I started unbuttoning my blouse. He caught the movement and looked over. He could have looked away. He didn't. As I stripteased, his eyes never left me. Nor did he falter for one goddamned second in his other conquest, even as the growing bulge in his jeans told me my performance was not unappreciated. Less than two minutes later, he hung up.
"Pizza's on its way, isn't it?" I said.
"Yep. Twenty minutes. Which gives you plenty of time to finish." He took a step forward. "Unless you want help."
"Not yet," I said.
"You'll tell me when?"
"You'll wait until I do?"
He grinned, his look sending heat through me. "That might require ropes. Strong ropes."
"Another time," I said. "For now, you'll wait. Right there. Until I'm ready."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, and eased back to watch the show.
--
I think Ricky was right: strong ropes would be required to hold him back when he wanted something. Possibly chains. I teased until it was clear he was about two seconds from breaking. Then I said the word and got very enthusiastic, very satisfying sex, with a few minutes to spare before pizza arrived and we ate, half dressed, on the grass.
At the motor inn, he did indeed show me exactly how attentive he could be. I was soundly asleep ten minutes after, the clock having not yet even struck nine.
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 subje
ct.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Gabriel has a habit of steering me, with a hand at my back, as we walk. In the beginning, that guiding hand rarely even brushed the folds of my shirt. Gabriel doesn't do physical contact. But as we got to know each other, it became an actual tap on the arm or his hand lightly on my back. It sounds very intimate and personal. It wasn't. More like a sheepdog herding a wayward lamb.
Now, as he guided me through the station door, I jumped at his touch. A couple of departing officers noticed. Gabriel did not--he was too intent on his destination. As we walked, I kept about a foot farther away than usual. Again, he was distracted, not realizing I wasn't in my normal place until he reached to steer me toward the front desk . . . and discovered I wasn't within reach. His lips tightened in annoyance, and he caught my gaze. I dropped it as soon as our eyes met.
A middle-aged detective who'd been watching the exchange came forward.
"Gabriel," he said.
Professionally, I'm guessing police officers don't call lawyers by their first name, any more than lawyers would use an officer's. They stick to the proper titles, unless they're friends. Gabriel was not, I was certain, friends with any law enforcement officer, and this man's tone was pure condescension, as if Gabriel did not deserve the respect of Mr. Walsh.
"Detective Fuentes," Gabriel said. "This is Ms. Taylor-Jones."
"Olivia, please."
I kept my gaze lowered. After we shook hands, I cast a nervous look at two young officers who'd been watching and whispering as we came in. They weren't the only ones, but they were being the most obvious about it. That's her. The Larsen girl.
Gabriel moved closer. Protective. I don't think he realized he was doing it, and when I inched away, he shot me a puzzled look. Fuentes noticed, though--that as well as my general discomfort at being watched and assessed. He gave a sharp look at the whispering young officers, then said, "This way, please," and led me down the hall.
While we walked, I stayed close to Fuentes. Gabriel shot me a look behind the detective's back. I returned it, resisting the urge to mouth, "It was your idea, dumbass." Apparently, when he said to downplay our relationship, he meant verbally--don't joke with him, whisper with him, act too familiar with him. But it was the body language that counted most, and mine said, "This guy might be my lawyer, but he makes me nervous."
As Fuentes led us into an office, I cast a furtive glance at Gabriel. "Does Mr. Walsh need to be here? I'm sure he has better things to do, and it's only an interview. I'm not a suspect. I mean, obviously, I guess I am, but this isn't that kind of interview, right?"
"As your legal representation, it is best that I'm present for all questioning," Gabriel said.
"You can dismiss him," Fuentes told me. Then he added grudgingly, "But he's right. He should stay." A sympathetic smile my way. "I'll keep this as brief as I can."
I nodded and took a seat.
The interview proceeded without incident. I'd established my role, and I played it well--the poor lost girl, overwhelmed by the twists her life had taken, still shaken by the discovery of Ciara's body, nervous about this interview, even more nervous about having to associate with Gabriel Walsh, Necessary Evil. Basically, I did a dead-on impersonation of a helpless blond kitten.
Fuentes responded the way any decent person might, keeping the interview simple and nonconfrontational. We seemed to be nearing the end when another detective rapped on the interview room door then stuck her head in.
"Sorry to interrupt," she said. "It's about the Conway case."
"So is this," Fuentes said, nodding toward me.
"It'll just be a minute. We have a bit of a . . . situation."
Fuentes apologized to me. He walked to the door and stepped partway out, keeping it open, as if being chivalrous, not leaving me alone with the big bad wolf. Of course, that open door meant I could eavesdrop, which I did.
"The family won't make an ID based on the photos," the other detective said. "They want a DNA comparison."
"With what? We don't have a body."
"The techs took samples at the scene."
"Do we have an exemplar? I didn't think there was one in the missing persons file."
"There isn't," she said. "The parents want to be tested for comparison."
"They want us to do three DNA tests and a familial comparison, when we have perfectly good photographs to make an ID? Did you tell them this isn't CSI? Those tests take time and money, and they'll delay the investigation."
"I know, but someone put the idea in their head that photos aren't good enough. Now they're adamant. They won't believe it's her without a body or a DNA test."
"Keep listening," Gabriel murmured as he rose. "I'm going to use the restroom."
He brushed past the officers, who were still talking. It seemed Ciara's parents were here, and the other detective wanted Fuentes to try talking them out of their CSI-inspired madness. Fuentes stepped farther into the hall, letting the door close, as if deeming it safe now that Gabriel was gone.
As soon as the door clicked shut, I glanced at the Conway file. In the movies, this would be where I peeked at that file and saw the status of their investigation. Had Gabriel known Fuentes would close that door if he left, meaning he trusted me to take advantage of the situation? But if Fuentes walked in and caught me out of my chair, reading the file . . .
I reached out and eased the folder my way, my gaze fixed on the door, watching that handle--
The knob turned. I yanked my hands back. Gabriel walked in. Fuentes moved into the opening again, still talking to the other detective.
Gabriel leaned over to me. "Could you please go ask Detective Fuentes if he'd like us to come back later?"
I nodded.
--
"There's no reason to doubt that body was Ciara Conway, is there?" I said to Gabriel when we were in the parking lot.
"No," he said. "Despite the mutilations, the photos should be enough. If I was defending her killer, I would call the identification into question to plant doubt. But I suspect the parents are simply in denial."
"Someone advised them to have it done. Planted the idea."
"Likely a family member who has watched too much television. The wave of interest in forensic and crime scene analysis has been the bane of prosecutors for years now."
"And a boon for defense attorneys."
A faint smile. He opened the driver's door and climbed in. I followed.
As the car backed up, I said, "I didn't get a look at the file."
"Hmm?" He checked his mirrors.
"I know you went to the restroom so Fuentes would leave and I'd read the file. I couldn't. I'm sorry."
A twitch of his lips. "Now who's been watching too many crime shows? The risk of being caught is too great, and you wouldn't have had time to read the file. You need a permanent copy." As he talked, he flipped through his phone. Then he passed it over. "Like this."
I enlarged the photo on his phone to see a page from the file.
"How the hell--?" I stopped. "That's what you were doing in the restroom? You'd scooped the pages and were taking pictures of them? Shit. I didn't see a thing."
"That would be the point. I'll print those, and we'll have a look at them later."
SPECIAL INTEREST GROUP
James Morgan checked his cell phone as he walked through the underground parking lot. Looking for something from Olivia. A call, a text, an e-mail . . . It was past seven and Saturday. She'd said she was free today. Yet she hadn't rung him back.
He'd just finished drinks with Neil, his father's former campaign manager. Neil was still harping about the damned photo in the Post.
"Reconcile or dump her," Neil said. "I can massage it either way, but this waffling makes you look indecisive."
He could solve the problem by telling Neil that Olivia had dumped him. But she'd done that before, and he wasn't yet ready to accept it as her final word on the matter. He'd been fielding calls from his real estate broker, asking what he wanted to
do with the house he'd bought. A house, damn it. For them. The best goddamned house he could find, and she'd loved it. She'd loved him. Now she just walked away? There must be more to it. And he had a good idea where that blame could be laid: on the shoulders of one Gabriel Walsh.
"Mr. Morgan?"
He glanced up sharply. When he saw the young man approaching him--midtwenties, suit and tie, reedy and pale--James had to smooth the annoyance from his reaction. One problem with working in technology was that not everyone in the field had baseline social skills. To them, staking out James Morgan's car was a perfectly fine way to apply for a job.
A few months ago, he'd have brushed the kid off, politely but firmly, warning him this was not the way to make friends in the world that existed outside his basement. Now, though, even if he didn't plan to run for senator for years, he had to start paying more attention to how he reacted to strangers. Especially strangers who probably had a blog, Twitter, Facebook, and serious hacker skills.
"Yes," James said, plastering on a smile. "How can I help you?"
"The question is, how can I help you?" The young man held out a card. "Tristan Crouch. The Belarus Group." He paused. "Have you heard of us?"
A salesman? God, that was even worse.
"No," James said, struggling to keep the curt edge from his voice. "I'm sorry, but I was just about to head home--"
"I heard you're scheduled to attend a dinner party with the POTUS in a few months. You could ask him about us. I'm sure he recalls us fondly. We were instrumental in his own senatorial campaign."
James stopped.
Tristan smiled. "Yes, I know, I'm too young to have done more than man the phones for that, but I'm using 'we' in the imperial sense. The group has sent me to make the first contact and to relay a few suggestions. They're interested in what they see. They just have . . . concerns."
James should politely excuse himself now. Tell Tristan that he appreciated his group's interest and he'd love to have drinks next week, giving him time to do his research on them. But there was something in the young man's tone and in his gaze that brushed aside James's doubts, and as Tristan spoke, James began to recall hearing of this Belarus Group. He should listen.
"The most immediate concern is your change of marital status." Tristan smiled. "Or should I say the lack of a change."