Mmm, yeah, sorry, but actually, if we win this one, we do set a multiple murderer free. It's a package deal--getting my father out means freeing my mother, too.
As we walked, Gabriel fell in beside me. When the trooper glanced at him, I said simply, "My colleague," and she said, "Organized crime?"
I choke on a laugh, and she quickly added, "I mean the case. I can imagine you'd need security for something like that."
It wasn't the first time Gabriel had been mistaken for my bodyguard. When we met, I'd pegged him as hired muscle myself. Even the expensive cut of his suit had only made me amend that to "hired muscle for someone with a lot of money." He was at least six four and built like a linebacker. It was more than his size, though. He just had that look--the one that makes people get out of the way.
The trooper said something to one of the paramedics, who nodded and opened the smaller body bag. Imogen's mother. Death had obviously been smoke inhalation, with signs of suffocation and only minimal burning, mostly to the clothing. Which meant there was no chance we were looking at the badly-burned corpse of a stranger. And the second corpse? Imogen herself, mistress of Marty Tyson, one of my mother's victims. The only person who could have testified that Tyson actually killed the first two alleged victims. It would have been the reasonable doubt we needed to overturn the conviction.
And now we'd lost it.
#
The next morning, Gabriel drove me to work. He'd spent the night at my house in Cainsville. In his room, I hasten to add. We'd been up half the night discussing the case. Now as he pulled into the laneway of his office greystone, his topic of conversation had nothing to do with work and everything to do with distracting me from fretting over my parents' appeal. Gabriel had put himself through law school with illegal gaming.
"Blackjack," he said as he closed his car door. "That was my specialty. It's simple and efficient."
"Also one of the easiest games to cheat in, isn't it? Counting cards?"
"No one counted cards at my table. Not after the first time."
Something at the periphery of my vision caught my eye. I glanced over see the front door of the office building swing open, no one behind it. I stopped short. When I blinked, the door was shut again.
A door opening on its own. The sign of an unwanted visitor.
"Olivia?"
I shook off the omen. Given what Gabriel did for a living, we got plenty of unwanted visitors.
"Sorry. Missed my cue," I said. "So, tell me, Gabriel, what'd you do the first time you caught someone counting cards?"
He studied me, suspecting something was up.
"Are you going to tell me?" I said. "Or is this one of those stories you tease me with and then say Whoops, looks like we're at the office already. I'll finish later."
His lips twitched. "You like it when I do that. It builds suspense."
"I hate it when you do that. It's sadistic. You have five seconds--"
"Gabriel?" Lydia stepped out of the office, closing the door behind her.
Gabriel bristled at the interruption.
"Client?" I guessed.
Lydia nodded, and we backed farther from the door.
"It's a woman," she said. "She claims to be a relative."
Gabriel made a noise deep in his throat.
The fact Gabriel had a legit job made him one of the few "white" sheep in the Walsh family. So, yes, I was sure relatives showed up now and then, in need of his services. Which he would happily provide, providing they could pay his fees.
"Prospects?" he said to Lydia.
Lydia's look answered.
"I'll get rid of her," I said. "Give me ten minutes."
Gabriel hesitated, his need for control warring with an equally strong desire for efficiency. Also, listening to some distant relative sob on his sofa was terribly awkward and--more importantly--a pointless waste of billable hours.
"The sooner we get rid of her, the sooner we can get to work on our appeal strategy," I said. "I'd appreciate that."
He nodded. "All right. I'll go get you a mocha. Lydia?"
"Chai latte please," she said.
As Lydia opened the office door, I raised my voice and said, "So, yeah, don't expect Gabriel anytime soon. This courthouse issue could take all day. We need to--" I stopped short, as if Lydia hadn't mentioned a waiting client.
When I got a look at the woman, though, I didn't need to feign my shock.
I couldn't guess at her age. Maybe sixty, but in a haggard, hard-living way that made me suspect the truth was about a decade younger. Her coloring matched Gabriel's, what his great-aunt Rose calls "black Irish"--pale skin, blue eyes and wavy black hair. She also had the sturdy Walsh build that Gabriel shared with Rose, along with their square face, widow's peak and pale blue eyes.
Yet I knew she claimed to be a relative so it wasn't the resemblance that stopped me in my tracks.
I'd seen her face before.
In the photo of a dead woman.
I had to be mistaken, of course. The dead woman had also been a Walsh, so there was a strong resemblance--that's all.
I walked over, hand extended as she rose. "I'm--"
"The infamous Eden Larsen," she said, and my hackles rose. I am Eden Larsen, as much as I'm Olivia Taylor-Jones. But calling me by my birth name is the social equivalent of a smirk and a smackdown. I know who you really are, Miss Larsen.
I responded with the kind of smile I learned from my adoptive mother. The smile of a society matron plucking the dagger from her back and calmly wiping off the blood before it stains.
"It's Olivia," I said. "Or Liv. And you are?"
A smile played at her lips, and that smile did more than raise my hackles. My gut twisted, and I wanted to shove her out the door. Just grab her arm and muscle her out before she said another word.
"I'm Seanna Walsh," she said. "Gabriel's mother."
Two
"Seanna Walsh?" I forced a laugh. "Uh, no. If you're going to impersonate a long-lost relative, I'd suggest you pick one who's actually alive."
"Do I look alive to you, Eden?"
Behind me, Lydia said, "I believe she asked you to call her Olivia."
Lydia's gaze was laser-beamed on the woman, as if ready to throw her out. Lydia might be well past retirement age, but I didn't doubt she could do it. When I shook my head, though, Lydia walked stiffly to her desk and lowered herself into the chair.
"You are not Seanna Walsh," I said. "I've seen photographs of her, both before and after her death. You may resemble her, but those coroner pics guarantee you are not."
"And I guarantee I am. The pictures were staged."
"Bullshit," I said, bearing down on her. "You cannot stage--"
"With enough money, you certainly can."
"Which only proves you are not Seanna Walsh, who never had a dime she didn't snort or stick up her arm."
"So it's true, then."
"What's true?"
"The rumors that you and my son are more than coworkers."
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
"Get--" I began.
"Get where? Under the desk? Behind the bathroom door? Where exactly are you going to hide me, Eden? And why bother, if I'm not really his mother?"
The footfalls continued past. Just one of Gabriel's tenants.
I took out my phone and texted. Can you stay away longer, pls?
The please would tell Gabriel I was serious. A moment later, he replied saying he was supposed to visit a client at Cook County this morning and should he just do that?
Yes, pls.
I pocketed my phone and turned to the woman.
"Sit down."
She gave that spine-raking smile again. "If you're trying to pretend you aren't sleeping with my son, you might want to begin with a slightly less impassioned defense."
"Gabriel and I are friends. Good friends."
"Gabriel doesn't have friends. No one wants to hang out with a freak."
I felt Lydia's hand on my arm before I
even realized I was surging forward, fists clenched.
In that moment, I forgot that this couldn't possibly be Seanna Walsh and that was who I saw, who I heard, and I wanted to wrap my hands around her throat and choke the life out of her. It was only when I realized what I was thinking that I rocked back, exhaling fast and hard.
"Sit down," I said again.
She started for the door.
I stepped into her path. "I told you--"
"No, Eden. You are adorable, really, but totally out of your league. Go back to painting your nails or picking out a new wardrobe or whatever your type does."
I lifted my hand . . . to point a gun at her forehead. "This is what my type does. Or have you forgotten who my parents are?"
She laughed. "You aren't that girl, Miss Eden. You might carry a gun in your purse and tell yourself you're a private investigator, but your blue jeans probably cost a week's salary. You're a trust-fund baby, and my baby is going to fleece you for every penny you have. I hope you realize he's running a long con here. Give the rich debutante her bad-girl dream, empty her trust fund and then dump her pretty little ass."
I could tell her Gabriel doesn't need my money. That he owned this building. Owned a million dollar condo. Kept a hundred grand in cash under his bed for "emergencies." But that would mean giving her some idea exactly how much her mark was worth. So I shot her in the leg.
The woman fell back, yowling.
I turned to Lydia. "Please call the police and tell them I have been forced to shoot a trespasser. It's a minor wound, but they still may want to send an ambulance."
Lydia picked up the phone. The woman lunged to grab it. I motioned for Lydia to hang up and said calmly, "Are you going to sit down now?"
"You--you shot--"
"Barely." I grabbed a tissue box from Lydia's desk and tossed it at the woman. "Staunch the blood. If you play nice, I'll get you bandages. I might even toss in five bucks to buy a patch for your jeans. Now sit. Lydia? Any chance you could grab me a mocha?"
Gabriel had a hard-and-fast rule about involving Lydia in trouble, and the legality of that bullet graze was already highly questionable.
When I mouthed "please?" she nodded with reluctance and said, "I'll be right around the corner."
I waited until she was gone. The woman still wasn't sitting. She wasn't making any move to leave either, so I decided not to press the point.
"Seanna Walsh is dead," I said.
"No, Seanna Walsh was playing dead." She tossed bloodied tissues aside. "I knew this guy--police sergeant--who used to make problems disappear for a price. We had an arrangement. One night, he brought dope to party, and he got loaded and told me he nabbed a half-kilo of coke from the evidence locker. I saw an opportunity."
"To what? Steal it?"
She snorted. "That would be stupid. I'm not stupid."
I bit my tongue.
"I was dealing with other shit at the time," she said. "I'd conned a guy who blew it all out of proportion. Put a bounty on my head. A bounty." She sounded genuinely insulted. "I cut a deal with this sergeant. I keep my mouth shut about the dope if he'd help me disappear--stage my death so no one would come after me."
"No one even realized Seanna Walsh was dead until this spring. Fifteen years after she disappeared."
"He screwed me over. The cops were supposed to find this Jane Doe who'd OD'd--I knew where her body was. My guy would wait six months and then swap her photos with mine and have someone ID me as the dead woman."
"That is the stupidest scheme I've ever heard."
"It was--"
"One, someone could have ID'd the real body, which would have ruined everything. Two, six months isn't enough time for those who actually worked on the dead woman to forget what she looked like."
"Do you really think anyone gives a shit about some addict who offs herself in an empty building? She was a white chick with dark hair and blue eyes. Close enough. The problem was that six months later, I was long gone, so this guy figured he could just swap the photos and leave it at that. Skip the positive ID. I spent years--years--on the run because the asshole who put out the bounty on me figured I bolted. All because that bastard cop couldn't hold up his end of the deal."
"And Gabriel?"
Her face screwed up. "What?"
"His mother left him. At fifteen. Walked away without a word. Without leaving him one red cent."
A dismissive wave. "He could look after himself. Been doing it for years. Not that he ever contributed anything. Just made enough for himself."
"He was a child," I snarled. "He shouldn't have had to take care of himself."
"Why not? Everyone does, eventually. Better to learn that lesson early. And look where it got him." She waved around the office. "A big-shot lawyer. Drives a fancy car. Lives in a fancy apartment. He wouldn't have all this if I'd coddled him."
"Get out."
"Oh, so now you want me to leave? Make up your mind, girl."
I pulled out the gun and pointed it at her head again. "Get out now."
She started to make some sarcastic comment. Then she met my gaze, shut her mouth and limped out to the door.
#
When Lydia returned, I was in the bathroom, plucking hairs from Gabriel's brush and putting them into a plastic bag. When I emerged, her gaze traveled from the bag in my hand to one on her desk, containing the bloodied tissues.
"You really think it could be her?" she said.
"I think I need that answer as fast as I can get it," I said. "I'll pay whatever it takes for the quickest possible turnaround."
***
***
***
Want to be one of the first to read the full book? I'm giving away two copies of the bound manuscript of Rituals--or I will, once it's edited! This will be the first chance to read it, before even the ARCs are printed. I expect to have these ready to print and ship by March.
This contest is only for those who took part in this preorder/early-purchase/early-library-borrow promotion. Winners will be checked against the list of participants.
To enter, just e-mail Alison ([email protected]) & tell her your favorite story in this mini-collection.
Contest closes September 30, 2016. Two winners will be drawn at random and notified by e-mail. Prizes will be mailed before March 31, 2017.
The Orange Cat and Other Cainsville Tales Page 14
