CHAPTER THIRTY
“Ms. Razvan will be with you in a moment, sir,” I said. “Please take a seat in the parlor.”
I made a move to slip past him. Useless, of course. If Gabriel Walsh wanted to block a doorway, he just needed to stand there.
I looked over my shoulder.
“Yes,” he said. “My aunt let me know you were coming. I’d like to speak to you.”
“Fine. I charge in fifteen-minute increments. Hundred bucks each.”
“That would be my profession. For yours . . .” He dug loose change from his pocket.
“Is that suppose to be a tip? Don’t expect more than five minutes of my time, and I’ll forget half your order and spill coffee on your sleeve.”
A twitch of a smile. He pulled out a twenty. When I took it, he looked surprised.
I shoved the bill into my pocket. “You have fifteen minutes. Walk and talk. I need the exercise.”
As I’d expected, he was still hell-bent on selling me his services. While most lawyers hire private investigators, Gabriel’s methods were irregular—in other words, not always legal or ethical—so he undertook the fieldwork himself.
Next came the list of credentials. His success rate was excellent, which may be a little disconcerting, considering he specialized in cases others wouldn’t touch. As my research had already revealed, he was best known as the lawyer for Satan’s Saints, a Chicago biker gang with a record so clean it was the envy of Illinois’s homegrown Outlaws.
If the hard sell didn’t convince me he really wanted the job, he sealed it by offering to negotiate a reduced rate. He claimed it was only fair, as success would benefit him as well.
“Yes,” I said as we walked toward the empty school yard. “But I don’t need to solve this. I won’t spend a day in jail or owe a dollar in fines if I don’t hire a lawyer. It’s pure curiosity and self-interest, and I won’t blow my trust fund on that. For starters, I want a sliding scale.”
“A—?”
“Sliding scale. Your aunt offered me one for her services.”
“My aunt and I are hardly in the same line of—”
“A matter of opinion. I want one day of your time for free. Then the rate will increase on a predetermined schedule, as you prove your worth.”
His brows shot up. “Prove my—?”
“Yes. You won’t use your usual scale of billable hours, either. I’m not paying fifteen minutes for a two-minute phone call or thirty for an e-mail.”
“That’s standard practice—”
“—in a law firm where the partners are breathing down your neck, making sure you put in eighty billable hours a week. You’re your own boss. You can set your own rates. I want real-time charges, and I don’t want you doing anything that I could do myself—phone calls, e-mails, letters, library research—unless we’ve agreed to it in advance.”
“I believe you’re overestimating my interest in this case, Ms. Jones.”
I met his gaze. Hard to do when he was still wearing his shades, but I approximated. “No, I don’t think I am.”
His lips pressed together. Annoyed with himself for tipping his hand.
When I’d looked up Gabriel online, his work record suggested he was no more than thirty. In other words, he might act like a seasoned professional, but he wasn’t really. More of a quick study, passing the bar, then attacking his job with a single-minded ferocity that earned him a reputation fast. Young enough that he could screw up and act rashly.
“Those are my terms,” I said. “I’ll give you a minute to consider them.”
I wandered over to the fence, gripped the cool metal mesh, and peered into the school yard. Picture-book quaint, like most of Cainsville. A small enclosure with a bright colored play structure, freshly mown grass, and asphalt decorated with a chalk hopscotch court. I didn’t think anyone played hopscotch anymore.
A sprinkler turned on. It was dry here, the warm spring having sucked up any moisture from the other day’s storm. Yet right under the fence a line of darker colored soil looked damp.
I bent and touched the line. No, it was dry. Just darker. I rubbed my fingers together. Brownish-red. Odd.
“Thinking of taking up gardening?”
I stood as Gabriel walked over. “Maybe. Depends on if I get my murder investigation or not.”
“And that depends on what you’re willing to pay for it.” He waved to a bench outside the fence. “Let’s discuss that.”
• • •
I suspect that my terms cost me any “discount” he’d originally been willing to give. I tried to dicker, of course. He stood firm, and the set of his jaw told me he wasn’t budging. It was, admittedly, a fair price for his services.
So I agreed.
“Good.” He tucked his shades into his suit-coat pocket. “We’ll begin tomorrow. I have an idea where we can start. I’ll call you in the morning.”
He started to stand.
“One more thing . . .” I said.
His shoulders tightened.
“I want a gun,” I said.
He turned slowly and looked down at me. “A gun?”
“It was your aunt’s idea.”
A faint sigh.
“Hey, you wanted me to talk to her.”
“No, I believe I said—”
“Don’t talk to her, which you knew would make me talk to her, so in the event that I didn’t take you up on your offer, you’d have a second crack at me.”
“You give me too much credit, Olivia.”
“No, I don’t think I do. Anyway, she’s right. I’m the daughter of two very unpopular people. I should have a gun.”
“And you think I can provide it?”
“Ask your biker gang buddies.”
“They prefer the term ‘motorcycle club.’”
“I’m sure they do.”
He leaned farther into the bench, lips pursed. “While I’m not against such a thing in theory, I’d need to provide lessons, too. Otherwise, I’m liable to lose my client to a fatal gun cleaning incident before she ever sees her trust fund.”
“How much will you charge for those lessons?”
He considered. “A hundred dollars each. Discounted because it’s in my best interest to keep you from shooting yourself.”
“Fine. I want a gun I can put in my purse. Small, reliable, and cheap.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
• • •
Gabriel called at eight thirty the next morning, as I was in the clothing store looking for jogging sweats.
“I’ve arranged our first appointment,” he said.
I flipped through a stack of pink T-shirts. Were they all pink?
“Who is it?”
“Jan Gunderson’s sister.”
“Anna?” Damn it. My one lead and he already had her contact information. And I was sure he hadn’t needed to break into an apartment with a dead body to get it. Figures.
He continued. “You’ll pose as my intern. Dress—”
“Businesslike. I know. Unless we’re interviewing hookers or bikers, that’ll be my default. If we do interview hookers and bikers, warn me in advance, because I have nothing to wear.” I looked around the shop. Fifty percent polyester. Fifty percent loungewear. “And I won’t find it in Cainsville.”
“Jeans and a T-shirt would suffice for such situations.”
I’d been joking. Was he? I honestly couldn’t tell.
He continued, “Business wear for this one, but dowdy.”
“Dowdy?”
“Frumpy. Plain. No makeup. Tie your hair back if you can.”
“What is she, Amish?” I found a navy and white sweat suit in my size and pulled it out.
“Just do it, Olivia. I’m in court this morning. The interview is at noon. I’ll—”
“I work at three. I’ll need to be back by then.”
A pause. “So you intend to keep playing server, even though you have something else to occupy your time?”
I gripped the phone tighter. “I’m not playing anything. It’s my job.”
“You have an Ivy League education, and you’re working in a diner.”
“That’s not your concern.”
“It is if it interferes with this investigation. I have a job, too, Ms. Jones. You cannot expect me to work around your schedule when with one call to your adoptive mother, you could solve your insolvency.”
“No.” I took the sweat suit into the dressing room. “You’re right about the scheduling, though. We’ll work it out.”
“We’ll see. Be ready at eleven.” Before I could argue, he said, “I can dictate to my secretary on the drive there, so it isn’t lost time. I’ll bill you a hundred dollars flat fee each way.”
Which meant it was roughly the same cost as a cab. And the cab would not be a luxury sports car.
I agreed, hung up, and went to try on the sweat suit.
• • •
I was sitting on the front steps when Gabriel pulled up to the curb. He put down the passenger window and lowered his shades to look at me. I tried to open the door. It was still locked.
“I thought we talked about your appearance,” he said.
“I have one business suit. This is it. My hair is too short to pin up.”
“Makeup?”
“Not wearing any,” I said. “I’m twenty-four. I don’t need to trowel it on.”
He nudged his shades up and opened the car door. I got in.
As he peeled from the curb, he said, “Your hair color is washing out.”
“Yes, apparently I bought temporary dye by accident. I’ll get the proper stuff.”
“Don’t bother. It isn’t helping.”
I glanced over.
“The cut, the color, and the glasses are useless. To anyone who has seen the photographs, you are obviously Eden Larsen in hiding.” He turned onto Main Street. “Do you want to look like Eden Larsen in hiding?”
“No.”
“Then I’d suggest you don’t bother with the rest. Your features are too strong to disguise yourself with anything short of plastic surgery. And as long as you insist on playing poor, you can’t afford plastic surgery.”
I wasn’t touching that. “Is that why you insisted on the dowdy disguise today? In hopes Jan Gunderson’s sister won’t recognize me?”
“Partly. I’m hoping that the families of victims will avoid the articles.” He paused. “The exception, of course, being Niles Gunderson. I hear you’ve already encountered him.”
I tried not to react. I must have given something away, though, because he glanced over.
“Yes, I’m sure that was unpleasant. Being attacked in your home. But the man is mentally unstable. Everyone knows that, including the journalist—or more likely Internet blogger—who alerted him that night. He clearly did it hoping for exactly the kind of scene he got.”
I cleared my throat. “Maybe there’s another reason he”—I stopped myself before referring to Niles in the past tense—“is unstable. The family closed ranks after Christian killed himself. Presumably because they thought he’d been innocent. What if Niles knew he wasn’t?”
“And was driven mad by guilt?”
“Maybe. I know what it’s like to have a serial killer in your gene pool. But at least I can say I’m not responsible for what the Larsens did. If it’s your child who is the killer? Not only could it be in your genes, but you might have done something to make him commit murder.”
Gabriel murmured something that could be agreement.
I reclined my seat and closed my eyes, and he turned up the stereo—Haydn this time—and accelerated onto the highway.
• • •
Anna Gunderson lived in an older suburb of North Chicago, a once-separate town, swallowed by urban sprawl. According to Gabriel, she’d moved there with her daughter after a recent divorce. She had a small bungalow with frilly curtains in every window. On the door hung a handcrafted welcome sign adorned with red flowers. There were more flowers in every garden. Lawn cutting service truck out front, young guy unloading a mower. He stared at the Jag as Gabriel pulled in.
“Sweet ride,” he said as we got out. “What’s she got under the hood?”
“I have no idea,” Gabriel replied, his tone freezing out further comment.
“Bullshit,” I whispered as I rounded the car. “You drive like that, you know what’s under the hood.”
“No, I do not. When I hit the accelerator, it speeds up. When I turn the wheel, it corners. When I hit the brakes, it stops. If it does all that to my satisfaction, then the particulars are unimportant.”
“It’ll be a five-liter V8. At least four hundred horses. Maybe five. Which, as the boy said, is very sweet. Yes, I know cars. It was my dad’s hobby.”
“And you left yours behind when you made your vow of poverty?” he said.
“I didn’t have my own. With my dad’s garage to choose from, that would be like Hugh Hefner sticking to one girlfriend. I also like being chauffeured. Which, may I say, you do very nicely.”
He shook his head and ushered me to the door.