CHAPTER TEN

It’d been a quiet two days. Too quiet. There were moments when I almost wished I’d spot a giant black dog or stumble over a bed of poppies, just to give my brain something else to obsess over. Then I’d realize what I was asking for and feel even worse, as if I’d wished for someone’s death to distract me.

I hated letting Gabriel’s betrayal bother me so much. I wanted to slough it off and bounce back. I had the last time. But now I hadn’t just lost my lawyer. I’d lost a job I’d wanted. I’d lost a person I could confide in. And yes, damn it, I’d lost a friend, which was only made worse by knowing he hadn’t been a friend at all, only a paid companion.

Maybe the friendship part bothered me more than it ought, but I . . . well, don’t make friends easily. Or I make them too easily. My calendar used to overflow with lunches and coffees and get-togethers, my in-box brimming with messages from high school friends, college friends, friends I met through my volunteerism. Then my world went to hell, and I found myself alone. Sure, when I retrieved messages, there were friends checking up on me. How was I doing? Did I need anything? When I sent back reassuring notes, they went quiet. Not abandoning me, but presuming I had it under control. I was Olivia Taylor-Jones—I always had everything under control. As for the thought that I might need a shoulder to sob on? Olivia Taylor-Jones didn’t sob. So they went their own way, presuming I’d be in touch when I was ready for lunches and coffees again. And that stung, just a little, but it wasn’t their fault.

If there’s a ten-point scale of friendship, I don’t think I’ve had anyone rate above a six since high school. There are dozens of fours and fives, but that’s where they stay and that’s how I like it. So when things had gone so horribly wrong, there’d been no one there to say, “Call me, damn it. We’re going for a drink, whether you like it or not.” Even James had backed off after we’d argued.

Into that void came Gabriel. The furthest thing from a potential friend I could imagine. And yet, in the last month, closer to me than any actual friend had been in years. He was the guy who came running when I called. Who stuck by me no matter how bad—or dangerous—things got. The guy who might not say, “We’re going for a drink, damn it,” but took me driving instead and bought me mochas to raise my spirits. Like a puppy starving for attention, I’d eagerly lapped it up.

James had been played by Gabriel, but it was nothing compared with the way I’d been played. And despite it all, I missed him. Missed him and hated myself for it.

After Wednesday morning, Gabriel had sent several “call me” texts. By evening, they’d escalated to complete messages, asking to talk, telling me he wanted to explain the situation, could we meet and discuss it? There were moments when I thought he sincerely wanted to do that. Then came a text on Friday—need to talk re: Pamela’s case—and I understood exactly why he was so eager to smooth things over.

I called him back at lunch.

Before he could speak, I said, “You’re worried that I’m going to convince Pamela to fire you. I wouldn’t do that. I want her to have the best legal representation possible, and that’s still you.”

Silence, broken only by the hiss of a less-than-perfect connection. Then he said slowly, “I appreciate your support. And in return . . .”

“In return?”

“What would you like in return?”

Anger sizzled through me. “I’m not bargaining, Gabriel. I’m saying I won’t jeopardize her defense out of spite. This is a clean break.”

“Break?” he said.

“Yes. As we agreed, I’ll pay your bill in full as soon as my trust fund comes due, and I won’t interfere with you and Pamela, so there is no need to call again trying to mend this—”

“Is that what you want?”

“What?”

“In return for supporting me as Pamela’s lawyer, you want me to promise not to contact you?”

“Did I say I’m not bargaining here, Gabriel?” I snapped. “You have got the case, and you’ll get your bill paid. There are no strings attached. No expectations. I’m telling you so you don’t need to call, pretending you want to smooth this over, because you’re worried about losing Pamela’s case. You won’t.”

“Meaning that if I attempt further contact, you will rescind your support?”

“Are you even listen—?” I clipped the word off so hard I nipped my tongue and cursed. “Fine. If that helps you understand it, let’s go with that. It’s a bargain. Or a threat. Whichever you prefer. Your bill will be paid, and I will not interfere with Pamela’s case, if you don’t contact me again. Now, I’m going to hang up—”

“Wait,” he said. “I understand you wish to end our working relationship, but if you’re serious about giving Pamela the best defense possible, I cannot agree to no contact. You were a critical part of the investigation that prompted her new appeal, and as such—”

“You’ll need to speak to me.”

“In a purely professional capacity. Related only to that case. While it will be months before an appeal is heard, I will need to talk to you. Soon. We can meet at the diner if that’s simplest.”

“The phone works perfectly well.”

Silence. Then, “This would be easier in person, Olivia.”

“At some point, yes, I’m sure that will be necessary. For now, though, the phone will do. Better yet, e-mail me any questions, and I’ll get back to you by the end of the day.”

Pause. “All right, then. In the meantime, Rose needs to speak to you.”

“I really don’t have time for—”

“She’s had . . . I don’t know exactly. A vision. A reading. Something that bothered her, and she’d like to speak to you about it.”

I’m sure she would. And I’m sure it would go something like, “I’ve had a vision of great calamity befalling you if you don’t pay my nephew’s bill.”

Gabriel continued before I could cut in. “I would like you to speak to her, Olivia. About her vision and about what happened earlier this week. The hound, the poppies, and Ciara Conway.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing, of course. You are—or were—my client, which means I certainly would not discuss the fact that you found a dead body. However, I’d like you to tell her. I think it would help.”

“I haven’t seen anything since Monday. Not even an omen.”

“I’d still like you to speak to Rose, Olivia. She has important—”

“I should go. E-mail me those questions.”

“One last thing . . .”

I exhaled through my teeth, breath hissing into a “Yes?”

“About Todd. Your father. I would like—” He cleared his throat. “In recognition of the fact that I may have overstepped my bounds accepting payment from James—”

“May?” The word came out between a snarl and a squeak.

“I would like to continue facilitating your reunion with Todd. As you know, that’s not proving as easily done as it should be. Lydia is investigating, and I would like her to continue doing so. Without charge.”

I hesitated. Damn it. He was right that I’d hit roadblocks trying to see Todd myself, but I really didn’t like the idea of being indebted to Gabriel.

“Hold off,” I said. “For now. I’ll . . . give it some thought. We can talk later.”

I hung up before he could argue. When I got home that evening, I called James and agreed to dinner the next night.

—

I know people often think being rich means a life of leisure. It can, if your goal is to do as little as possible, but most who have enough cash to quit working don’t. My father definitely didn’t, and I learned from his example. I like to be very busy—it’s the only thing that truly clears my mind. So for the past couple of days, I’d come home from work and, well, worked.

What I wanted to do was dive back into the Larsen case. I’d meant what I said about wanting them to have the best possible chance at a solid appeal, and my personal issues wouldn’t interfere with that. I’d be fine with investigating and turning over my work to Gabriel for free.

The problem was that he had the case files. I had only a partial copy. I’d spent a couple of hours compiling notes on the other victims—then researching them online—but I felt as if I was investigating with a patch over one eye, my field of vision and depth perception shot to hell. Was that really because I didn’t have the full file? Or because I didn’t have my detecting partner? I won’t lie. I missed him. I’ve said that. Won’t say it again.

Before they were caught, my parents had been known as the Valentine Killer. It meant that they’d killed couples . . . in Chicago, where Valentine’s Day will forever be tainted by the memory of a bloody mob massacre. No one used that name anymore. From the time of their arrest, they’d become “the Larsens.”

Their first alleged victims were Amanda Mays and her fiancé, Ken Perkins. Next came a married couple, Marty and Lisa Tyson. Then Stacey Pasolini and Eddie Hilton. Finally, Jan and Peter—the two we’d proven they hadn’t killed.

Jan and Peter had fit the pattern, though. Twentysomething couple, Chicagoans, white, middle-class. Beyond that, the profile varied. Dating, married, engaged. Blond, brunette. College educated and not. Employed and not. All that suggested the victims hadn’t been selected with any great care.

I compiled everything I could find on the six remaining victims. Minimal analysis for now. Then I moved to Ciara Conway. I read every scrap of Internet “news” on her disappearance—from snippets in the papers to blog posts to Facebook updates. I use the term “news” loosely, because there really wasn’t anything, save wild conjecture. The obvious investigative path here would be to speak to Ciara’s family and friends, but I couldn’t listen to them hoping and praying she’d return when I knew she wouldn’t. So I sat on my ass and surfed.

I dug up enough details to fill in a better picture of her life. It had been a good one, by any standards. She grew up in the suburb of Oak Park. Affluent but not outrageously so. They’d lived in the same house since she was born. Dad was an architect; mom was a biologist. Her older brother was studying for his PhD in medical research. Ciara herself was no slouch, winning an athletic scholarship to Northwestern, where she’d been studying neurobiology. There her grades had fluctuated, suggesting that’s when the addiction issues kicked in.

I was still doing online searching when my cell rang. A Chicago number. It wasn’t one I recognized, but my brain was preoccupied and I answered on autopilot.

“It’s Lydia.” A pause. “Gabriel’s secretary.”

As I struggled for a polite response, she continued, “I’m sorry for using my home number. I wasn’t sure you’d answer otherwise. This isn’t about Gabriel.”

“Okay . . .”

“Richard Gallagher would like you to call him.”

“Rich . . . ? Oh. Ricky.”

I relaxed. Lydia seemed to do the same, laughing softly.

“Yes, Ricky. I’m not sure he likes being introduced that way, so I don’t take the chance. I understand you met him last week.”

“I did.”

“Apparently you made an impression. He’s called twice for your number. While I’m very good at telling clients no, that boy could charm the habit off a nun. I finally agreed to pass along a message to call him. Do you have his number?”

“I do.”

“Can I tell him you’ll call? He’s coming into the office Monday, and as much as I am determined not to give out your number, he’s even harder to resist in person.”

I chuckled. “I can imagine. Yes, I’ll call him.”

“Thank you.” A pause, then, “How are you, Olivia?”

I stiffened. “Fine.”

“I don’t know what happened between you and Gabriel, but . . .” She exhaled. “No, I’ll mind my own business and only say that I’m glad he’ll still be representing Pamela. He really is her best possible chance.”

“I know.”

“Have a good weekend, and if you ever need anything and would prefer not to contact Gabriel, you can call me at the office or here, at my personal number.”

“Thank you.”

It wasn’t until I hung up that I realized what I’d done. Promised to call Ricky Gallagher. Shit.

The bigger shit was that I wanted to call him. Which was a problem when I was supposed to be attempting a reconciliation with my ex.

Ricky was Don Gallagher’s son. Yes, Don “leader of the Satan’s Saints” Gallagher. Ricky was taking his MBA part-time at the University of Chicago. Which sounds as if he’s trying to break out of the family business. He’s not. He just figures an MBA might help him run it.

A biker MBA student. The “biker” part should have had me running. Except I liked Ricky, and it wasn’t because he was charming and, yes, very easy on the eyes. There’d been something between us, that click that says, “This is someone I want to know better.”

When Gabriel had noticed that spark, he’d stomped on it. Clearly a case of a good girl looking for a little bad in her life and exercising very poor judgment. At the time, part of me had wondered if he’d had a more personal reason. Now I knew he’d done it for James.

I had to call Ricky, meaning I had to tell him personally that I didn’t want to go out with him. In other words, I had to lie.