“Thank you,” she answered with a polite smile. “You’d suggested I return when we had an ID on the body.”

“You’re too late. I already heard from the news. Ellis Mull.” His look of contrite sorrow made her skin crawl. It felt rehearsed.

“Yes.”

“How long ago was he shot?”

“There was evidence that some time was spent at the cabin—sleeping bags, food cans—but the medical examiner backs up our theory that he was killed close to the time of the robbery.”

“That’s very sad. I wonder what went wrong.” The affected remorse stayed in place on his face.

“Did he have issues with the other men?”

Condescension replaced the remorse. “Now, Agent Kilpatrick . . . how do you expect me to answer a broad question like that? Unless we were miraculously in agreement on every little problem in our lives, of course we had issues. Who doesn’t?” The disappointment in his eyes at her question made her feel like a child.

“Issues that would cause one man to kill another,” she clarified, keeping her serene demeanor, while she mentally rolled her eyes hard enough to cause permanent damage.

“Ahhh.” Dramatic comprehension.

More invisible eye rolling.

Broadway has nothing on us.

His chains clanked and then stopped him as he tried to raise one hand to his chin. Fury flashed. Then the thoughtful, helpful convict reappeared.

He’s still dangerous.

For a brief second, she’d seen the man who’d killed another inmate. He was good at keeping his temper in check—in fact, he presented himself as a man without a temper. But she’d seen his truth.

Shane Gamble was a very angry man.

“I can’t see any personality traits that would have driven one of them to kill another,” he answered seriously. “Maybe he was killed by someone outside of our group.”

“Maybe.” Mercy removed some photos she’d tucked in her jacket pocket. One was Victor Diehl’s current driver’s license photo—the only photo they’d been able to find of him. Another was a recent photo of Gary Chandler—the guard who’d survived. She’d also brought photos of her father and Ben Cooley to create a lineup.

She spread out the photos. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

Gamble leaned forward, studying the photos in all seriousness.

Perfect.

She wanted him to feel he was of assistance, as if he had a little power over the interview.

He picked up the photos one by one, eyeing them as if they were precious jewels. “Obviously you’re asking if I knew these men when they were younger. Decades ago.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not easy. People change.”

“I know. Do your best.”

He laid the photos in a perfect line, paused, and then tapped a finger on Gary Chandler. “This is the guard who survived. Clearly he’s older now, but I’ll never forget those eyes from my trial. How’s he doing?”

She’d expected the answer.

“Do you recognize anyone else?” she asked.

He didn’t look down at the photos. “No.”

“The guard is doing just fine,” she lied.

His mouth twitched on one side. “That’s good. Having your partner die in front of you could scar some people for life. Really screw them up mentally and emotionally.”

She scooped up the photos. He said nothing about Diehl. Is he holding back or telling the truth?

Her gut told her it was the truth. Diehl’s eyes were the same color as Trevor Whipple’s, but the shape of the face was wrong.

“You’re thinking hard,” Gamble said. “Did I disappoint you?”

“No. Just thinking about other new leads in this case.”

He tilted his head in polite interest. “What kind of leads?”

“The usual. Claims of money being flashed around. Sightings of Trevor Whipple or Nathan May. Nothing has panned out yet.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I’d hoped showing you the photos would give us some help.”

Gamble went very still, his gaze locked on hers, and Mercy knew he wanted to see the photos again, wondering what he’d missed.

His reaction confirmed that she’d been right that Diehl wasn’t Whipple; otherwise his need to see the pictures again wouldn’t be flooding the air around them. Instead he would have apologized for being unable to help, keeping Diehl’s identity close to his chest.

“Not sure how you expect me to be of any help,” he said modestly. “I’ve been locked up for decades. Other than you, I haven’t talked to anyone about the case in years.”

Bingo.

“Then what did you speak to Tabitha Huff about?”

Until now, she’d never experienced the air being sucked out of a room. Every ounce of oxygen was drawn into the man across the table from her, fueling his anger.

“Tabitha Huff reached out to me.”

Liar.

“There are several calls between the two of you.” She dug a sheet of paper out of her other pocket and pretended to study it. “The calls on her cell phone coordinate with the times you made or received calls here.”

“What else do you have in your pockets?”

She grinned, appreciating his wry comment. “Nothing.”

“She’s a reporter. She was digging into the story just like someone does every few years. I usually speak with them—I’ve got nothing better to do. I never have anything new to share with them, but usually they’re thrilled and get off on the fact that they spoke with me. It makes them feel accomplished.” An empty smile. “It’s the least I can do.”

Feeding his ego.

Then it hit her: He wants this case to never be solved. As long as America still wondered what had happened to the money from the notorious robbery, he would be relevant. Once the robbery was solved, he would fade into obscurity. No more visits from the FBI, no more attention from reporters.

I wonder if he gets fan mail.

“You’re saying Tabitha learned nothing useful from you.”

“Everything I know has already been in print. Several times.”

“Is she going to contact you again?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged, looking away.

His answer was too breezy. He cared. He cared very much about continuing his conversation with Tabitha Huff.

“She was murdered yesterday. Shot in the head and left in her car.”

Is it wrong that I love his look of surprise?

She’d finally coaxed a genuine reaction out of the felon. The score on her side of the board increased tenfold.

“Who killed her?” he whispered. His gaze darted about her face as he desperately sought for something to regain control of the conversation.

“We don’t know.”

They sat silently for a long moment, each regarding the other. A subtle dawning in his eyes told Mercy that he’d finally realized she was a worthy opponent in his constant game.

“Maybe you should try to remember the conversations between the two of you,” she suggested. “Perhaps you’ll recall something that can help us find this young girl’s killer.”

The prison randomly listened to and recorded phone calls. Two of Gamble’s four conversations with Tabitha Huff had fallen through the cracks. The recorded two had been listened to and deleted due to nothing of note. Standard procedure.

Mercy had cursed up a storm when she found out.

“I don’t understand how something I told her could have gotten her killed . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Think of something?”

“No.”

Behind his gaze, Mercy sensed his wheels were spinning at top speed. He’d stumbled onto something and was weighing whether or not to share.

Damn, I wish we had the recordings.

She’d have to speak carefully if she wanted to hear what had just occurred to him.

“Who did you suggest she talk with to find more information on her story?”

“No one.” He moistened his lips; the brain cells were still in full frenzy.

“Why would someone kill a reporter?” she asked.

Now his gaze truly focused on her. “Because they’ve discovered something that someone wants to remain hidden.”

Mercy waited.

“She must have gotten close to the money,” he said quietly. “But not because of what we talked about . . . She must have done it on her own.” Wonder filled his tone.

He’s surprised a reporter found something?

“I agree.”

His eyes narrowed on her. “You might be getting close too, Agent Kilpatrick. Maybe you should be looking over your shoulder. I’d hate for something to happen to you.”

Ice encased her. “Is that a threat?”

He shook his head, his gaze never leaving hers. “No. I have no power over what happens outside of these walls.” His voice quieted. “It’s a sincere concern for your safety.”

Ugh.

The creep factor in his gaze scattered over her skin, and she ached for a shower to clean it away.

“Seriously, Agent Kilpatrick, be careful. It sounds like someone will do anything to protect their secrets.”

“What did you tell her to do?” She tried to speak normally, but it came out as a whisper.

He sat quietly, a silent struggle on his face. “I offered her an inside scoop on the robbery. Our agreement was that she couldn’t tell anyone—even her boss—until she did something for me. I asked her to deliver a message to an old friend. I warned them to be careful because of the finding of Ellis Mull. That discovery could stir up trouble.”

That’s the most honest statement he’s said to me.

“Clearly it did. Who is this friend?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t share that. I won’t put more lives at risk.”

Like he gives a shit about anyone but himself.

“By being silent, you risk more.”