Omens (31 page)

I’d wondered why Christian would push his sister on a friend he might have always suspected was gay. Now I knew. Because Marlotte was safe. Christian was sharing her without really sharing her and someday Jan would come to him, frustrated—emotionally and sexually—and he’d be there for her.

Gabriel read the file in silence.

I suspect Gabriel Walsh could read murder files all day and not bat an eye. He didn’t bat one now, but his hands tightened around the folder and his lips tightened, too, and when he set the file down he opened his mouth … and nothing came out.

“Yep, pretty much my reaction, too,” I said, then told him my theory about Jan, Christian, and Tim Marlotte.

“It explains why Christian would be furious when Jan broke it off with Marlotte,” I said. “Especially when she took up with Pete Evans, an attractive younger guy who seemed to be crazy about her. Christian reaches a boiling point, they argue, and he accidentally kills Jan in a rage. Then he kills Pete and stages it to look like the recent killings of young couples. Or Pete’s his target, Jan catches him, and they fight. He kills her and stages it.”

“Plausible, but don’t get too wrapped up in specifics, Olivia. If you’re convinced you know who did it and why, you’ll ignore other possibilities.”

“Right. Thanks. So we should…?”

“Make notes of the theories, then speak to Dr. Evans again. He seems to expect that.”

“He does.”

“Good.”

Gabriel checked his e-mail while walking to the car. He did that a lot, as if the mere act of locomotion wasn’t sufficient use of his time. Sometimes he tapped out a quick reply; sometimes he called Lydia; sometimes he simply seemed to skim his inbox. Only once had I seen him react to his messages—when he’d learned Niles Gunderson was dead. Now, as he slowed to read something, my gut clenched.

“Niles Gunderson was murdered,” Gabriel said before he opened the car door.

“What?”

My surprise was absolutely genuine, but I still felt him studying me over the roof of the car. He even raised his shades, those pale eyes pinning me.

“What?” I said again.

He motioned me into the car. When the doors were closed, he made no move to start the engine, just turned to me, glasses off now.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me, Olivia? About this?”

I blinked. “What would—? You think I killed—”

“No.” The word came quick and firm. Then he paused. “You wouldn’t murder anyone in cold blood. An accidental killing in self-defense? I could see that. Yet if that were the case, I would have realized it when I first told you he was dead. You’re a decent actor, but we need to work on your instinctive reactions.”

He was right, of course. Just this morning, I’d given myself away to Evans once, caught off guard.

“Niles Gunderson was murdered by his neighbor,” Gabriel said. “Poisoned, it seems, over a disputed poker game. The man confessed. Senselessly, considering that the coroner had already ruled it a natural death. In light of the confession, they delayed the funeral, tested Gunderson’s body, and confirmed the story. The man will spend the remainder of his natural life in prison. But at least he’ll have a clear conscience.”

Sarcasm and contempt twisted through that last sentence and, without thinking, I found myself nodding.

“On the subject of Niles Gunderson and confession, though, is there something you’d like to tell me, Olivia?”

“Relieve
my
guilty conscience?”

“No. Whatever it is, you don’t seem to feel guilty. But you are troubled.”

Damn it. The man might claim to have inherited none of his aunt’s second sight, but he had an eerie ability to read people.

I shook my head. “It’s nothing I’d burden you with.”

“Burden?” He said the word as if he wasn’t familiar with it. “I’m your lawyer, Olivia. You could tell me that you murdered Niles Gunderson, and I would only offer to handle your defense should you be charged.”

“And it wouldn’t bother you? If I killed an old man because … I don’t know, because he attacked me at home and I wanted revenge?”

I expected him to say that I was his client and what I did was of no personal concern to him. Instead, he spent a couple of minutes considering the matter.

“Yes,” he said finally. “If that was your rationale, it would concern me.”

“Because you’d be working with a psychopath?”

He seemed to think on that, too. “I suppose that could be a problem.”

“Just maybe, huh?”

“If you displayed murderous intentions, I’m sure I could take care of myself. The point, however, is moot, because you did not kill Niles Gunderson. Nor, I believe, would you have unless it was a matter of necessity. Yet when I told you the other day that he was dead, you didn’t seem surprised.”

I took a deep breath. “Because I wasn’t. I went to his apartment last Sunday. I was going to pretend to know Anna, in hopes of getting her contact information. I found Niles there. Dead.”

“I see.”

“The door was unlocked,” I said. “I thought … well, I thought maybe he was out and I could slip in and find Anna’s information.”

His nod was almost impatient, as if breaking into someone’s home was such a natural response to the situation that it didn’t warrant comment.

“I left him there,” I said. “I found him and I didn’t do anything about it.”

“You think you should have?”

Now it was my turn to pause and consider. “I think I should have felt worse about not doing anything. I think it shouldn’t have been so easy to just leave him there.”

“Had you called me, I would have advised you to do exactly as you did. Witnesses saw him confront you only days before. You broke into his apartment. Even if his death appeared natural, there would have been questions. You instinctively made the right move, and I’m pleased to see it.”

Which was not particularly comforting. I didn’t say that, of course. Just nodded and waited until he’d pulled from the parking spot before I asked, “About the murder, though. Does it seem weird to you? Poisoning someone over a poker game?”

“Yes,” he said. And nothing more.

W
hen I stepped into my apartment, I knew something was wrong. It was like … I’m not sure how to describe it. Like the hairs on my neck rose.

I walked into the kitchen. There was no sign of the cat. Normally, when he wasn’t curled up on his towel, he was making the arduous five-foot trek to his water bowl or litter box. I’d tried several times to send him outside to play, but he seemed to think I was trying to kick him out. Which maybe I was.

When I heard a low growl, I followed it to my bedroom. Two yellow eyes appeared under my bed. The cat came out and rubbed against my hand.

“Big bad mice scare you?”

He slunk to the doorway and peered out. Then he craned his neck to look back at me, as if to say, “Is it safe?”

I walked out ahead, and he followed. Then, with a satisfied
mrrow,
he plunked down on his bed.

I looked around. Something had spooked him. I knew the weather could upset animals, but I’d seen no sign of a storm or high winds. I wandered through the few rooms. No sign of a break-in. The front door had been locked, and nothing had been moved. It didn’t appear as if…

Wait.

I headed down to Grace’s apartment and found her setting up on the front porch.

“You bringing my scone?” she asked as I stepped out.

“It’s my day off.”

Her look said that was no excuse.

“Were you in my apartment doing maintenance?” I asked.

“I don’t do maintenance.”

“Was
anyone
in my apartment?”

“Not on my say-so. I don’t hand over my keys to anyone, and I don’t waltz in whenever I feel like it. I know what’s right. You’ll get twenty-four-hours’ notice if I need to come in.”

“Thank you. It just looked like someone had been in there.”

“Probably that damned cat of yours knocking stuff over. They do that if you keep them cooped up. You should let him out. At least open a window so he can leave.”

“I’m on the third floor.”

She shrugged. Before I could walk away, she said, “I want a scone.” She held out two dollar bills.

“I really wasn’t going to the diner.” I paused. “I
could
use a coffee, but I’m low on cash.”

She glowered and exchanged the bills for a five.

“Thank you. I’ll leave in a minute.”

She squawked as I went back inside.

Once again, when I stepped into my apartment, the hairs on the back of my neck rose. I looked down at the cat.

“Someone was here, right?”

He stared at me.

“Come on,” I said. “Give me a hint.”

More staring at the crazy lady. I sighed and looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. If someone did break in, what would they be—

I checked where I hid my laptop. It was still there, untouched.

“What then?” I muttered.

I slowly circled the kitchen and living room. When I walked into the bedroom, I felt a twinge, as if a sixth sense was telling me I was getting warm.

I walked to the dresser.
Cold
… To the closet …
Cold
. To the nightstand …
Warmer
. I turned to the bed, and felt that now-familiar prickle.

Bingo.

One of the pillowcase openings faced inward. I always make sure mine face out. I could say it’s because it looks neater, but the truth is that it’s another superstition—if the pillowcase opening isn’t facing out, bad dreams will get trapped and disturb your sleep. Crazy, but I knew damned well I hadn’t left it like this.

I yanked off the bedsheets and looked under the bed. Nothing. I grabbed the mattress with both hands and heaved it up. A line of dark powder formed a semicircle on the box spring. No, not a circle. Some kind of symbol. The sight of it made the back of my head ache.

Get rid of it.

Get rid of it now.

I shook off the impulse, retrieved my cell phone, and took pictures. Then I scooped some powder onto a piece of paper and folded it up. I put that aside and examined the remaining powder. It looked like ashes, and smelled … like wood, I think, but not quite. Maybe something mixed with wood.

Just get rid of it.

I did. Then washed my box spring, replaced the mattress, and remade my bed.

Had
someone really broken into my apartment? What if the symbol had been there when I moved in? A good luck charm placed under the mattress by the former tenant. I knew Grace hadn’t cleaned between occupants.

It took only about twenty minutes for me to convince myself that the symbol had already been there. I didn’t delete the photos, though. Or throw out the powder carefully folded in paper. I just pushed it aside for now. Moved on to something more concrete and less unsettling. Something mundane and distracting. Like getting Grace’s scone and a coffee.

When I returned with my coffee, my brain was still buzzing, so I decided to tackle another dull task—sending a thank-you note to the reporter who’d interviewed me.

Lores’s card only bore a phone number and e-mail address. My mother had taught me that a proper thank-you card went through the mail. Gabriel might know Lores’s mailing address.

As I went to grab my cell phone, I noticed my shoes in the middle of the floor. They were upside-down. I detoured to fix them. Upside-down shoes were bad luck, and I was usually careful not to just drop them like that, but I’d kicked them off when I’d come back, still distracted by that symbol.

I got the phone and returned to the main room. I started dialing Gabriel’s number, then stopped, my gaze slipping toward the hall, thinking about the shoes.

A bad omen is a warning. A sign to stop and reconsider. Proceed with caution.

Oh, hell. I’d been doing so well since embarrassing myself over the hawthorn.

I looked down at the phone.

Stop and reconsider.

Reconsider what? Calling Gabriel? Was he going to answer the phone while on the Chicago Skyway, knock over his coffee, scorching himself, then lose control and go through the guardrail?

And yet that pause did make me reconsider. Not the safety of making the call, but the need for it. Shouldn’t I take two minutes to see if I could find Lores’s address online instead of running to Gabriel for help?

One search and the screen filled with results. News articles with Lores’s byline. I scrolled down past the search engine results. As I was zipping past, a familiar name jumped out. Gabriel Walsh. I scrolled back to it. Not my interview but one with another client of Gabriel’s. Lores had said he’d done pieces on Gabriel’s clients before.

I started scrolling again, then stopped.

No, Lores said he’d covered Gabriel’s
cases
before.

Close enough.

And yet…

I opened the article. It was an exclusive interview with a woman accused of disfiguring her daughter’s beauty pageant rival. A case so newsworthy that even I remembered it.

I checked the date. Recent enough that Gabriel should certainly remember granting the man an exclusive. Yet Lores had had to prod his memory.

I ran a new search now. Cross-referencing Lores’s articles with Gabriel’s name. I got eight hits. Eight over almost three years. Again, not unusual, given that Lores seemed to cover crime. Except that of those eight, five were exclusive interviews with Gabriel’s clients.

Son of a bitch.

I called the number on Lores’s card. He picked up on the third ring.

“Mr. Lores? It’s Olivia Taylor-Jones.”

A heartbeat of hesitation. “Yes. How are you, Ms. Jones?”

“Better after that article.” I let out a sheepish laugh. “I wanted to apologize for being such a difficult subject. I’d had a few bad encounters, and I fear I was less than polite with you. But I was very pleased with the results, so I wanted to thank you.”

“Oh. Well, you’re quite welcome. You were very easy to interview.”

“Good. Because…” I cleared my throat. “I have another reason for calling. You were so kind to me and so fair in your interview, and it’s made it much easier for me to go out in public. I’m old news. But I fear that will change, and I think it might be wise for us to establish a working relationship. To avoid other media interest.”