Mercy parked in front of the tiny Craftsman home in an old Portland suburb, admiring the perfect landscaping. Joshua Pence’s daughter, Debby, had agreed to meet her and Truman. Ava McLane, one of Mercy’s colleagues from the Portland FBI office, had already informed the woman in person that her father had died. Mercy had talked to Special Agent McLane after the visit and learned that Debby hadn’t spoken to her father in six months. The daughter had been crushed over his death—especially the manner of his death. Mercy had specifically asked Ava to deliver the notification, knowing her friend would handle it with sensitivity and tact.
Mercy and Truman had decided to make a trip over the Cascade mountain range to talk to their victim’s daughter in person. She glanced at the time on her dashboard, hoping it wouldn’t be too late by the time she and Truman made the long trek home.
“Nice house,” Truman commented. “But I don’t want to live with this sort of traffic anymore. It’s not even a weekday and it’s crazy.”
“Amen.” Mercy had been surprised at her own impatience at the traffic on the interstate. She’d driven in it for years, wasting hours bumper-to-bumper as the vehicles crawled toward their destinations. But tonight she hadn’t been able to sit still as the traffic slowly crawled north. “If one more person had pulled in front of me, I would have rammed their bumper.”
“I think it’s also because Thanksgiving is this coming Thursday. Seems like that always increases the traffic.”
She didn’t say anything. It was the first time he’d mentioned the holiday since their discussion the other day. She’d agreed to have him cook dinner, but a very tiny part of her held out hope that she’d receive an invitation from her parents.
Probably not if Owen had any say in the matter.
The heavy wooden door had a lovely fall wreath that looked straight from a Pinterest project, or else from one of the most expensive florists in the city. Mercy wanted to snap a picture to show Kaylie. She had no doubt the teen could recreate the wreath in a matter of hours.
The door opened, and a petite female with chic, short hair and heavy black eyeliner greeted them. Mercy was about to ask if her mother was home when she realized this was Debby Pence. Mercy knew she was thirty, but she looked as if she should be slinging caffeine in a drive-through coffee hut that blasted rock music. The type where you had to yell to place your order. Ava had told her Debby was a successful lawyer in a big firm downtown.
Now she understood the touch of amusement she’d heard in Ava’s tone.
Mercy shook her hand, feeling like a giant next to the small woman. Energy radiated from her, although her eyes were sad and slightly red. Debby gave Truman an admiring glance as he introduced himself, and Mercy was surprised by the possessiveness that flared in her chest. She quickly smothered it.
They stepped into the living room just to the right of the entry. Immaculate period built-ins, dark wooden crown molding, and wainscoting glowed in the soft light.
“This is beautiful,” said Mercy, admiring the light fixtures. They looked straight out of the first half of the twentieth century, but she suspected they were recreations from one of the hip lighting stores where your firstborn was a required down payment for a chandelier.
“Thank you. I’ve restored most of the home myself over the past two years. It’s a hobby of mine,” Debby said with a touch of pride.
“Don’t you work in one of those law offices that require sixty-hour workweeks?” Truman asked.
“I do. But that still leaves a hundred and eight hours in a week. I like to stay busy.”
Mercy chuckled, liking the woman immediately. She hated idle time too.
“Some people occasionally sleep,” said Truman.
“Yes, they do.” Debby didn’t claim she was one of them. She gestured for them to sit on the couch. After offering something to drink, which they refused, she sank into a chair with a sigh. “I feel like I haven’t sat down since this morning.”
“Thank you for meeting with us on a weekend,” said Mercy.
“It’s not often I get two visits from the FBI in one day. Never, actually.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Truman said in that calming voice of his that made Mercy want to crawl in his lap and take a nap. From the sudden expression on Debby’s face, she’d felt the same desire.
“Thank you. Like I told the agent earlier today, I hadn’t seen my father in a long time. The last time was five years ago, when I was in Reno for a conference. I drove out to see him then.” Curiosity filled her features. “I understand he was murdered, but why is the FBI taking an interest?”
“It’s a bit of a long story,” Mercy said. She immediately held up her hand at the look of distrust from Debby. “But I promise to tell you all I can. But first can you tell us more about your father? Do you know why he was in Central Oregon?”
“I have no idea. I was shocked that he was so close and hadn’t called me. We don’t call each other anymore.” She looked down at her clenched hands in her lap. “He’s so awkward to talk with on the phone. He never has anything to say and I have to come up with question after question to keep the conversation going. He did start emailing quite a while ago, and that replaced phone calls. Texting replaced email about two years ago, and that was a relief. It’s so much easier. But one way or another, I’m shocked he didn’t tell me he was so close.”
“We haven’t found out where he was staying or how long he’s been here. Do you know if he’s always avoided credit cards?”
Debby threw back her head as she laughed. “Lord, yes. He hates the plastic ‘devil cards.’ I honestly don’t know how he’s managed to get by all these years without one. It seems like you can’t do anything without securing it with a card these days.”
“It is hard,” Mercy agreed. “What about his work? He appears to not have any work history for six years.”
“That sounds about right. He hurt his back at the lumber mill back then. When I saw him five years ago, he was happy about not having to do the physical labor anymore. He said he was getting disability.” She sat up straighter, looking them firmly in the eye. “As he should. He really was messed up. He gained nearly fifty pounds after the accident because he could barely get around. He wasn’t looking for a handout.”
“Of course not,” Mercy said. “Was he able to get by living on his own if he was hurt?”
“That was my concern too. But everything looked good when I was there. He had helpful neighbors.”
“Your parents divorced when you were young, correct?” Truman asked.
“Yes. And my mother died two years ago.” She pressed her lips together. “I was an only child. Now both my parents are gone,” she whispered. Her chin was still up and her gaze solid, but Mercy saw faint cracks in her facade.
“Did you know his home in Nevada had been foreclosed on?” she asked gently.
Debby’s jaw dropped open. “He told me he sold it.”
“Where would he have been living?” Truman asked.
“I don’t know.” Shock sharpened her voice. “He never said he needed a place to live. I guess he could have rented a small place.” She looked from Mercy to Truman. “I take it you couldn’t find any rental records?”
“No. But it could have been off the books or a casual situation.”