"That doesn't help, does it?" she said. "Not unless our 'trap' is waiting for a rainy night and driving every back road outside of Chicago in hopes she'll appear."
"Hmm."
"Which means you don't have any more plausible ideas."
"It means that I admire your resolve and your determination, but yes, trapping the ghost isn't feasible."
"So we've hit a dead end?"
"Possibly."
"Damn."
Olivia had dropped the case. There was no disagreement precipitating that decision. Gabriel wished there had been. He could fight that, leveraging her obvious interest to lure her back in. But no, the case had simply fizzled out.
There was no place left to go, and normally, she would never let that stop her. Quitting was surrender. But this case was different. The trail had grown cold, and there was no reason to push on. The client had withdrawn his support. There wasn't even a victim to save. Future victims, possibly, but as Olivia said, "We aren't ghostbusters." Which meant partly that they had no skills for stopping a ghost and partly too that they were not movie heroes, fighting injustice simply because it was the right thing to do.
Olivia needed actual motivation. At the very least, she needed a mystery. Yet they'd solved that. Christina Moore had died and, as Olivia put it, she'd rechanneled her phantom energies into a new career in extreme life coaching. Mystery solved. Mostly. The question of why remained, but Gabriel would be the first to argue that motivation rarely mattered in a criminal case. In this instance, they knew she was guilty...and could do nothing to stop her.
Which made for a very unsatisfying conclusion.
The next day being Saturday, Gabriel was free to try to reopen this particular investigation. Search for the tidbit that would pique Olivia's interest again.
He was not, of course, completely free. He didn't base his schedule on a five-day forty-hour workweek. To him, evenings and weekends simply meant that his time was his own, untethered to meetings and interviews and appointments. He spent the morning working on legal cases, and in the afternoon dove back into their ghostly one.
Olivia had uncovered a possible third suicide, the connection to the ghost more deeply buried than the others. Gabriel dug deeper into all three cases. It was dull work, as such research often was. Rather like having pieces of a jigsaw dumped onto your desk and being told to make something of it, without even being certain all the pieces comprised a coherent whole.
He spent hours moving the pieces of data around, trying to find where they might connect. And by the time he found something, there was no thrill of victory, but rather the gut-level awareness that he really was, as Olivia put it, grasping at straws.
All three obituaries of the deceased victims listed "Greater Chicago Suicide Prevention" as one charity to which mourners could make donations in the name of the deceased. The fact that all three used the same foundation wasn't outwardly odd--no more than three cancer victims using the American Cancer Society. But if one is going to grasp at straws, one ought not to do so halfheartedly. So Gabriel researched the charity. What came back was the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention: Greater Chicago/Illinois Chapter. Quite a lengthy name when one might be restricted by an obituary word count. "Greater Chicago Suicide Prevention" must be the accepted short form. Except it wasn't--he found only two other obituaries using it...and both in the last two years.
He made a note of the names. Then he searched specifically on "Greater Chicago Suicide Prevention" and found only the website linked to it in the online obituaries. It was a very professional design, but only a single page, with a commitment statement and a donation form. The commitment statement was what you might expect. Suicide was terrible. Losing someone to suicide was terrible, too. Let's all work together to help suicidal people find better solutions. Nothing connected that website to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.
A records search followed. It took some digging, but he finally found an address for the charity. What he did not find was anything suggesting it was a registered charity.
And what did that mean? He had no idea, but he did have an address.
SEVENTEEN
PATRICK
Patrick climbed the steps of the three-story walkup, the only multiresidence building in Cainsville. On the stoop, he found the usual suspects: a cat and a boggart, actively ignoring one another. The boggart was Grace, the building owner, wearing her cranky old lady glamour. Well, the "old lady" part was a glamour. The "cranky" part was just Grace.
"Is the lady at home today?" Patrick asked as he crested the steps.
"You'll have to be more specific, bocan. Which lady?"
"The only one who counts."
Grace sniffed and grumbled under her breath. Whether that grumble was directed at Liv or him, Patrick couldn't tell. Both probably.
He turned to the cat. "Hello, TC. Would you tell your master I've come to call?"
TC fixed him with a stare only slightly less baleful than Grace's.
"You expect that'll work?" Grace said.
"He's a matagot. Which means he understands me just fine."
"He's also a cat. Which means he doesn't care."
"I just want to talk to Liv. May I cross your threshold and call on her? Or would you like to fetch her for me?"
"I'd like you to leave her alone. She doesn't have time for your game."
"What game?"
"Whichever one you're playing. Now go, bocan, before I--"
The front door opened. Liv walked out. "Hey, TC. You keeping Grace company? That's so sweet." She turned to Grace. "Don't worry--I'll bring him in when I get back. I'm grabbing coffee at the diner. And a scone for you, naturally."
"Tea, too."
"Yes, ma'am."
Liv walked right past Patrick and headed for the walkway between the buildings.
"Take a hint, bocan," Grace said.
"Never," he said and hurried off.
When he caught up to Liv, he said, "That's terribly rude, you know. Ignoring me when I came to talk to you."
"I thought you came to talk to Grace. I didn't want to interrupt."
"No one comes to talk to Grace." He matched Liv's strides. "I know you and Gabriel aren't taking my advice about dropping this case. So I'm offering my help."
She said nothing. Just kept walking.
"Free help," he said. "Whatever you need. No strings attached."
"There are always strings attached."
"All right then. I do have a motivation. I'm concerned about this ghost business, and I want to protect you and Gabriel."
"Matilda and Gwynn, you mean."
He said nothing for a few steps, as he fought the urge to defend himself. To get annoyed, even. To tell her not to trivialize his concern or deny him the right to be concerned.
Except she was correct in her way. She might not know the full history behind the situation, but he could not deny that he'd made mistakes. Endlessly compounded mistakes, culminating in her very understandable mistrust.
He had to remind himself that her anger wasn't at him. It was for Gabriel.
"I'm worried," he said finally. "Whatever the reason. If you insist on pursuing this, I want to help."
They reached the end of the walkway and veered toward the path leading to the diner. Liv had stayed silent as they passed the playground.
"Have you found anything new?" Patrick asked.
She said nothing.
"Are you investigating today? I didn't see Gabriel's car."
"He's working at home."
Patrick felt a frisson of alarm. "Alone? On the case?"
"On other cases. Legal work."
"So you're investigating the ghost on your own? That's not good, either."
It wasn't as bad as Gabriel investigating alone. The unease he felt about the ghost situation centered on Gabriel.
"I'll be fine," Liv said. "Gabriel's busy, and I want to make progress on this. Surprise him." She shrugged and said, "Impress him," and there was thi
s note in her voice that made him look over, but she was looking straight ahead, no hint of anything untoward.
"I was thinking of going to the cemetery tonight," she said, in that same casual tone.
"Cemetery?"
"Hey, how often do I get the excuse to poke around a graveyard at night? Gotta let me have my fun."
"Is Gabriel joining this excursion?"
"That would spoil the surprise. It could also be really embarrassing, pulling him away from his work to pursue a whim. I'm going to try to contact the ghost. With James..." She cleared her throat. "Suffice to say, I think I've seen ghosts before. It may be an extra on my Matilda-vision package. I'm going at night because it'll be quiet, which might help with the ghostbusting."
"Gabriel panics over you having visions at any time. What is he going to say about you going to a cemetery--alone--for that express purpose?"
"Awesome initiative?"
Patrick glared at her. "No, he will not. And you're not. I'm going with you."
They headed into the passage beside the diner.
"Olivia...?"
"I don't need the backup."
"I can help. Backup plus research. I might not have much on ghosts, but I'll find what I can. I have resources."
She pursed her lips, and with that gesture, a little too dramatically thoughtful, Patrick realized he'd walked into a trap.
Liv hadn't been going to the diner for a coffee. She must have a perfectly good coffeemaker at home. She'd been going because it was the most likely place to bump into him.
She wanted his help with this. Not that she'd have said so. Oh, no, she'd have given the same performance at the diner. Ignore him, knowing he'd want an update on the ghost case. Play him a little, making him work for details. And then oh-so-casually mention that she planned to try contacting the ghost...to impress Gabriel.
Impress Gabriel? No. This was about going behind Gabriel's back to do something he would forbid. Yes, she would impress him if she made progress in the case, and that was always a factor in the careful dance between them. Partly about impressing the other, but more about proving themselves equal partners, worthy of each other's attention. Not unlike the mating displays of many species, though Patrick doubted they'd appreciate the comparison.
They'd hit a dead end with the case, and Liv wanted to break through it, but her only idea was one that Gabriel would hate. She knew better than to do it alone, and while Ricky might seem the obvious partner, that made him equally culpable. Liv didn't particularly care if Gabriel got angry with Patrick. And Patrick's research skills and fae abilities would be an added bonus.
"All right," she said finally. "You can help. If you insist."
"I do."
EIGHTEEN
GABRIEL
It was past six, afternoon stretching into evening. Gabriel had not heard from Olivia. He hadn't expected to. But hoped? Yes. He'd hoped that she would wake up this morning and seize on some new avenue to pursue in the case, perhaps even one as far-fetched as his, proving he wasn't the only one desperate to mend this rift. But he knew better. She'd given him chances. One after the other. He'd used them up and not only continued making mistakes but--never one to rest on past successes--he'd made each worse than the last.
He would fix this, though. He would. Starting with this case. He just needed a valid lead to lure her back.
He looked up at the building before him.
This was not a valid lead.
It was an office building, of exactly the sort one might expect to house a small charity foundation. Not suspiciously downtrodden or suspiciously ostentatious. An older building, in much worse shape than his own. While his greystone might not be in the most prestigious neighborhood, it had dignity and history, perfect for a successful independent lawyer. He'd chosen it for that very reason...and the fact that he'd gotten a significant discount by offering a lifetime of legal advice to the former owner, who'd run a meth lab out of the basement.
There were no meth labs in this building. There were lawyers, though. He noticed several plates as he walked down the hall. No names he recognized. It was not that sort of building. Rather, it was exactly the sort he'd been determined to avoid--the sort that said you'd only opened your own firm because you weren't good enough to join a large one.
It was a three-story walkup, like Olivia's. No elevator. Which gave him the excuse for wandering, noting the types of occupants. Three lawyers. Two accountants. A graphic designer. A "lifestyle coach"--which gave him pause, thinking of Olivia's joke about the ghost, but a box of pamphlets attached to the door suggested it was actually what it advertised. Still, in Gabriel's opinion, that was one business where one clearly should have a more prestigious address. Same went for the person down the hall advertising his services as a stock analyst. It was hardly good advertising for such businesses to be in a building like this.
The office he wanted was on the third floor. Up there, he found fewer professionals and more offices not intended to receive visitors, discreet signs noting the business name only for deliveries.
At the end of the hall, he found the number he wanted, on a door marked "Pigsie Industries." He double-checked the address. It was definitely the one attached to the suicide prevention charity.
An Internet search on Pigsie Industries brought back no hits in the Chicago area. It was an odd word, childlike. He searched on that alone. Google suggested he meant "Pigsy," and he informed it that he did not. But what returned for Pigsie or Pigsy was nonsense. Fictional characters and online names and such.
And there were no hits for Pigsie Industries at all.
When he examined the door more closely, he noticed the camera and cursed himself for missing it. From this side, it looked as if the door had a peephole, like the others, yet this one was slightly different. That prompted a closer inspection, upon which he determined that it was actually an eyehole camera.
Gabriel was retreating when he heard a click from inside the office. He put his ear to the door. Another click. The camera? Or was someone inside?
He knocked. He'd already been seen by the camera, so he might as well rap and hope someone opened the door and gave him a glance inside as he made a "wrong address" excuse.
No one answered his knock.
Another click sounded. A mechanical one. Then silence. He strained to hear.
Nothing.
One last look around, and then he left.
Gabriel was eating dinner in the kind of place he did not eat dinner. Or any other meal. Apparently, it was vegetarian. He'd missed that detail, noting only that it looked like a healthier choice than the surrounding fast food shops.
He was not particularly fond of fast food, but it was--as advertised--quick. Which meant that he ate it more often than he should as a cheap and efficient way to refuel. He could blame habit from his years on the street, but even before Seanna left, Gabriel had had to buy his own food, and he'd learned to make healthy choices. A banana and milk would get his body farther than fries and a Coke. His recent fast food habit was pure laziness...and a major factor contributing to that soft middle he was trying to fix in the gym.
So while vegetarian would not be his first choice, he stuck with the restaurant, if only because finding another would be inefficient.
As he ate, he considered what he'd discovered. Was the records address for the charity incorrect? That wasn't impossible, but Gabriel suspected otherwise. He was a Walsh; he'd smelled a con from the moment he'd clicked on the website for Greater Chicago Suicide Prevention. Both professional and bland, it looked like exactly what a con artist would post to seem like a real business while not giving away anything that could be traced.
So a false charity had preyed on all three suicides, along with two others. Olivia had already raised the near-certainty that there were other victims. People like Angela Vogler, who hadn't reported their "phantom hitchhiker" encounters. He suspected, then, that the two other obituaries listing Greater Chicago Suicide Prevention as their charity marked two
more of Christina Moore's victims.
But what did that mean? A con suggested a human con artist. There was no doubt that the victims had encountered a supernatural being. People didn't disappear in the blink of an eye, and if they seemed to, then you were sitting in the audience of an illusionist, watching a well-rehearsed stunt on a well-designed stage.
Could it instead be hypnosis? Or some other form of mind control? They had experienced that already, but it had used a sprinkling of "fairy dust."
And where would that conclusion lead? Why would someone be randomly targeting people and trying to induce them to kill themselves, only to achieve a success rate of approximately twenty percent? To win a few thousand dollars in donations?
There were easier ways to make money. Far easier and far more profitable for a con artist of this caliber.
So what was the answer?
Gabriel had no idea, but he knew where to start looking.
NINETEEN
PATRICK
"All right," Liv said as Patrick climbed into her car. "I have everything you told me to bring. We are ready for a seance."
"A seance in style, I see," he said. "I've heard rumor of the Maserati, but I haven't seen it. Spyder?"
"1961."
He whistled. "Yet you insist on driving that old Jetta? I'm disappointed."
"This is my dad's." She paused. "Was my dad's." Another pause. "My adoptive father."
"And I'm guessing he didn't leave it to you?"
"No, he did. A garage full of classic sports cars bequeathed to his speed-demon daughter."
"So the reason you drive the Jetta?"
Her hands tightened on the wheel. "Ready to go ghostbusting?"
"You need to segue topics more smoothly, Liv."
"No, that was just a polite way of saying it's none of your business. There's a list of the seance ingredients right there. Can you check and make sure I brought everything?"
He scanned the list. "You forgot the proton packs."
"The what?"
"You're the one who made a Ghostbusters joke. Please tell me you've seen the movie."
"When I was, like, five. I remember a giant Marshmallow Man. I wasn't supposed to bring marshmallows, right?"
He sighed.
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