Visions

by Kelley Armstrong

  "Are you even listen--?" I clipped the word off so hard I nipped my tongue and cursed. "Fine. If that helps you understand it, let's go with that. It's a bargain. Or a threat. Whichever you prefer. Your bill will be paid, and I will not interfere with Pamela's case, if you don't contact me again. Now, I'm going to hang up--"

  "Wait," he said. "I understand you wish to end our working relationship, but if you're serious about giving Pamela the best defense possible, I cannot agree to no contact. You were a critical part of the investigation that prompted her new appeal, and as such--"

  "You'll need to speak to me."

  "In a purely professional capacity. Related only to that case. While it will be months before an appeal is heard, I will need to talk to you. Soon. We can meet at the diner if that's simplest."

  "The phone works perfectly well."

  Silence. Then, "This would be easier in person, Olivia."

  "At some point, yes, I'm sure that will be necessary. For now, though, the phone will do. Better yet, e-mail me any questions, and I'll get back to you by the end of the day."

  Pause. "All right, then. In the meantime, Rose needs to speak to you."

  "I really don't have time for--"

  "She's had . . . I don't know exactly. A vision. A reading. Something that bothered her, and she'd like to speak to you about it."

  I'm sure she would. And I'm sure it would go something like, "I've had a vision of great calamity befalling you if you don't pay my nephew's bill."

  Gabriel continued before I could cut in. "I would like you to speak to her, Olivia. About her vision and about what happened earlier this week. The hound, the poppies, and Ciara Conway."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "Nothing, of course. You are--or were--my client, which means I certainly would not discuss the fact that you found a dead body. However, I'd like you to tell her. I think it would help."

  "I haven't seen anything since Monday. Not even an omen."

  "I'd still like you to speak to Rose, Olivia. She has important--"

  "I should go. E-mail me those questions."

  "One last thing . . ."

  I exhaled through my teeth, breath hissing into a "Yes?"

  "About Todd. Your father. I would like--" He cleared his throat. "In recognition of the fact that I may have overstepped my bounds accepting payment from James--"

  "May?" The word came out between a snarl and a squeak.

  "I would like to continue facilitating your reunion with Todd. As you know, that's not proving as easily done as it should be. Lydia is investigating, and I would like her to continue doing so. Without charge."

  I hesitated. Damn it. He was right that I'd hit roadblocks trying to see Todd myself, but I really didn't like the idea of being indebted to Gabriel.

  "Hold off," I said. "For now. I'll . . . give it some thought. We can talk later."

  I hung up before he could argue. When I got home that evening, I called James and agreed to dinner the next night.

  --

  I know people often think being rich means a life of leisure. It can, if your goal is to do as little as possible, but most who have enough cash to quit working don't. My father definitely didn't, and I learned from his example. I like to be very busy--it's the only thing that truly clears my mind. So for the past couple of days, I'd come home from work and, well, worked.

  What I wanted to do was dive back into the Larsen case. I'd meant what I said about wanting them to have the best possible chance at a solid appeal, and my personal issues wouldn't interfere with that. I'd be fine with investigating and turning over my work to Gabriel for free.

  The problem was that he had the case files. I had only a partial copy. I'd spent a couple of hours compiling notes on the other victims--then researching them online--but I felt as if I was investigating with a patch over one eye, my field of vision and depth perception shot to hell. Was that really because I didn't have the full file? Or because I didn't have my detecting partner? I won't lie. I missed him. I've said that. Won't say it again.

  Before they were caught, my parents had been known as the Valentine Killer. It meant that they'd killed couples . . . in Chicago, where Valentine's Day will forever be tainted by the memory of a bloody mob massacre. No one used that name anymore. From the time of their arrest, they'd become "the Larsens."

  Their first alleged victims were Amanda Mays and her fiance, Ken Perkins. Next came a married couple, Marty and Lisa Tyson. Then Stacey Pasolini and Eddie Hilton. Finally, Jan and Peter--the two we'd proven they hadn't killed.

  Jan and Peter had fit the pattern, though. Twentysomething couple, Chicagoans, white, middle-class. Beyond that, the profile varied. Dating, married, engaged. Blond, brunette. College educated and not. Employed and not. All that suggested the victims hadn't been selected with any great care.

  I compiled everything I could find on the six remaining victims. Minimal analysis for now. Then I moved to Ciara Conway. I read every scrap of Internet "news" on her disappearance--from snippets in the papers to blog posts to Facebook updates. I use the term "news" loosely, because there really wasn't anything, save wild conjecture. The obvious investigative path here would be to speak to Ciara's family and friends, but I couldn't listen to them hoping and praying she'd return when I knew she wouldn't. So I sat on my ass and surfed.

  I dug up enough details to fill in a better picture of her life. It had been a good one, by any standards. She grew up in the suburb of Oak Park. Affluent but not outrageously so. They'd lived in the same house since she was born. Dad was an architect; mom was a biologist. Her older brother was studying for his PhD in medical research. Ciara herself was no slouch, winning an athletic scholarship to Northwestern, where she'd been studying neurobiology. There her grades had fluctuated, suggesting that's when the addiction issues kicked in.

  I was still doing online searching when my cell rang. A Chicago number. It wasn't one I recognized, but my brain was preoccupied and I answered on autopilot.

  "It's Lydia." A pause. "Gabriel's secretary."

  As I struggled for a polite response, she continued, "I'm sorry for using my home number. I wasn't sure you'd answer otherwise. This isn't about Gabriel."

  "Okay . . ."

  "Richard Gallagher would like you to call him."

  "Rich . . . ? Oh. Ricky."

  I relaxed. Lydia seemed to do the same, laughing softly.

  "Yes, Ricky. I'm not sure he likes being introduced that way, so I don't take the chance. I understand you met him last week."

  "I did."

  "Apparently you made an impression. He's called twice for your number. While I'm very good at telling clients no, that boy could charm the habit off a nun. I finally agreed to pass along a message to call him. Do you have his number?"

  "I do."

  "Can I tell him you'll call? He's coming into the office Monday, and as much as I am determined not to give out your number, he's even harder to resist in person."

  I chuckled. "I can imagine. Yes, I'll call him."

  "Thank you." A pause, then, "How are you, Olivia?"

  I stiffened. "Fine."

  "I don't know what happened between you and Gabriel, but . . ." She exhaled. "No, I'll mind my own business and only say that I'm glad he'll still be representing Pamela. He really is her best possible chance."

  "I know."

  "Have a good weekend, and if you ever need anything and would prefer not to contact Gabriel, you can call me at the office or here, at my personal number."

  "Thank you."

  It wasn't until I hung up that I realized what I'd done. Promised to call Ricky Gallagher. Shit.

  The bigger shit was that I wanted to call him. Which was a problem when I was supposed to be attempting a reconciliation with my ex.

  Ricky was Don Gallagher's son. Yes, Don "leader of the Satan's Saints" Gallagher. Ricky was taking his MBA part-time at the University of Chicago. Which sounds as if he's trying to break out of the family business. He's not. He just figures an M
BA might help him run it.

  A biker MBA student. The "biker" part should have had me running. Except I liked Ricky, and it wasn't because he was charming and, yes, very easy on the eyes. There'd been something between us, that click that says, "This is someone I want to know better."

  When Gabriel had noticed that spark, he'd stomped on it. Clearly a case of a good girl looking for a little bad in her life and exercising very poor judgment. At the time, part of me had wondered if he'd had a more personal reason. Now I knew he'd done it for James.

  I had to call Ricky, meaning I had to tell him personally that I didn't want to go out with him. In other words, I had to lie.

  SOFT SELL

  Ricky finished proofing his term paper for management strategy. As he added his name to the first page, he paused before typing Richard. No one called him that. Outside of school, no one even called him Rick.

  He had gone through a stage in high school where he'd insisted on Rick. It was the same stage where he'd cut his hair short, worn preppy clothes, garaged his bike, and bought a used car. When you grew up in a gang, that was teenaged rebellion. It lasted less than a school term before he realized that he was only rebelling for the sake of rebelling. He liked being Ricky Gallagher, with everything that entailed.

  Someone rapped on the clubhouse office door.

  "Come in."

  It was Wallace, his father's sergeant at arms. Wallace did not go by Wally. A new recruit tried calling him that once. The result had required plastic surgery.

  Wallace looked around for Don. Not long ago, that look would have been followed by, "Boss in?" But now it was just a visual check before he turned to Ricky.

  "Got a lead on Tucker," Wallace said. "Bastard's holed up across the border in Wisconsin. Gonna go pay him a visit. You wanna ride along?"

  "Sure. Give me five. Just finishing a term paper."

  Wallace's gaze flicked to the laptop screen. No sign of derision crossed his face. This, too, meant Ricky was making headway. He'd grown up like the favorite nephew in a huge clan of uncles. Growing out of that role proved difficult. Going to college hadn't helped. His father fully approved, but to the gang it was a sign that maybe their boy was a little too intellectual, too mainstream . . . too soft. Dropping out wouldn't earn their respect, though. No more than insisting on being called Rick. He would earn his place, and he would do it as Ricky Gallagher, MBA.

  After Wallace left, Ricky's cell phone rang. Call display showed a number he didn't recognize. He hesitated before answering.

  "It's Olivia," a contralto voice said. "Olivia Jones. Lydia said you were trying to get in touch with me."

  "I was."

  The tightness in her voice told him this wasn't a call she'd wanted to make. She might have flirted with him at the clubhouse, but after that business at Desiree Barbosa's apartment, she'd clearly decided he was not someone she cared to know better. Damn Gabriel.

  He made small talk for a few minutes, but her voice stayed tight, wary, and finally there was nothing more he could do but take his shot, on the very slim chance he was mistaken.

  "Are you free for dinner tonight?"

  "No, I'm sorry. I--"

  "Tomorrow night? The night after that?"

  A sudden laugh, as if in spite of herself.

  "Yep, I am persistent," he said. "And flexible. Name the time. Name the place. French cuisine next Saturday night or a hot dog stand for lunch tomorrow."

  "I can't."

  "Sure you can. Where are you right now? I'll bring a picnic."

  She laughed again. A good sign.

  "See? It's easier to say yes." He shifted the phone to his other hand. "Go out with me, Olivia. Just once. I'm sorry about what happened with Desiree. If I'd had any idea that Gabriel didn't warn you what he planned--"

  "That's not it."

  "No?"

  "I'm having dinner tonight with my, um, former fiance."

  "James Morgan?"

  "Uh, yes."

  She seemed surprised he knew her ex's name. He didn't tell her that he'd come home after their first meeting and looked up everything he could find on Olivia Taylor-Jones. Prep work. Like being interested in a business and learning everything you could before initiating a takeover. Which was an analogy no woman would appreciate, and he'd never make it. But he wanted to get to know her better, and when Ricky went after something, he used every tool at his disposal. He'd learned that from Gabriel, a lesson taught by example from the moment Gabriel decided he wanted to be the Saints' lawyer.

  As for James Morgan, he hadn't needed to research the man. Ricky was an MBA student who took his studies seriously. He knew exactly who Morgan was, and while he was damned sure he wouldn't want to compete with him corporately, he suspected he had a decent shot here.

  "So you're having dinner with James tonight. Have lunch with me tomorrow."

  "I can't. Dinner with James means--"

  "You're testing the waters for a reunion. Great. But as long as he's still your former fiance, you're free to see me. Comparison shop."

  A sputtered laugh.

  "One date, Olivia."

  "I really can't. I'm sorry."

  He smiled in spite of the refusal. The honest regret in her voice told him he wasn't out of the running yet. She just needed a softer sell.

  "A drink, then," he said. "Not a date."

  "I don't think--"

  "I'll settle for coffee."

  "You really don't give up."

  "Nope. I just downgrade the offer until I get buy-in. Have coffee with me. Absolutely no strings attached. I won't even angle for a date." When she hesitated, he smiled. "Coffee it is, then. Sunday afternoon--"

  "I'm working." A pause. "Can we make it Monday or Tuesday? Anytime before three?"

  "Tuesday's my heavy school day, so let's go for Monday."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When I returned to my apartment after my Saturday shift, TC wasn't there. Usually, he was in the towel-lined cardboard box I'd assigned him as a bed. The only time he hadn't been was when I'd found him hiding under my bed, and I suspected someone had broken in.

  I searched the apartment, which took about three minutes. Then I searched again. I even pulled out the can of cat treats. Yes, I'd bought him treats. Give it another month and I'd be collecting his shed whiskers and claws like a proud momma preserving her baby's first haircut and lost teeth.

  I shook the treats. I called his name--well, his acronym. Then I conducted a calm and measured search of the apartment. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I tore about, checking every cat-sized space frantically, certain he'd suffered some horrible ailment that prevented him from answering my calls, even for fake-tuna treats.

  There were a very limited number of places he could hide in those few hundred square feet, and I checked them all three times. I even looked in the fridge and stove. Hey, I'd been distracted lately; he could have hopped in while I wasn't paying attention.

  Once I was sure he wasn't in the apartment, I hurried out to the front stoop, where Grace was on troll duty.

  "Have you seen my cat?" I asked.

  "You mean that stray that you insist isn't actually yours but you keep feeding--"

  "He's not in my apartment."

  "Did you leave the window open?"

  "No." I'd kept my windows locked since I'd discovered Ciara Conway's body.

  "Well, I haven't been in there, and I'm the only one with a key." She peered up at me. "Didn't I see you carting trash down to the bin this morning?"

  "Right." I'd taken two bags because I'd forgotten last week.

  "Then he snuck out while you were doing that."

  "Maybe. If you see him--"

  "Don't ask me to put him in your room. Still got the claw marks from the last time I touched the damned beast. Stray cats are like two-timing men. He got tired of you and took off. He doesn't find anyone new? He'll come slinking back. By then, if you're smart, you'll have decided you're better without him."

  I headed down the steps, scouring
the yard for signs of TC. Behind me, Grace snorted and muttered. I checked my watch. I was meeting James in ninety minutes, but . . .

  I crossed the street to Rose's house. When she answered the door, she looked down at me like I was a five-year-old caught ringing the bell, about to dash away. I tried not to quail under that stare. Rose may be in her late fifties, but she's a brown belt in karate, a few inches taller than me, and as sturdy as an oak.

  "Miss Olivia."

  "Hey, um, Gabriel said you wanted to speak to me."

  "I did. But you keep sneaking out your back door."

  "I didn't sneak--"

  Her look stopped the excuse in my throat.

  "Okay," I said. "I snuck. Gabriel and I have . . . parted ways, and I figured you were checking to be sure he's getting his due. I wasn't in the mood for that conversation. I will pay his bill."

  "I know you will. What I wanted to discuss has nothing to do with Gabriel. Come in, and I'll make tea."

  "I can't. I have a . . . an engagement."

  "A date with James Morgan." When I looked surprised, she said, "I have the sight, remember?"

  "Or Gabriel told you James hired him to get me back."

  "Either way, a date with James seems--"

  "I'd rather not discuss it."

  "Because I'll tell you it's a terrible idea? That you know it's a terrible idea and that you're only doing it because you feel guilty?"

  "Um, no. I--"

  "The cards tell me that if you pursue this reconciliation, you will regret it."

  "Uh-huh." I shook my head. "If you want to help me, use your cards to find my damned cat."

  I expected her to shoot back some variation on what Grace had said, that I hadn't wanted TC in the first place. But she frowned. "He's gone?"

  "He is. If you see him, please let me know. Otherwise, if you still want to talk, let's make an appointment."

  "Tomorrow morning," she said. "Nine A.M."

  "Okay."

  "Meaning you have absolutely no desire to reconcile with James Morgan."

  "What?"

  "You're going out with him tonight. You just agreed to meet me first thing tomorrow, meaning you do not intend to spend the night--"

  "Goodbye, Rose," I said. "If I can't make it by nine, I'll call."

  --

  Rose was right--I had no intention of spending the night with James. I'll admit to a tiny temptation to reconsider, just to prove her wrong. It wasn't that I didn't want to sleep with him. I like sex. Hell, I really like sex. After three weeks, James probably expected me to suggest room service for dinner. Except he'd see that as reconciliation, which meant I couldn't. Not yet.