagine how bad it sucks for you.”
“Thank you.”
A companionable silence stretched for a few seconds. He never felt the need for useless small talk with Mike.
“How many FBI agents?”
“Two.”
“That’s it?” Mike raised his brows. “Is that really going to make a difference?”
Truman thought of Mercy Kilpatrick and the intense focus he’d seen on her face and heard in her questions. “I think so. It’ll be their sole assignment while they’re here. I’m constantly pulled in a half-dozen directions, and so is the county sheriff and the Bend FBI office. These two agents’ primary assignment is to find the murderers.”