CHAPTER FIFTY
Gabriel called Peter’s old friend, a guy by the name of Josh Gray. He got a busy signal. While he waited to phone back, he suggested something else.
“Pamela has been calling my office,” he said. “She’s back in prison and would like to see you. She says she has new information, but I fail to see how that’s possible, given that she’s spent the last twenty years in a cell. She simply wants to see you. I am not averse to the idea.”
I said nothing, just sipped my coffee.
“Unless you are . . .” he said.
No. I wanted to see her, had all week and felt guilty for staying away. That was the problem.
“Do we have anything to ask her?” I said.
“I could come up with a few questions.”
In other words, he knew very well that I might like to see her and was providing the excuse. Damn, the man was full of gifts today.
I found my gaze sliding to the window. Looking for a sign. I shook it off and pulled my attention back.
“We’ll do that after we speak to Gray.”
Gabriel phoned back. This time, Gray answered. Gabriel introduced himself and said he was investigating the death of Peter Evans, and Gray hung up on him. Which meant he was about to get an unexpected visitor or two.
• • •
Englewood has some decent sections. Gray didn’t live in—or even near—any of them.
Gabriel found a monitored lot nearly a mile away, gave the parking attendant a healthy tip to watch the car, and promised to double it if we returned to find the Jag unscathed.
“Would have been cheaper to take a cab,” I said.
“I don’t take cabs.”
I shook my head. Then I stopped. A murder of crows perched on a dead tree. The old rhyme played in my head.
One for bad news,
Two for mirth.
Three is a wedding,
Four is a birth.
Five is for riches,
Six is a thief.
Seven, a journey,
Eight is for grief.
• • •
There were eight crows.
Gabriel noticed me staring at the birds.
“Olivia?”
“Sorry.” I yanked my gaze away. “So how do you want to handle the interview?”
• • •
We continued on, passing people that I’d have normally crossed the road to avoid—even with a gun in my purse. But they all steered clear. That may have had something to do with the big guy in shades walking at my side.
We reached the walk-up apartment. An unconscious drunk lay on the stoop, his hand extended, fingers poised as if he’d been holding something. Probably his keys. They were long gone. So was everything of value in his apartment by now, I’d bet.
As we climbed the stairs inside, I saw a dead crow on a landing. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, but I kept going.
I’d seen the poppies a few days ago, and Pamela hadn’t died. Or had it been a warning that she was in danger? I scowled and rubbed my neck again. That’s how superstitions thrive—you see a so-called omen, and when it doesn’t come true, you find another event that fits . . . if you ram that square peg into the round hole.
We knocked on Gray’s door. A woman answered, and I was glad I’d suggested Gabriel stand back. I’d worked at the shelter long enough to recognize an addict—the haunted expression, the gaunt face, the telltale tracks. Despite the obvious wear and tear on her body, she was decently groomed and had some color in her cheeks. A recovering addict? Either way, she wouldn’t respond well to a guy who could pass for DEA.
“Hi,” I said, flashing my friendliest smile. “I’m looking for Josh Gray. I’m a friend of his sister, Terri.” Gabriel’s background check had turned up a half sister in her early twenties.
“The college brat?” The woman looked me up and down. “If she sent you to score from him, Josh don’t do that no more.”
She started shutting the door. My hand shot out to stop it.
“It’s not that. She said he might be getting back into graphic design”—that was his college background—“and I was hoping to hire him.”
“I dunno nothing about that.”
“Could I speak—?”
“He’s not here.”
She gave the door a sudden shove and I stumbled back. The door didn’t close, though. A big Italian loafer stopped it.
The girlfriend looked down at that shoe, then up at the rest of Gabriel.
“No,” she said as she backpedaled. “No, no, no. I don’t know nothing. Nothing.”
“About what?” he said smoothly, stepping into the apartment.
“You’re the guy who called Josh, pretending to be some lawyer.”
“Pretending?”
She pointed a trembling finger at him. “You’re no lawyer. I know what you are. Josh told me what you guys did to his friend.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything,” Gabriel said.
She ran—straight for the balcony door, which was wide open. I tore after her. She lunged through and yanked it shut behind her. Then she scrambled over the rusted railing and dropped one floor to the ground.
I raced back to Gabriel. “Come on. We need to catch her.”
“Do I look as if I’m dressed for an alley chase?”
I glowered at him and started for the door, but he caught my shoulder.
“She’ll come back eventually, and we will, too. Perhaps by that time, Mr. Gray will also be home.”
“Do you think he bolted after you called?”
“If he was that worried, he wouldn’t have left his girlfriend behind. He may have gone to speak to someone after hanging up on me.” He pulled his shades down. “We’ll return later.”