CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I froze. The voice had come from my left. I wheeled the other way to—
To do what? Run for the nearest exit?
I adjusted my shirt, fixed on a pleasant look, and turned—to nearly smack into Gabriel’s wide back.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he blocked me. “Ms. Jones isn’t giving interviews right now, but if I can take your card, we’ll be sure to consider you.”
“I just want five minutes of her time, Mr. Walsh. Please. My name is—”
“I know who you are.”
“Then you know I’ve covered several of your cases. Satisfactorily, I believe. I’d have heard from you otherwise.”
Gabriel paused.
“Five minutes,” the man repeated. “You’re free to advise your client against answering any of my questions. I’d like a picture, but it will be posed. I’m not going to sneak a shot of Ms. Jones racing from her mother’s bedside.”
Gabriel glanced back at me, then turned to the reporter. “May we have a moment?”
He took me aside without waiting for a response.
“I know, I know,” I muttered before he could say anything. “I should do this. It’s one guy. A few questions. Posed photos. You can vouch for his rep. I just wish . . .” I exhaled. “Do I look all right?”
“Yes, but if it’ll make you feel better, I can buy you a few minutes in the restroom. As long as you promise not to crawl out the window.”
“Tempting . . .” I glanced around Gabriel at the reporter. A small guy with a potbelly. Well groomed. Unassuming. He met my gaze with a polite smile.
“Two minutes with a mirror,” I said. “Then I’ll do it.”
• • •
I didn’t ace the interview. My mind was still with Pamela—worrying about her and getting annoyed with myself for worrying. On a scale of one to ten, I’d rate my performance a six. Still, it was a lot better than my earlier encounters.
Naturally he wanted to know my thoughts on my biological parents. An interview without that was useless. So I said I was still processing the news, still in shock, blah blah. Not the most exciting answer but an honest one. My others were less honest. I didn’t lie outright, but I hinted—strongly—that I was living in Chicago and looking for work. The only questions I refused were about James. That was one topic I wasn’t ready to speak on.
There was a question that I kicked myself for not expecting. What was I doing with my mother’s former lawyer? Luckily, Gabriel smoothly covered for me, saying that he was facilitating contact with Pamela Larsen, ensuring that I got everything I needed from my biological mother—medical information and so on. When we finished, the journalist—a freelancer named Martin Lores—exchanged cards with Gabriel and promised to call with publication details.
• • •
We were in the car before Gabriel spoke.
“You handled yourself very well, Olivia.”
I gazed out the window. “I did adequately.”
I vaguely heard him say something as he backed the car out, but I didn’t quite catch it.
“Olivia?” he prodded.
“Sorry. Just . . .” I rubbed the back of my neck. “This whole media thing has me feeling . . . helpless. I was looking forward to taking control of the situation, and I didn’t get the chance.”
A pause. “I see.” Awkward. Damn it. I’d overshared.
I settled into my seat. “Go ahead, set the appointment for seven and dump me at the nearest library.”
“Skip the research. It’s not critical. We’ll get dinner and I’ll distract you with tales of my day in court.”
“The guy who dissolved his victim with quicklime? Or was it chemical hydrolysis?”
“Chemical hydrolysis. Or that’s what he would have used, had he killed the man, which he most certainly did not.”
“Of course.” I smiled. “Okay, take me to dinner and distract me.”
• • •
We’d been inside Tim Marlotte’s condo for less than five minutes before we knew exactly what had gone wrong between him and Jan, and why he hadn’t been terribly distraught over their breakup. It wasn’t the tasteful decor that gave it away. This was Wicker Park, a trendy neighborhood filled with wannabe artistic types. According to Anna Gunderson, Marlotte had recently given up a bank job to pursue dreams of being a sculptor. So I wasn’t jumping to any conclusions . . . until a guy my age slipped into the foyer and gave Marlotte a kiss before leaving the apartment.
As we settled into the living room, I said, “As I’m sure Mr. Walsh explained, we’re here to talk about your breakup with Jan Gunderson. I’m guessing that”—I hooked a finger toward the foyer—“is the reason.”
Gabriel cleared his throat. “What Ms. Jones means is—”
“Yes, I’m not being subtle.” I looked at Marlotte. “But that kiss wasn’t subtle, either. Did you know you were gay when you were engaged to Jan?”
Marlotte scratched his neat beard. Then his ear. I kept waiting for Gabriel to jump in and say something soothing, take the edge off my bluntness, but he stayed silent. After a moment, his gaze flicked my way. Prodding me.
“I take it that’s a yes,” I said. “You knew, but at the time you had no intention of coming out. So you dated the sister of a good friend. You’d known her for years, liked her, could imagine a life with her, if you had to, and you thought you had to. Then she meets Pete Evens and discovers what was missing in your relationship. She breaks it off. You realize you’re relieved. You let her go gracefully.”
“I wasn’t . . .” His fingers drummed the arm on his chair. “When I was engaged to Jan, I wasn’t using her. I did care for her. I loved her. Just not . . . not that way.”
“Did Christian know? He was your best friend.”
“My straight best friend. That makes a difference, Ms. Jones. If a gay man confesses to his male best friend that he prefers men, he may very well find himself looking for a new friend.”
“So Christian never suspected anything.”
“I never confirmed anything.”
I glanced at Gabriel. He motioned for me to keep pressing. Apparently, I was playing bad cop tonight.
“That’s not what I asked, Mr. Marlotte. Did Christian suspect you were gay?”
He wriggled in his chair, pretending to just be shifting for comfort, but from his expression, wishing he could disappear into the deep cushions.
Finally he said, “I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“It is important, I’m afraid,” Gabriel said, his voice spiced with apology and regret. “You are aware, I know, that Christian was viewed as a potential suspect in his sister’s death. We have heard that he was very upset about your breakup. Angry with her, which would be very unlikely if he knew you were gay.”
“I . . . he . . . I confessed one night, just after I got engaged to Jan. We went out drinking, and I had too much.”
“Before the breakup?” I said.
He nodded.
“And what did he say?”
“That it didn’t matter.”
“What?”
“He said it didn’t matter.” Marlotte spit the words now, old anger and resentment bubbling up. “Jan loved me, and as long as I treated her well, it didn’t matter.” He turned sharply to face me. “I wasn’t really drunk. I pretended to be so I could confess. No one wants his sister marrying a guy who’s gay, right? Maybe Chris wouldn’t talk to me again. Maybe he’d beat the shit out of me. But whatever happened, I’d be free from the lies and maybe, just maybe, it would be the kick in the ass I needed to come out.”
“Only that’s not what happened.”
“No, it’s not.” Bitterness etched lines around Marlotte’s mouth. “I confessed to my best friend, and he told me to keep lying. Keep hiding. Which I did. For nearly twenty years. All because of Christian.”