She squawked as I left. Once I reached the sidewalk, I put the cat down. He gave me a baleful look, then tore back into the front yard, leapt onto the porch, and crouched behind a stone urn, gaze fixed on the door, waiting for it to open.
"So that's how you do it," I said. "Just don't let Grace catch you or you'll end up baked in a pie."
As my shift ended, Gabriel called to say we had evening interviews with one of Jan's old friends and a former teacher of Christian's whom the police had questioned about his association with the first female victim, Amanda Mays. It seemed like retreading well-trodden ground, but nothing else was popping up. Should I really expect it to? How many professionals had taken a crack at this case? I sure as hell wasn't going to prove the Larsens were innocent by questioning two people.
Gabriel knocked at my door at ten to six. When I let him in, he sniffed the air, frowning slightly. Then he noticed my guest.
"You have a cat."
"Not by choice." I shut down my laptop. "He came in last night chasing a mouse and apparently he likes it here. I kicked him out in the morning and found him at my door when I got back. I left him in the hall, but he started caterwauling. Grace came. She tried taking him outside. He scratched her arms, so she threw him in here and told me I have a cat."
"I see. Does he have a name?"
"That would imply I'm keeping him." I scowled at the cat, who simply tucked his paws under himself and continued ignoring me. "He gets a towel, some kitty litter, and that empty tin can for a water dish."
"From the looks of him, he'll settle for that. And maybe a flea collar."
On cue, the cat scratched behind his ear.
"Great," I muttered. I started for the door, then I handed Gabriel a box from the counter. "My thanks for getting me through the interview."
He took the box gingerly and stood there looking down at it.
"What? Is it ticking?" I reached over and pulled off the lid. "Cookies. That's what you smelled earlier--I hope. My first batch ever. Well, actually, my second. There was a test run. I'll feed them to Grace."
He looked down at the cookies.
"I asked your aunt what I could do to thank you," I said. "She gave me the recipe. Said they were your favorites."
"Ah. Yes. Well ... this ... wasn't necessary."
"Shit," I said, leaning back against the counter. "Too personal, isn't it? I told her that, but she insisted you wouldn't take it the wrong way."
"I'm not. It's ... very thoughtful."
"Guess I should have just gone for a card." I slapped the lid onto the box. "You can throw them out when you get home, but they are edible. I ate two."
"They smell good."
"Whatever." I waved him out the door.
Gabriel drove into a largely residential neighborhood near Garfield Park. He pulled in between two beautifully restored greystones. The lane was clearly marked "Private parking. Violators will be towed."
As we got out, I noticed a video camera aimed at the spot where he'd parked.
"Um, Gabriel?" I gestured to the camera.
He nodded and ushered me along the lane. We came out between the greystones. In New York, they'd be brownstones. Same concept, different colored brick.
Gabriel led me up the wide front steps to the front door. As he opened it, I saw a small bronze plaque affixed to the stonework: Gabriel Walsh, Attorney-at-Law.
"This is your office?" I said.
Obviously it was. When I'd pictured his office, though, I'd imagined something unrelentingly modern. A sterile chrome and marble suite on the fortieth floor of some skyscraper.
He hesitated on the stoop, frowning at me slightly. Then he nodded. "Ah, I neglected to mention the pit stop, didn't I? I need to sign some papers before my secretary arrives in the morning." He hesitated. "I suppose you could have just waited in the car."
He glanced back toward the road. He looked faintly confused, as he had when I'd asked about his office. No, not confused. Distracted. He had my cookie box in his hand and was holding it out awkwardly, as if it might leak and stain his jacket.
I was about to say I'd go in with him. Seeing the outside of his office made me curious about the rest. Then, before I could speak, I caught a movement down the road--someone getting out of a car--and suddenly I was the one forgetting what I was doing as I stood there, gaping. Luckily, Gabriel was still too distracted to notice, and I recovered before he did.
"Maybe I'll walk around a bit out here," I said. "Stretch my legs after the car ride." As he reached for the doorknob, I said, "Take your time. I'll probably go around a block or two."
He nodded absently. "I should make a couple of calls."
I waited until he'd gone in. Then I hurried down the steps. I paused at the bottom. The car I'd seen was only about fifty feet away. The man who'd gotten out was even closer, coming toward me. There was no doubt who it was, yet I paused there, sure I was mistaken, as I had been once before.
He'd been smiling when I first came down the steps. As I paused, worry flickered over his face, as if I might dart into the office instead.
When I continued toward him, the smile returned, blazing bright now.
"Liv."
James covered the last few paces with his arms out, hesitating just before he reached me. I walked into his arms and hugged him back.
"You look good," he said into my hair.
"No," I said, backing up to look at him. "I look like shit. But thank you anyway."
A sputtered laugh as he hugged me again.
"I saw the article," he whispered as we separated. "I came by to speak to Mr. Walsh, hoping he was working late. I was just about to leave when you drove up."
"Howard did warn you about the article, didn't he?"
"Yes, I got his message. I got yours, too, from last Thursday night." His hands rested on my hips. "I've been forwarding my line to my cell ever since, in case you called again."
"I--"
"I didn't really expect you to. I made a mess of things. I know that." He took my hands, holding them and looking down at me. Then he glanced over my shoulder. "Can we go someplace? Talk?"
I wanted to say yes. Absolutely yes. Then I imagined telling Gabriel I was bailing on the interviews he'd arranged so I could spend some quality time with my ex.
"I can't," I said, then quickly added, "I will. We will. But..." I gestured back at Gabriel's office. "He's on the clock. He's helping me sort things out with the Larsens."
A faint tightening of James's lips. "Yes, I read that. You need to be careful of men like that, Liv. I'm sure he told a good story when he tracked you down, but he's only after your money. You really should have checked him out before hiring him. Or at least spoken to Howard. Walsh has a reputation--"
"For getting the job done," I said. "For being a helluva good lawyer."
I hadn't meant to defend Gabriel, but this was about me. My ability to exercise common sense and good judgment.
"I'm sorry," he said, moving forward again to take my hands. "I just thought that, under the circumstances, you might not be ... yourself."
A brief hug. I didn't fall into it as I had before. He noticed and let me go awkwardly.
"So can we get together later? For a drink? A coffee?" A faint smile. "I promise not to question your choice of legal counsel."
His smile was genuine, but his tone rankled. I told myself to relax. I was on edge, surprised to see him, happy to see him, but nervous and anxious, too.
"I can't do it tonight," I said. "I have to work early."
"You got a job?"
I told myself that what I heard in his voice was surprise not shock. His smile seemed to confirm it as he said, "I should have known you wouldn't be sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Charge into action. That's my Liv."
There was nothing wrong with his words. Or the sentiment. So why did I feel that old prickle at the base of my neck, like a starched tag left in my shirt?
"It's manual labor," I said. "But it pays the bills."
"Like I said, you always do what it takes. I'm proud of you. But I suspect that if you do come out with me tonight, you won't need to go to work tomorrow." He met my gaze. "We can work this out. Just meet me after you're done with Walsh and..." He pulled his hand from his pocket and opened it. In his palm was my engagement ring. "Give me an hour, and all this will be over. You can come home."
"I can come home?" I stepped back. "I was the one who left. No one--"
"That came out wrong. I'm..." A twist of a smile. "I'm a little nervous here, Liv. There's a reason I have you write all my speeches, remember? I just meant that you don't have to do this anymore. You don't need to stay away. Come back, and I'll take care of you."
That scratching again at my collar. "I don't need--"
He lifted his hands. "I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. I'm just saying you don't need to."
"What if I want to?"
His forehead furrowed. "Why?"
"Because I think I need to. I'm figuring out who I am, and that's important right now."
He stared at me as if I was speaking gibberish. Finally, he shook his head. "You're still hurt and confused. There's no need to punish yourself--"
"Punish myself?"
"Whatever the Larsens did has nothing to do with you."
"Of course it doesn't," I snapped. "I was a toddler. I'm not punishing myself. Like I said, I'm figuring things out and I need time--"
"You're still angry." He sighed. "Are you punishing me because I didn't--"
"No," I said, my voice ringing along the empty road. "It is not about you. It's about me. Just me. I--" I stopped. Took a deep breath. "I'm going to walk away now. I think you need to keep that ring."
"Olivia..." There was a warning note in his voice that made my hackles rise. I resisted the urge to turn and kept going.
"Olivia." Sharper now, as if speaking to a sulking child. "I came after you once. I'm not doing it again."
No, James. You didn't come after me. Not really. You let me run, and you followed a week later, not to talk, but to scoop me up and take me home. Give me time to learn my lesson and realize I want to go home.
I didn't say that. I feared if I tried, I'd end up snarling it, and I didn't feel like snarling. I felt like ... Not crying, though there was a bit of that. I heard his words and his tone, and I just wanted to walk away. Go someplace quiet and grieve, because after a week of telling myself it wasn't really over, I realized now that it was.
I turned slowly. "I'm sorry. I know you don't understand this, and I don't think I can explain it. I just need time to figure things out, on my own, and if you can't give me that--"
"You can't expect me to, Liv."
I swallowed a small surge of anger. "You're right," I said, my voice soft. "I can't. I don't. I never did."
I turned and walked away. He let me go.
The exterior door to Gabriel's building opened into a short hall with stairs to one side and a polished wood door to the other. There was a second nameplate, beside the door, confirming the door let to Gabriel's office. I stood there, catching my breath as if I'd been running.
The door opened. Gabriel walked out and stopped short.
"Ah, good timing," he said. "How was the walk?"
"Fine."
Whatever had been distracting him earlier had passed--unfortunately. He noticed my tone was a little less than perfect, and I got his hawkish stare. I ignored it and headed out.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The interviews did little to improve my mood. With Marlotte, Gabriel had begun introducing me as "Ms. Jones." I never did figure out whether Marlotte understood who I really was. I suspect he didn't care. Same went for the teacher we interviewed that night. Jan's friend, though, knew exactly who I was, though I told myself that she only herded her teenage daughters away because she didn't want them hearing any gruesome details.
The teacher barely remembered who Christian Gunderson was. Jan's friend recalled more, but it quickly became apparent that Anna was right--Jan's friends had elbowed their way into the investigation because the cops were cute, not because they knew anything.
I struggled to hide my frustration, acutely aware of Gabriel's time clock ticking. It didn't help that I was worried about Pamela and how she was recuperating. I didn't want to. Yet the more I saw her, and the more I remembered of our past, the harder it was to see Pamela Larsen as a serial killer, not as the mother I'd once adored.
I stayed in my funk until Gabriel drove me to a shooting range and announced he had my gun. Had anyone ever told me I'd one day be cheered up by getting a handgun, I'd have laughed. The old Olivia might have wanted one, as a purely practical matter, given some of the places she went for her volunteer work, but she'd never have suggested it or she'd have been told simply not to go to those places.
Chances were I'd never fire this gun outside a range, but I liked having it. Gabriel seemed less happy. He clearly didn't like being the one to put a lethal weapon into the hands of a former debutante--or the child of serial killers. If something went wrong, he might feel responsible, and I got the feeling Gabriel Walsh preferred a life where he felt as little responsibility for others as possible.
So as we checked into the range, he turned into a walking, talking safety poster. Treat every gun as a loaded gun. Never point it at anything except your target. Keep your fingers away from the trigger unless you plan to pull it. When you are not carrying the gun, store it in a safe place.
"I was thinking of keeping it under my pillow. Is that okay?"
The look on his face made me wish I was faster with my cell phone camera.
"Fine," I said. "I'll keep it in my bedside drawer, in case I'm woken in the middle of the night and mistake the cat for an intruder. An honest accident."
"You're not shooting the cat. It would leave a mess."
"True. Also, the killing of small animals is the entrance ramp onto the serial killer superhighway." I paused. "Damn. I bet the cat knows that. He picked me because I can't hurt him, or I'd be fulfilling my biological destiny. So I'm screwed. The cat stays. Unless you'll kill him..." I glanced at him. "How does fifty bucks sound?"
He shook his head and ushered me to a spot on the range. "So where on the target do I aim?" I said after enduring another lecture on gun safety and a demonstration on weapon loading. "They don't have any arms or legs, so I can't just wing him."
"Which you wouldn't do anyway. If you're shooting someone, you're in honest fear for your life, meaning you need to take him down. Aim for the main body mass."
"How about the head?"
"Your chances of hitting the target at all are slight enough. Don't push it."
"Will you give me twenty bucks if I hit the head?"
"I'll give you ten if you just shut up and shoot."
I lined up the target and fired three rounds. Gabriel leaned across the barrier, as if to reassure himself that he wasn't imagining the trio of holes.
"It would have been much more impressive if I'd shot out my initials." I motioned him back, aimed again, and fired three more. "Hmm. You're right. Best not to aim for the head. Only two out of three that time."
"You've used a gun before."
"No, I'm just naturally good at killing things. You should see me with a knife." I reloaded. "My dad kept a gun at home for security. When I was a teenager he decided I should have access to it, and Mum insisted on lessons. Dad and I made an annual trip to the range. Father-daughter quality time."
"And you didn't see fit to tell me this?"
I shrugged. "You would have thought I fired a gun once and was exaggerating to avoid paying for lessons." I pulled the target forward. "Also, having never used this particular caliber or model, I really should practice. So if it's okay with you, that's what I'll do for the rest of my hour." I unhooked the target, then handed it to him. "But since I'm still paying, you can change the targets."
He wadded it up and tossed it into the trash.
"Don't grumble," I said. "Or I'll bake you
more cookies."
On Saturday, Gabriel took me to see Pamela. It was a brief visit, barely ten minutes before they kicked me out. She was doing fine. I'd known that--Gabriel had been keeping me updated on her condition. She wasn't ready to go back to jail yet, though. She'd been spiking a fever. Nothing serious, but enough to keep her in the hospital.
With such a short visit, there wasn't time for much more than greetings and good-byes. She did ask how I was coming along on turning over her case. Gabriel covered for me there, lying and saying he was setting up the appointments. No way she could call us on it. That's one advantage to dealing with someone in jail.
After the visit, Gabriel and I went for lunch. We talked. Nothing earth-shattering there, either. Just talk really. About the case and not about the case. I enjoyed his company. There was, I admitted, the possibility I enjoyed it a little too much. I could say I was just lonely, but there were times over that weekend when I was keenly aware that Gabriel Walsh was not an unattractive man.
At Anna Gunderson's place, I'd acknowledged a physical appeal of a very masculine man, but said I didn't see it myself. I lied. Or maybe I'd changed my opinion. It could be because Gabriel was so different from James, and I wanted to distance myself from my ex-fiance. Oh, hell, let's be perfectly honest. It was probably just hormonal. I like sex. A lot. Two weeks of chastity wasn't exactly torture, but after all I'd gone through emotionally, I really could have used the distraction. Put a good-looking, virile man in prolonged close contact with me and even if I'd never thought of him as my type, a primitive part of me still occasionally shouted, "Hell, yeah!"
With Gabriel, the attraction only blazed in blessedly brief flares, usually when he came close enough for me to be physically aware of him. Then that would pass, and he'd revert to being simply a guy I found fascinating. Yes, I found him fascinating--his world, his thoughts, his opinions, his entire way of looking at life.
However I felt, though, I knew better than to take that fascination or that attraction beyond a business relationship, even if he had been interested, which he gave absolutely no sign of being. And I was glad of that. As much as I enjoyed sex, I've never been able to manage it without emotional involvement. Gabriel didn't do emotional involvement.
I'm sure there were many women who'd made the mistake of thinking they'd be the one to break through that ice and make a connection. I wasn't ever going to join them in their delusion.