CHAPTER THIRTY

Two days ago, I’d compared my trek through James’s office to a walk of shame, stumbling back after an unexpected all-nighter, everyone who sees you knowing what you were up to. Now I was doing exactly that. Getting dropped off at the diner at seven in the morning, still wearing my uniform from the night before, still with the guy I’d left with the afternoon before. And I didn’t give a shit.

Ricky had offered to leave sooner so he could drop me behind my apartment and I could walk to work. I didn’t see the point. Anyone spotting his bike in Cainsville would know exactly what had happened. I’d spot-cleaned and ironed my uniform at the motel, and I’d showered and put on lipstick and mascara from my purse. Good enough.

There was one thing I’d forgotten—to turn my phone back on and check for messages. Being with Ricky was like going on a vacation, and I sure as hell hadn’t wanted to be reminded of my “back home life” with voice mail and texts. When I did turn it on, I had three missed calls, three voice mails, and four texts. Six were from Gabriel. I ignored them and checked the others.

One voice mail was from Rose. She’d found some interesting information, let her know when I could come by. One missed call and one voice mail were from James. I hadn’t heard from him since I’d walked out of his office, and now he phones. Damn it. He’d left a simple “I’d like to talk. Call me.” I sent him a text saying I was at work. Did I promise to call later? I did not.

The last non-Gabriel message cheered me up. A text from Ricky sent right after he’d dropped me off. A simple Have a good day at work. Talk later.

Then it was on to Gabriel. Two missed calls. One voice mail. Three texts. All with the same message: “Where the hell are you, damn it?” Not in those exact words. Gabriel would never be so crude. But the messages became increasingly curt, his patience fraying.

I sent a text before I started setting tables. Got your messages. Early night. Missed calls. Sorry! Give me 5. While Ricky and I didn’t plan to hide our relationship from Gabriel and Ricky’s father, neither of us was exactly anxious to deal with those conversations.

I called exactly five minutes after sending the text, holding the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I kept setting tables.

“You need to be more conscientious about checking your messages, Olivia,” Gabriel said in greeting.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A pause, as if he’d expected me to argue that it was a Saturday. After a moment, he said, “I was calling for a reason.”

“I figured that. Again, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Another pause. Then, “Ciara Conway’s body has gone missing.”

I stopped, fork in hand. “What?”

“Her body disappeared at some point during transfer or handoff. I haven’t yet been able to obtain details. I only found out last night.”

“Her body?” I said carefully. “So they still have—”

“No, her head was taken, too. The entire corpse.”

“Does that happen? Is it just misplaced? Someone was getting their kicks scaring me with it, but I can’t imagine they’d steal it back to continue the fun.”

“I don’t know, but I wanted you to hear about it as soon as possible, given the circumstances. You’re at the diner, correct?”

“I am,” I said as I resumed setting the tables. “I was supposed to be off, but I switched a shift.”

“All right. The detective handling the Conway case would like you to come into the station and answer questions. Normally, I would insist it be done at your home, to avoid inconvenience, but I suspect you wouldn’t want that, so I’ve agreed to bring you to the station later. I presume you’re free tonight?”

“Uh . . .” I’d agreed to meet up with Ricky later for drinks. “What time?”

“Meet me at the office at five, and I’ll drive us over to the station. We’ll have dinner afterward. We have a few matters to discuss.”

When I hesitated, he said, “Olivia?” a little sharply, as if my agreement was merely a formality and any delay in giving it kept him from more pressing matters.

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll see you at five.”

—

As it turned out, I didn’t need to feel bad about canceling with Ricky. He bailed first, with a text message saying he had urgent “club stuff” to deal with. A few days ago, I’d have thought nothing of him changing plans, but let’s face it, sleeping together changes things. Of course, I worried this was an “Oh, shit” morning-after brush-off. I said it was fine and I’d just had something come up, too . . . which then got him worried.

A flurry of texts followed. Ricky made it clear that he wanted to see me after our separate engagements and would like to spend the night with me. At a hotel if that’s what I was comfortable with, but he’d prefer his place or mine. Just tell him what I wanted. I did, in detail, which led to a break-time flurry of a whole other kind of texts. The upshot was that when I headed to the city, I’d bring an overnight bag.

—

“The detective who’ll be interviewing you is Ruben Fuentes,” Gabriel said as he drove us to the station. “You may notice that he doesn’t like me, but that is no reflection on his handling of this case, so don’t be alarmed.”

“I think I’d be more alarmed if he did like you.”

Gabriel slanted a look my way.

“What?” I said. “Are there cops who do?”

“The degree of antagonism varies, but that’s a given, under the professional circumstances. A detective’s job is to find the killer. A defense attorney’s job is to prove his incompetence in doing so. Fortunately, with many, that’s not difficult. The law enforcement profession seems to attract an inordinate number of idiots.”

“I’m sure they love to hear you say that. Just like I’m sure you do say it. In front of them.”

“Not often.” He cut off a car to make a right turn. “My goal is to keep my clients out of jail. Not to make friends.”

“Then don’t take offense when I point that out.”

“I don’t. I merely take offense at the glee with which you point it out. Back to the subject at hand. Fuentes is competent. I’ve never personally embarrassed him. He dislikes me because, when he was in Vice, I had his partner investigated for bribery.”

“Was he actually accepting bribes?”

“Irrelevant,” he said. “He was investigated and moved to a different department to avoid the temptation that Vice offers. Fuentes has not forgiven me. However, I trust he will deal with you fairly, and if he does not, I’ll handle it. Given his antagonism, you may wish to cool our interplay.”

“Pretend you’re a necessary evil?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Oh, I can manage that performance. Minimal acting required.”

He glanced over to see if I was joking. I gave him an enigmatic smile and changed the subject.