CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I pored over Pamela’s file for a while longer before deciding to do some legwork. Traffic was good, and in thirty minutes I made it to my destination: the home of Jon Childs, the man Chandler had wanted us to kill.

I hopped out of the car and cut across the lawn, because whoever set up the underground sprinkler system apparently thought the walkway needed water instead. That’s when I kicked a sparrow.

A dead bird in your path is a sign to turn your ass around. There are few superstitions surrounding sparrows specifically, though, meaning the warning wasn’t exactly a red flag. Maybe burnt orange. I decided it meant there was something worth investigating here.

I knocked on Childs’s door. There were no flyers in the box now, but the town house was dark and no one answered. I rapped again . . .

“He’s out.”

The neighbor had a trowel in her hand and wore knee guards.

“He’s back from wherever he went,” she said. “But he just stepped out.”

“Oh. I . . .” I checked my watch.

“He’ll probably be home at any moment. Why don’t I fix you a coffee while you wait. I could use a break from the war of the weeds.”

“And I’d love to take you up on that, but I was just popping by on my way past. Thank you, though.”

My cell buzzed with an incoming text. I ignored it, and thanked the woman again before heading back to my car.

“I spoke to him about you,” she called after me.

Shit.

“He said his sister has taken a turn for the worse, and she’s in care. He appreciated your concern and said if you stopped by, I was to ask for your number again. He’s misplaced it.”

So Childs knew my story was bullshit. Huh. I scrawled my number on a scrap of notepaper. As I handed it to her, my cell buzzed with another text.

“I really do need to run,” I said, “but please give him that and thank you for all your help.”

—

When I got to my car, I checked my phone. It was Gabriel. First message: Where are you? Second message: Olivia . . .

I replied with one word: Working.

He responded immediately. Where are you?

Out. Working.

Where?

Chicago.

His response took a moment. I imagined him starting to seethe, possibly hitting a wrong key or two, cursing me as he fixed it.

Olivia . . .

Gabriel . . .

I didn’t wait for a reply, just quick-typed: I’m working on the case, as requested.

I didn’t tell you to leave.

Am I not allowed to leave?

Pause. Pause. Pause. Thinking through an answer. Well, no, I’m sure he didn’t need to think about it. His answer would be that I should be right where he left me just in case he needed me. However, being a smart man, he did not say that.

Where exactly are you?

In my car.

Five seconds. My phone rang.

I sent one last text. Working the case. No time to chat. Talk later.

I turned off the ringer and left the phone vibrating in my bag as I pulled from the curb.

—

I drove to a little bungalow in Brighton Park. A ten-year-old van sat in the drive. I pulled in behind it, walked up to the stoop, and knocked. When the door opened, I was ready to stick my foot in the gap to keep it from slamming shut. I’ve seen Gabriel pull that trick many times. I suspect it works better with a size-twelve loafer.

Luckily, I didn’t need to risk bodily injury. The man took one look at me and said, “I wondered when you’d show up.” Then his gaze went to my Jetta. “Walsh isn’t with you, I take it.”

“He’s not.”

“Did they deny his bail?”

I shook my head. “He’s out. Just busy working on staying that way.”

The man nodded. “Strange business. But it always was.” He moved back. “Come on in.”

He backed his wheelchair into the kitchen. Detective Chris Pemberton. Retired a year ago, having spent eight years behind a desk after getting in the middle of a gang dispute and catching a bullet in the spine. Twelve years before that, he’d been the secondary detective on a career-making case. Ending a spree of horrific murders and putting the perpetrators behind bars. The Valentine Killers. My parents.

“Wife’s out,” he said. “I’m going to text and tell her to stay away for a while. She doesn’t like it when I talk about the case. I always wondered what happened to you. Adopted by the Mills and Jones department store guy.” He shook his head. “I’d say I was glad to hear it—you deserved something good after all that—but it seems things haven’t been too easy for you lately.”

“I’m doing okay.”

“Looks like it.” He pulled up to the kitchen counter. “Coffee? Tea?”

I said I’d take either, and he started fixing coffee as I settled in at the kitchen table. I’d presumed a detective who’d helped make the case would want nothing to do with me, which is why I’d come over unannounced. This wasn’t what I expected, and I couldn’t help bracing for trouble.

“I was there when they arrested your parents,” he said, getting cups from a low cupboard. “World-class fuckup, pardon my French. It should never have gone down that way. We were told you and your mom were away, and that Todd had guns. I never forgot the look on your face when the team broke in.”

“All I remember is that it was my half birthday,” I said. “We were going for a pony ride.”

When I saw his expression, I wished I hadn’t said that. He felt bad enough.

“It’s okay,” I added. “I forgot all about it until recently.”

“Maybe, but you never really forget. Any shrink would tell you that. Cream and sugar?”

“Cream, please.”

He poured it. I got up to retrieve my cup from the counter, but he waved me down. “I’ve got it. Nine years in this thing, and I’m a pro.”

He brought both coffees to the table. I thanked him and sipped mine.

“You have questions,” he said. “And since my partner has passed on, it’s down to me. What do you want to know?”

“Why they did it.”

He winced. “Ah, hon, of all the questions . . .”

“It’s the only one I need answered. The most important.”

“You think they’re guilty, then?”

I looked up, startled. “Don’t you?”

He took a long sip of his coffee before answering. “All the evidence pointed that way. I didn’t want to believe it. None of us did. We’d been to your house once, on a tip.”

“Where you pretended to be warning people about a rash of break-ins.”

“Yeah. We talked to your parents, and you were there, and we walked out thinking we were wrong, that it couldn’t have been your folks, and we were glad of it. No one wants to think that about a nice young couple with a cute kid. They were good parents. Whatever else they are, remember that. Anyone could see they loved you very much.”

“Thank you.”

“So did I believe they did it once the evidence piled up? I guess so. There wasn’t much of a choice. But when you and Walsh found that Chandler guy, I’ll be perfectly honest, I . . . I didn’t know what to think. There’s always been a part of me that hated that case. Hated what happened. That’s why my wife doesn’t like me talking about it. Too many sleepless nights, wondering if we’d put the right people in jail. Now that there’s doubt, I should be happy, right? It’s not like I’ll catch any fallout. I’m retired, and this”—he banged the chair’s side—“makes me a goddamn hero. No one’s saying I screwed up. They don’t dare.”

“But you aren’t happy we’ve raised that doubt.”

“I . . . I don’t know.” He paused. “You won’t want to hear this, but where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I cannot believe the system locked up two completely innocent people.”

“Which is why Gabriel Walsh and I are still investigating. Let’s say they did it. Why? I know motive is the prosecution’s concern, but you must have had theories.”

He sighed. “No, I didn’t. That was the toughest part. Why would they do it? It wasn’t about sex or thrills. I’ve seen my share of both. The prevailing theory, as you well know, was witchcraft.”

“You don’t believe that?”

He fingered his half-empty cup. “I always thought it was the best answer. The only sane answer, as insane as it was. But it still takes you back to the original question, doesn’t it? Why?”

I looked at him.

“Why conduct such a ritual?” he said. “No one seemed interested in answering that. I suppose, if they tried, they’d just list the usual reasons people commit regular old murder all the time. Money, power, revenge . . . But none of that fits your parents. Anyone who spent five minutes with them knew they weren’t interested in that. They only cared about each other. And of course—”

His gaze went to mine and he stopped himself, as he realized what he was about to say, to imply. That there were only two reasons the Larsens would commit murder. For each other. And for me.