CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
I stood there, holding the phone, feeling . . . pissed. Yes, I was pissed. Unreasonably so, really. I’d only thought in passing of getting my preadoption medical records and had promptly forgotten mentioning it to Gabriel. But now that my files seemed to be lost, I wanted them. Or, at least, I wanted to know that I’d be able to get them if necessary.
When a knock sounded at the door, I walked over and opened it on autopilot. I saw Gabriel and I completely forgot that he wasn’t supposed to be there, and all I thought was thank God. Gabriel was here, and he’d know what to do about this.
Then I noticed he was holding coffees. Definitely not his usual MO. Which is when I remembered that I’d fired him. In the same moment, I remembered what Dr. Escoda said, about Gabriel setting up an appointment for me to get my medical records. Which is why he was here. To take me to that appointment. To present his peace offering.
“Hey,” I said. “Come on in.”
He hesitated, as if surprised.
“Dr. Escoda called,” I said.
“Ah.”
He handed me a coffee. I took a sip. A mocha, made exactly the way I liked it.
Rose had said Gabriel wanted this job. Apparently, he really wanted it. There was a moment where I paused and wondered if his eagerness was a tad suspicious. I couldn’t see any nefarious motivation for wanting back on the case. Money and the chance to free notorious serial killers was quite enough.
“You’d mentioned wanting those records,” Gabriel said. “So I got them. As . . .”
“An apology?”
His lips tightened at the word. “A conciliatory gesture.”
“No apology then?”
He said nothing, but his look asked if I really wanted to go there.
“I appreciate your trying to get my records,” I said. “Even if the doctor’s office apparently has lost them.”
“What?”
I explained, then said, “Do records routinely go missing? Should I be concerned?”
“Concerned that it’s not a mere clerical error? That someone has purposely hidden your file?” He sat at the dinette. “I don’t think so, but I’ll see how common this is. If it isn’t, there may be grounds for a lawsuit.”
“Um, no. I wouldn’t sue for a clerical error.” At least, I wouldn’t as long as I was confident I’d get my trust fund on my next birthday.
“I will investigate in any event,” he said. “I also have a lead on Pamela’s case.”
“Where’d that come from?”
“A gentleman never reveals his sources.”
“Which is why I’m not asking one.”
He tapped his coffee cup. “I have a friend in the state attorney’s office,” he said finally.
“You mean a contact you’ve groomed into thinking he’s a friend.”
“It was his idea.”
I smiled. “I’m sure it was.”
“In this case, I provided information that he wanted. Information of negligible value obtained through an informant, not a client. Perfectly legitimate. In return, I gave him a very strict set of parameters on what I was looking for in the Larsen case, and he found something. A friend of Peter Evans reported that Peter had learned something shortly before his death. Something that upset him greatly.”
“Which was?”
“I have no idea. It was a comment gathered during initial interviews, and the police didn’t pursue it because the friend claimed Peter never actually told him what he learned.”
“You think the friend lied?”
“I read the transcript. His language suggests he did know and was waiting for the police to get it out of him.”
“Make him talk, so he wouldn’t be responsible for spilling his dead friend’s secrets.”
“Precisely. The detectives failed to see that. They’d made a note to return to it later. Then they arrested the Larsens and the interviews weren’t revisited.”
“Is the guy still around?”
Gabriel sipped his coffee.
“Okay,” I said. “Presumably he’s alive, but you aren’t going to give me anything that might help me find him myself. I probably still could, given my special new relationship with Peter’s father.”
“Yes, you could.”
I watched the cat travel to his food bowl. Then I looked back at Gabriel. “How much did Lores pay you?”
He sighed.
“I’d like an answer, please.”
“It was, as you guessed, not a significant amount. The point, Olivia, is that my clients are often the subject of media interest, with or without their permission. If I know a journalist willing to conduct an unbiased interview, then I do not believe I’m committing any ethical violation of my client’s trust by accepting payment for finding that journalist.”
“No, but you are if the client makes it very clear that she does not want the interview and you push her into it for monetary gain.”
“Not for monetary gain. You had agreed before changing your mind at the last minute. I have a relationship with Mr. Lores that I was unwilling to endanger by reneging—”
“Just tell me how much.”
He hesitated before saying, “Five hundred.”
“I want it. Not deducted from my bill. Not put against my laptop. Cash. Preferably twenties.”
He looked to see whether I was joking.
“To you, it’s nothing. To me, it’s more than a week’s wages. Give me the money. Stick to the terms of our original agreement. And don’t charge me for getting my medical records. Fair?”
He studied me. He didn’t seem to be weighing the offer. He just . . . studied me.
“I seem to recall that you have today off,” he said finally.
“I do.”
“I’ll set up an interview with Peter Evans’s friend.”
“Good. Then we’re back in business.”