“Nope. It was unlocked and one of the windows left down.”
Truman walked around the vehicle. It’d had a hard life. The bed of the truck was well dented and had a few holes. The tires should have been replaced ten thousand miles ago, and a headlight was missing. He crouched down to look at the missing headlight. The truck had minor damage around the missing headlight, and he could see scrapes of black paint in the dents.
Mercy’s Tahoe.
Slipping on gloves, he opened the driver’s door and did a quick visual inspection. There were holes worn in the fabric bench seat on the driver’s side, and the floor was littered with fast-food wrappers, Big Gulp cups, and soda cans. Truman opened the ashtray; it was full.
DNA.
Probably DNA on the straws in the cups too.
Not that we’d use DNA to figure out who abandoned a truck.
The mess could be from Pence, but if Truman had a suspect for who had run Mercy off the road and he wanted to handle the expense, he could test to see if it matched.
I’d rather get someone to confess.
No doubt he could intimidate a suspect with the fact that they’d left their DNA all over the inside of the truck. Cheaper too.
He backed away from the vehicle and looked at the towering pines in the area, trying to get a mental picture of where he was. “Do you know how far we are from Tom McDonald’s place?” he asked the deputy.
“Who?”
“Never mind.” Truman strode back to his vehicle and pulled up his location on a map on his phone. He zoomed out, getting a bigger picture of the area. McDonald’s ranch was less than ten miles away. He stared at the screen for a few seconds and knew he needed to pay a visit.
Once Mercy had admitted the McDonald crew might have run her off the road, Truman had done as much digging on Tom McDonald as he could. She’d said what she’d uncovered on McDonald was clean. Truman had found the same.
It was too clean. Given that he was associated with the Idaho militia leader Silas Campbell, Truman felt there should have been a few skirmishes on McDonald’s record. Truman had never had a real conversation with Tom, but he’d seen the man around Eagle’s Nest a few times. He’d pulled up what information the state had on Tom McDonald before heading to the ranch, and let the information percolate in his brain on the drive. Something about McDonald niggled at his brain, but Truman couldn’t see any issues.
McDonald was boring.
Too boring?
He pulled into the remote property and parked next to a few trucks. Four men stepped out of a large building fifty feet away, and Truman immediately identified the girth of Tom McDonald. Two others were the men who always accompanied McDonald. To his surprise the fourth man was Mercy’s brother, Owen.
As they got closer and he recognized Truman, Owen missed a beat in his stride. His jaw tightened.
“Morning, Chief.” McDonald held out his hand to Truman. “What brings you all the way out here?” He didn’t bother to introduce the other two men, who hung back a few feet behind him. Big guys who wore bulky outerwear that could hide a multitude of weapons.
Truman nodded at the silent trio, his gaze lingering on Owen, who looked away.
Fine. I’ll play it your way.
Truman shook McDonald’s hand, ignoring his obvious hint that Truman was stepping outside the Eagle’s Nest city limits. “We recovered a red Ford pickup a couple miles down the road from here,” he said, stretching the truth a bit. “Was wondering if any of your men know anything about it?”
McDonald didn’t look at his men. “Who’s the owner?”
“Joshua Pence.”
“Don’t know the name. Why’d you come here instead of going to his house?”
Truman didn’t flinch at the obvious lie. “The home address is in Nevada, and the registration is out of date. I’d heard he was working for you.”
“I don’t have any employees by that name. I don’t know where you got your information, but it’s not right.” McDonald held his gaze, his face expressionless.
“Joshua Pence was the man whose body was found at the Jackson Hill fire last week.” Truman watched McDonald carefully.
“Is that the guy the FBI harassed my employees about the other day? They were poking around, asking if anyone knew him. Why’s everyone think I know something about him?”
“I don’t know anything about the FBI’s visit. You’ll have to ask them.” Truman felt Owen’s stare on him. “I’m here about the truck.”
McDonald finally glanced at his men. “Anyone know about an abandoned truck?”
Three heads shook in unison.
McDonald turned back to Truman. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Sounds like it. I appreciate the help.” Truman let his gaze wander across the ranch buildings. “Looks like things are coming along. I heard you’ve got some good employment opportunities going on. Planning on lots of building?”
“Some.”
“I can put the word out around town if you’re looking for workers.”
“I’ve got plenty at the moment.”
Behind McDonald, the man wearing a camouflage parka shifted his stance and intensified his glare at Truman. Truman met his gaze and gave him a friendly smile. “I think the red truck was involved in an accident the other day. Someone nearly killed an FBI agent when they ran her off the road. They got real lucky she wasn’t hurt.”
The guard’s glare turned into a subtle smirk.
“Don’t know anything about that,” said McDonald. “Not our truck.”
Truman eyed the camo-wearing guard and decided to see if his fast-food theory was right. “Well, it’s been driven since Pence died. Whoever took it for a joyride left all sorts of garbage inside. Soda cans. Straws. Cigarette butts.” Camo’s smirk evaporated as he realized the items Truman mentioned could harbor DNA, and Truman contained his grin. Gotcha. “It’s got some front-end damage too. With residual paint from the federal vehicle it hit.”
Tom McDonald kept his cool. “Sounds like you’ll have plenty of evidence when you catch whoever stole it. Probably teenagers.”
“Probably,” agreed Truman. He took a last quick glance at Owen. Mercy’s brother looked slightly nauseated.
That’s right. You’re hanging around with guys who nearly killed your sister.
Truman touched the brim of his hat and made polite good-byes. He felt their stares burn hot on his back as he walked back to his SUV. He sat in the cab for a while, pretending to work on his computer, letting them sweat about what he was doing. As he fiddled with his console, he realized he hadn’t experienced an ounce of anxiety about confronting the men. None. Zip. Nada. Pleased, he tried to identify what had changed since he’d fallen apart the other day.
I care. I care about justice for Joshua Pence. I’m not thinking about myself.
Mercy too. He was determined to find out who’d tried to kill her in that car accident, because he didn’t want it happening again.
He started the vehicle and pulled a tight circle to head back the way he’d come. He noticed that one of McDonald’s two guards was still in the spot where they’d spoken, waiting for him to leave.