If the journalist could prove one of those uglier rumors was fact, he'd have a real article. Others in his esteemed profession had tried. A couple from lesser publications had written stories rife with innuendo and anonymous sources. One resulted in a lawsuit that forced the closure of the weekly rag and the reporter's decision, at thirty-two, to take early retirement in Mexico. In the other case, the magazine survived the lawsuit, but the reporter had ended up where he'd hoped to put Walsh--in jail. Apparently it wasn't a good idea to go after a guy like Walsh when you have a coke problem so serious you're dealing on the side to pay for it. Of course, there were those who said the dealing started after the article came out, at the prompting of the journalist's supplier, who had some tenuous connection to the Satan's Saints. But that was just rumor.
All things considered, though, it was probably best if he forgot about digging up a story on Walsh and settled for enjoying the very nice legs on his female companion. When he'd noticed her notebook and pen, he thought maybe she was a reporter, some cute young thing who'd managed to snag an interview. But no, others had tried that gambit. Walsh allowed his clients to do interviews but never gave them himself.
Was she his date, then? She was attractive enough, with the kind of face you noticed and thought was beautiful, then on closer inspection realized wasn't really--nose and jaw a little too strong--but you kept looking anyway. Her glasses were flattering, but why the hell would she wear them when she had such a striking face? And her hair ... That was the worst. A horrible red dye job that was already fading. Underneath, her hair looked blond. That was as much a crime as the glasses. Why would you dye your hair when--
The young woman turned, her gaze following a woman's bag adorned with poppies. She frowned slightly and when she did, at that angle...
Holy shit.
It couldn't be. He never got that lucky.
He yanked out his phone and ran a quick Internet image search. The tiny screen filled with results. He clicked on one and looked at the photo, then at the young woman, now listening to something Walsh was saying.
Olivia Taylor-Jones.
Eden Larsen.
The society-brat-turned-serial-killers'-daughter was having lunch with the man who'd once represented her mother.
Now he had a story.
Chapter Thirty-two
As we walked to the car, Gabriel gave me research assignments.
"Summarize your findings and e-mail them to me. I'm in court most of tomorrow, but if you have it to me tonight, I can give it a read and suggest new research directions."
"I can't do it tonight. I work until eleven and the library closes at six."
"Library? Why...?" He sighed. Deeply.
"Yes, I need a computer. I'm saving up for one."
He waved for me to cut through a parking lot. "I imagine that's a new experience for you."
"It is. I'm catching up on everything I missed not being raised by the Larsens. Counting my pennies. Saving up for a new bike, a Ouija board, a hunting knife to teach a lesson to all the mean girls..." I put my notebook away. "Speaking of which, how's the gun situation coming along?"
"I'm reconsidering the wisdom of that right now." He waved me to the left. "It's coming. As for the computer..."
"I need better Internet access, I know. Larry has a computer at the diner. He'd probably let me use it--"
"Mr. Walsh!" a man's voice called behind us.
As Gabriel turned, he pulled me behind him, the move so smooth I didn't even realize what he was doing until I was confronted by the wall of his back.
"Yes?" Gabriel said.
The patter of jogging footsteps. "Colin Hale. Chicago Post. I--"
"Turn around, Mr. Hale, and go back the way you came."
"I just want--"
"I don't speak to reporters, Mr. Hale. Turn around now."
"It's actually your client I'd like to talk to." A nervous laugh. "Or maybe client is the wrong word. I imagine Miss Larsen is looking for information on her mother. Right? Family history, so to speak."
Hale tried to sidestep, but Gabriel blocked him. I stayed where I was. As much as I might like to stand up for myself, I didn't need another "serial-killer junior" photo in the paper. And Gabriel did make a very good wall.
"I'm going to ask you one more time, Mr. Hale. Turn around now."
Hale tried to dodge around him again and Gabriel's arm swung. I heard the crack of fist hitting bone. I saw Hale fly off his feet, blood spraying from his mouth.
Hale hit the pavement, and Gabriel strode over. He reached down and patted the man's jacket pockets. When Hale's hands flew up to ward him off, Gabriel just swatted them away, his face expressionless. He found what he was looking for--the reporter's cell phone--and took it, then walked back and nudged me to resume our journey to the car.
Gabriel stayed behind me. When I glanced back, he was doing something on the phone, nonchalantly, as if unconcerned about turning his back on a man he'd just decked. At the scrabble of gravel, he tensed. He didn't look back or even stop walking, but he was clearly listening.
He glanced up from the phone and gave me a "keep going" wave. A moment later, he murmured, "Good."
I looked back to see him pitch the phone in Hale's direction.
"No photos?" I said.
"Just a poor one of us in the diner. I erased it and checked his e-mail in case he'd sent it. He hadn't."
We continued to the car. I waited until we were on the road, then said, "You aren't worried you'll get in trouble for hitting him?"
"No, I do it all the time."
He was joking. I think.
Gabriel turned onto the road leading to the highway. "He can't write about it without witnesses, which he doesn't have. He could report the assault, but he wouldn't get far. A reporter tried that back when I started my practice. He approached me for an interview. When he wouldn't leave, I responded in what could be called a threatening manner. He reported that I assaulted him. I had not. That was proven beyond any doubt. Shortly after that a photographer tried something similar with the same results. Clearly I was being stereotyped by my size and my choice of clientele and being persecuted by the media for my refusal to grant them unrestricted access to my clients."
"So now, if you do hit a reporter and he wants you charged with assault, the cops ignore it. Lucky break for you, then, getting two false accusations right off the bat."
"There's no such thing as luck, Olivia."
I laughed. When I did, he glanced over and studied my expression before turning back to the road.
I suppose if he was saying that he'd engineered the false accusations, I should be appalled. I thought of what happened in the parking lot. The way he'd hit Hale. The casualness of it. Punching the man hard enough to knock him off his feet. Maybe even hard enough to loosen teeth.
I remembered Gabriel's expression. No anger. Not even annoyance. He'd warned Hale. When the man tried to get past, he hit him. A reasonable response to a threat.
I glanced over at him.
"Yes?" he said, gaze still on the road.
"You have blood on your cuff."
He stretched his arm out over the steering wheel, suit jacket sleeve shooting back, his right cuff speckled with Hale's blood. A murmured curse of annoyance, and he adjusted the cuff so it wouldn't show.
"I think what happened proves my earlier point, Olivia. You are recognizable in that 'disguise.' While Hale didn't get a photograph, he may still write a piece saying he saw you with me. He may include a description of your attempts to disguise yourself. You need to give this some serious thought."
"How? He'll print that or he won't. I..." I paused. "Shit. I need to warn my mother." I took out my cell. The battery was dead. I swore again.
"Can I use yours?" I said. "I'll block the number. It's a local call. I'm just passing a message through the family lawyer."
"For your mother?" Gabriel glanced over. "She's not speaking to you?"
"She's in Europe avoiding the media mess. Wh
ich doesn't mean she won't hear of this if it's printed, unfortunately."
"Europe?" His brows lifted. He said nothing, but his expression spoke for him. Part of me wanted to make excuses for her. And part of me saw his reaction and felt relief, vindication even. If someone as objective as Gabriel Walsh found my mother's behavior odd, I wasn't wrong to be annoyed with her.
"If you're speaking to her lawyer, perhaps yours should speak to him," he said. "I can convey your message."
And in doing so, he'd convey a real message to my mother--that I had delegated the responsibility of communicating to her to someone else. It was tempting, but I wasn't ready to go that far.
"I'll handle it," I said. "I need to warn James, too."
"Morgan? I thought the engagement had ended." He paused. "Or are you keeping him informed in hopes of changing his mind?"
"He's not the one--" I bit off the sentence. "I'm keeping him informed because it's the right thing to do."
"Ah." He turned the corner. "Back to my earlier point. I suggest you may want to stop hiding altogether. Speak to a reputable journalist and deal with the problem straight on. Journalists are like hounds, Olivia. The more you run, the more they chase and the more excited they get. I have some contacts--"
"No. If they find me, so be it. I'm not inviting that. Not yet."
He tapped his fingers against the wheel, gaze on the road. I waited for him to say something. When he didn't, I took out my notebook and went back to organizing my thoughts on the case.
I was an hour into the next day's breakfast rush when my phone started vibrating. I headed into the back with empty dishes, then checked.
Gabriel.
He didn't leave a message. I texted him back, saying no, I hadn't gotten a chance to use Larry's computer last night--which I'd said already, when I texted him eight hours ago.
I hadn't even sent the message before my phone started vibrating again. I glanced up to see Larry watching. I sent the text and left my phone in the back as I grabbed the next order.
Ten minutes later, as I was doing rounds with the coffee, Larry came out with my phone.
"Someone's really trying to get hold of you, Liv." He motioned me back to the kitchen. "Go ahead."
I answered my ringing phone with a snapped, "Yes?"
"Have you read the paper, Olivia?"
I went quiet. "Shit. Hale. He wrote that he saw me having lunch with you. Which paper? Wait, he said the Post, right?"
"There is no article about you, Olivia. It's something else." He paused. "I need to keep this brief. I'm on my way into the courthouse."
As he said that, I noticed the background noise. The screech and roar of rush-hour traffic. Someone talking too loudly on a cell. The faint click of heels on the sidewalk. Then a whoosh, as if he'd opened a door.
"Mr. Walsh?" a woman's voice said. "Can I get a comment, Mr. Walsh?"
"That's not about me, is it?" I said.
"No, my client. He's on trial for killing his business partner and dissolving him in quicklime. Which is ridiculous."
"Uh-huh."
"It is. Anyone in my client's line of work knows that quicklime is a very poor solvent. Chemical hydrolysis is the method of choice these days."
"Did I apologize yet for snapping at you?"
A rumble that might have been a chuckle. In the background a man called his name.
"I apologize for the abruptness of this, Olivia, but I thought you should know. Pamela Larsen was attacked last night. There was a mention of it in the morning paper."
"Wh-what?"
Poppies. Yesterday, I saw poppies. I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Is she ... dead?"
"No, but she's in critical condition. She asked to see you. They called me."
I stood there, struggling to think of something to say. The little girl inside me screamed, "My mother could die!"
"I ... should see her then." I almost added, "Shouldn't I?" but angrily shook off the question. Not his place to answer. I took a deep breath. "Right. I'll go see her. I'm sure I can get Susie to cover. I'll take a cab to the prison. Or is she in a hospital?"
"A hospital. However, the doctors have assured me she's stable. I would advise against rushing to see her, given that she asked for you."
I paused, working through what he was saying. "You think she did this to herself? You said she was attacked."
"She was. Part of an ongoing dispute. The woman jumped her in the shower with a homemade knife."
"Okay, so unless she walked into the knife, she didn't do this intentionally."
"I never said she did. I'm merely suggesting that running to her bedside might not be the move you want to make. Wait and I'll take you."
I shifted the phone to my other hand. My right one was sweaty, cramping, as if I'd been holding it for hours.
"Olivia?"
"You're right. When?"
"Court ends at two. Your shift finishes at three, I presume?"
"Yes."
"I'll be at your apartment at three thirty."
Chapter Thirty-three
At 3:05, as I was walking back from the diner, Gabriel called.
"Good, I caught you," he said. "Are you going back to your apartment to get ready?"
"If you mean changing out of my uniform, yes."
"You'll want to do more than that."
"Are you going to tell me what to wear again?" I asked. "Once was fine, but twice gets a little creepy."
"I'm merely going to suggest--strongly--that you take extra care and consider the image you want to present. There's a possibility we may encounter media at the hospital."
Of course. I should have thought about that.
"The question you need to ask yourself, Olivia, is are you still hiding? And if so, how much longer do you intend to do so? It's understandable that you didn't wish to face the media right away. You had to process the news about your parents. But as I said yesterday, journalists are like hounds. If you don't run, they lose interest in the chase."
"Great. But I just spent the last week setting up some semblance of a life here. Are you suggesting I just throw that away? Let photographers besiege my apartment until Grace evicts me? Let journalists hang out at the diner until Larry fires me?"
"Would that be so bad?" Gabriel said.
I gritted my teeth to keep from snapping. "I know you think I'm being silly living here and working in a diner. You've made that abundantly clear. However, I did not hire you to give your opinion on my life choices."
A pause. "All right."
"That includes not only advice but snarky and sarcastic side commentary."
A longer pause, and when he said, "All right" again, his voice was as bitingly cold as vodka straight from the freezer. Yes, I'm sure angry clients told him off all the time, but they didn't really mean it, because they were all too aware that he held their freedom in his hands. I'd grown up with lawyers, though, and in my world, they were employees. Valued and respected, but employees nonetheless.
After a moment, he said, "I'm not suggesting you reveal all aspects of your current situation, Olivia. Even if by some chance they tracked you to Cainsville, the town values its privacy. Anyone who asked for you would be told they'd made a mistake--you aren't there."
"That seems a little too good to hope for."
"As I'm sure you've noticed, it's a very insular community. My aunt tells me you've become quite popular with some of the older residents. In Cainsville, town elders still hold power. They'll protect you."
That sounded like something out of another century. But it was comforting, too, and when I glanced up at the omnipresent gargoyles, I felt comforted, as if their fierce scowls would ward off all the plagues that lurked beyond the town borders--including reporters.
"You will need to face the media eventually, Olivia. Do you want a surprise shot, like the ones they've taken so far? Or do you want one that presents the image you wish to convey?"
I paused, considering. Then I said, "Tell me what you have in
mind."
His basic advice was simple: set the stage for a photograph, and that "stage" was me. How did I want to look in those photos? Like Olivia Taylor-Jones. Polished, poised, and prepared.
He gave me until four. It was enough time to do the best with what I had, which wasn't much, and as I sat on the front step waiting for him, I began reconsidering the wisdom of the entire plan.
When a shadow passed over me, I started and looked up to see Gabriel at the foot of the steps.
"Ready?" he said.
I nodded and followed him to the car.
"There's more than one way into the hospital, isn't there?" I asked as we drove from town. "I'm guessing any reporters will be parked at the main entrance."
"Most, yes, so I'll take you in the back. I'm sure we'll encounter a more enterprising journalist on that route. Preferably only one. That will allow us to control the situation."
"Actually, I ... I'd rather control it by avoiding it altogether."
A faint smile. "I'm sure you would."
I looked over at him. "I'm serious." I lifted a hand against his protest. "Yes, you're right that I should dictate when and how I let myself be photographed. But I look like a twelve-year-old who tried to cut and streak her own hair. I can't afford my usual brand of makeup, and I picked the wrong shades. This is the best clothing I have--the jeans and shirt I wore when I left home. Not exactly haute couture."
"Not exactly Walmart, either. The cost of your sneakers could feed a family for a week."
"Which is the problem. With the crappy haircut and bad makeup, I look as if I'm trying to pretend I'm just a regular girl, yet I'm wearing three-hundred-dollar blue jeans. Not the image I want to project."
"I think you're overreacting."
"Really? I've spent a lifetime being taught how to project an image. I want to show the world I'm still Olivia Taylor-Jones. This"--I swept a hand over myself--"is not Olivia Taylor-Jones."
"Should it be?"
"If you're going to give me some existential bullshit about whether or not I still am Olivia Taylor-Jones, you can save it. What's important here is the image. Give me a week and I'll have enough tips saved to get myself a real haircut, decent makeup, and an outfit. The laptop can wait. Not the way I'd like to structure my priorities, but if I'm going to get myself in the paper again, I need to think of what my mother and James would want, too."