Deceptions: A Cainsville Novel (18 page)

I
n that moment, I failed Gabriel. The officer announced he was under arrest and all I could think was,
Oh my God, Pamela . . .
She’d accused him of murder and now he was being arrested, and that had to be her fault. I froze in horror and dismay, and when Gabriel looked at me,
that’s
what he saw. As if I thought he might actually have done it.

He turned away, his shoulders straightening. His hand dropped from my back. He walked toward the police cruiser, his chin high as one officer read his Miranda rights and the second told him to put his hands behind his back. They were going to cuff him—with news cameras on every side.

I jumped forward then, saying that wasn’t necessary, that he wasn’t resisting. But Gabriel said, “Enough, Olivia,” and put his hands behind his back as the cameras snapped.

I didn’t say,
I know you’re innocent
, because there was no question, and I would not act as if there was. Instead, I said, “Tell me what to do.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Please. Tell me what to do.”

He kept walking. I caught his coat sleeve, ignoring the warning grunt of the officer.

“Gabriel, please. Tell me what I
can
do.”

He glanced at me then, and my panic must have shown, because a little of that stiffness went out of his shoulders. He started rattling off instructions. Notify Lydia. Have her lock down the office pending a search. Do not go into the office until it had been searched. Same with his apartment.

“Do you need a lawyer?” I said.

“I’ll handle it.”

“You can still call me, right?” I said. “One phone call? To let me know if there’s anything more I can do?”

He lowered his voice, turning to look at me as we reached the police car. “I’ll be all right, Olivia.”

The officer opened the door and guided him in. As I hovered there, the officer gave me a surprisingly sympathetic look and said, “You’ll have to step back, Miss Jones.”

I did.

Gabriel ducked his head to look at me out the cruiser window. “May I have a brief word with Ms. Jones? Please?”

The officer hesitated. I suspect he wasn’t as willing to be nice to Gabriel, but the request was worded so politely, the tone downright deferential, that he told his partner to hold up. Gabriel motioned me closer, and the officer stepped away. As I bent to listen, I could see the tightness in his face, the anxiety. He might be acting calm, but he’d just been arrested for murder.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to it. “I didn’t do this, Olivia. Whatever you may hear, whatever you may think—”

“I know you didn’t,” I said.

I squeezed his arm, fast, the briefest touch, not giving him time to flinch.

“I’ll fix this,” I said. “You’ve said that to me many times. Now it’s my turn. I’ll fix this.”

“Take my car.” Gabriel struggled for a wan smile as he nodded for me to take his keys from his jacket pocket. “Just be careful with it.”

The cops tried to intervene, but Gabriel told them he’d only picked up the vehicle that morning, so it wasn’t evidence. The bill of sale was in the glove compartment.

As soon as the patrol car pulled away, the reporters swarmed.

I had every intention of making a calm statement. Admittedly, my past record for this had not been good, but I wasn’t going to walk away without supporting Gabriel. Except it was like trying to kneel and pray in the middle of a rugby mob. When I opened my mouth, I got shouted down. When I tried to step back, I got jostled and blocked. Just as I was ready to give up, the crowd began to part, and I heard a familiar “Hey!” and “Move!” When they saw who it was, they stepped aside, much like a herd of ravenous swine makes way for the guy carrying the fresh bucket of slop.

Ricky elbowed through to me.

“Gabriel—” I began.

“I heard,” he said, his face grim. He took my arm and turned to the guy nearest us. “Move!”

Getting me out of that crowd wasn’t as easy as getting himself in. But he managed, while also keeping his middle finger raised in front of me.

The crowd wasn’t as big as it seemed, maybe a dozen reporters and beyond them a layer of curious mourners, which pissed me off more than the journalists. The media was just doing its job, but the others were supposed to be there to honor James.

I whispered to Ricky, “I need to make a statement.” He could have said,
What the hell?
He’d rescued me from the mob and now I wanted to engage it? But he only nodded and led me to Gabriel’s car, where he positioned us with our backs to the vehicle, blocking anyone from coming up behind us, while also securing an escape route.

“Listen up!” Ricky said, his voice ringing over the shouted questions. “Ms. Jones is going to give a statement, and if you want to hear it, you’re going to shut the fuck up. Got that?”

A murmur of outrage from the mourners. Obviously, joining a mob at a funeral was fine, but God forbid someone should swear.

“She’s going to do this once,” Ricky said. “If you don’t let her finish, she’ll get in this car and you’ll have nothing, because she’s not answering your questions or—” He spun on a young woman, slipping up beside him with her recorder. “You! Get the hell back
now
.”

She scrambled away so fast you’d think he’d pulled a gun. Which is probably what they expected for the encore.

“Anyone else gets that close?” Ricky said. “We leave.” He turned to me, his voice lowered. “Go on.”

I gave my statement. Gabriel had been arrested for James’s murder. It was obviously a trumped-up charge, stemming from ongoing animosity between Gabriel and the police. The fact that they felt the need to dramatically arrest him at the funeral proved it. I felt guilty saying that after the officers had been relatively decent about how they carried out their orders, but it was the slant Gabriel would put on it.

I went on to express my dismay and anger at the fact that James’s service had been disrupted. I was appalled by the way the police—and media—had disrespected his memory. I made it absolutely clear that I supported Gabriel and that I had no doubt he’d be released quickly.

When I finished, Ricky said, “We’ll take Gabriel’s car. Do you want to drive?”

I shook my head. He reached for the passenger-door handle.

“Olivia!”

When I heard that voice, I froze.

“Go on,” Ricky murmured, the door open. “Get in and we’ll take off.”

I wanted to. But if I’d come to pay my respects to James, there was no way I could turn my back on the woman making her way toward me through the crowd.

Even before I started dating her son, Maura Morgan had barely tolerated me at family gatherings. “Poor Lena,” I’d heard her whisper when I was twelve. “That girl of hers is . . . well, she’s a little odd, don’t you think? Too headstrong by far. It’s her father’s influence. Arthur’s a smart businessman, but his manners leave something to be desired.”

When James and I got together, you would have thought he’d taken up with the town whore. Give it a few months, she must have thought, and he’d be done with his fling and settle down. When he decided to settle down
with
the unsuitable girl, Maura decided I wasn’t a whore after all. I was a gold digger.

I’d never let her drag me into a fight, but I had always stood up to her. Nothing she could do or say would change how James felt about me, and I’d reminded myself that, after her divorce, her son was all she had left. I was a threat to that relationship. So I felt sorry for her, which was particularly satisfying, knowing how much she’d loathe my pity.

But now, when I saw her, I froze like the proverbial headlight-stricken doe. On the outside I might be holding up, but inside I was a seething mass of panic, anxiety, and confusion over Gabriel’s arrest.

My mouth opened, no words coming out until she was right in front of me and I managed to squeak, “Maura.”

Her hand flew up and I flinched, bracing for the blow. Instead, I heard a soft gasp and opened my eyes to see Ricky holding her wrist.

“No,” he said, locking eyes with her.

“Who are . . . ?” she sputtered, trailing off as her gaze traveled up him, taking in the boots, the worn jeans, the leather jacket, and finally his face. Then she recognized him, and yanked her hand away fast.

“Maura,” I said. “I—”

“You brought your—?” She stared at Ricky, struggling to speak. “You brought a—? To my son’s—?”

“No,” Ricky said, his voice calm. He waved at his clothes. “Obviously, she did not bring me here. She came with Gabriel, to pay her respects. I was on the other side of the cemetery, in case some people”—a slow glower around the crowd—“didn’t let the fact it’s a funeral stop them from pursuing her. But I would like to offer my condolences—”

“Don’t you dare.” She enunciated each word like spitting glass.

“I offer them anyway, and I apologize for grabbing your wrist. You’re understandably distraught, and I wanted to prevent you from providing a photo op that I don’t think your son would have appreciated.”

Despite all the times I’ve stood up to Maura, I’ve never been able to render her speechless. Ricky did. All around us, cameras snapped, recording the spectacle of the society grande dame having her manners shown up by a biker a third her age.

Ricky was right. This
was
a photo op that James would not have appreciated. So I didn’t relish the moment. I reached over and embraced her—too quick to be thrown off—and I said, “I’m so sorry.” I know maybe having
that
picture in the papers would be worse for her, but it’s the one James would have wanted. I let her go; then I turned and climbed into the car.

W
e were leaving the cemetery when I said, “You need to go back for your bike.”

“I will.”

“I know the club rules. You can’t leave it there. I’d prefer you got it now, so you don’t need to take off when we reach the police station.”

I dropped him off, and he caught up before I reached the station. As we walked in, he went over how the process differed from the assault charge, where bail was set automatically. Gabriel would be kept in a holding cell for up to forty-eight hours, pending the arraignment, where the charges would be read and a plea entered. Bail would be set at that hearing.

“Everything will be okay. I’ll handle this.” He struggled for a smile. “Yeah, handling homicide charges is not my usual gig. Last time we had a member charged with murder, I was in high school. I’ll call my dad and see what we need to do. Gabriel will handle the legal stuff, though. I’m just saying . . .” He paused and met my gaze. “Gabriel didn’t do this.”

“I know.”

“I’m sure you don’t
suspect
he did, but I absolutely
know
he did not. Beyond any doubt. I guarantee this will be resolved.”

He couldn’t guarantee that at all, and part of me wished he wouldn’t say that. It felt like patting me on the head during a tornado and telling me everything would be all right. But when I looked at him, I didn’t see a hint of condescension. Just resolve plastered over panic.

I hugged him, and we headed inside.

—

Ricky had warned I wouldn’t be able to speak to Gabriel. I still tried. Tried damn hard, with Ricky beside me, both of us arguing with as much determination and eloquence—and as little animosity—as possible. I think the desk sergeant was impressed in spite of herself. That didn’t mean we were getting a visit, though. So I parked my ass in the visitors’ room, where I’d sit for as long as it took, either until I got to see him or until he was arraigned.

Gabriel had managed to send me further instructions from the back of the police car. He asked that Lydia be present for his office search and Ricky for his condo, because both were familiar enough with the process to stop the police from digging beyond the scope of the warrant. If Gabriel was concerned about having his office and condo searched, he gave no sign of it. I still fretted. Ricky reassured me that Gabriel was a defense attorney. If he had a nosebleed, he probably incinerated his shirt that night, just to be safe.

At around seven, I got word that the arraignment was set for noon the next day. I thanked the officer and told him I’d wait.

Ricky returned with dinner. After we ate, he started getting calls from his father. There was a club meeting that night, and I knew that, short of illness or imprisonment, Ricky was supposed to attend. He joked that he was
near
a prison. I made him go anyway.

Rose showed up shortly after Ricky left, likely after a call from him. She brought tea and cookies. We talked. I sent her home when the clock ticked near eleven.

Once Rose left, the night shift desk clerk came in to inform me that I absolutely could not stay. I pointed out that the station was open all night. If they wanted to make an issue of it, they could toss me in an empty cell on charges of being a pain in the ass. The clerk shook his head and left me alone.

At 11:45, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number and held off answering until it was just about to switch to voice mail. Then I picked up.

“Olivia, you are not spending the night in the police station waiting room.” It was Gabriel. “Ricky has my apartment keys. You can both stay there for the night. Arm the alarm and lock the doors. I’m not convinced his apartment is secure. My arraignment is at nine tomorrow—”

“I thought it was noon.”

“They moved it up, which may have something to do with you being camped out in their waiting room. I appreciate that, but you should go now. There’s no way we can meet before the arraignment.”

“Pamela,” I blurted. “When I was there yesterday morning, she said she knew you’d killed James. Someone had told her—one of the Cwn Annwn, I think.”

“Whatever Pamela said, I did not—”

“I know. But that’s why I froze up when they arrested you. Because I hadn’t warned you about what she’d said.”

“Ah.”

“I know you don’t have much time, so if you have anything important you need to say, cut me off, but I want to say that I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to give it any credence. If I’d thought, for one second, that you might actually be arrested—”

“It’s all right. It helps to know where to begin looking for answers. The only important thing I have to say is ‘go home.’”

“You’ll be okay?”

“Of course.” He sounded mildly offended that I’d ask. But I wasn’t really asking. I was diverting him from realizing that I hadn’t agreed to leave. He fell for it, and went on to tell me to bring him fresh clothing, along with a comb and a razor.

Ricky arrived a few minutes after we hung up. He brought a pillow, blanket, and hot chocolate.

“You don’t have to stay,” I said as he settled in, pulling the blanket over our legs.

“It’s like a sit-in,” he said. “I missed all that fun in my undergrad years. Not really my scene. But a protest against trumped-up criminal charges? I can get behind that. Now drink your cocoa. It’s like a mocha with less caffeine.”

“You could have gotten a decaf.”

“That’s just wrong.”

I smiled and leaned against his shoulder.

—

I did get some sleep, partly because Ricky kept haranguing me until I closed my eyes, and once I did, I drifted off. I’d been propped against him, his arm around me. At some point I fussed enough to end up lying across the chairs, and he’d put the pillow under my head and draped the blanket over me, and when I woke, I was alone. I sat up quickly to find him still there, pacing.

“Go home,” I said. “Seriously. It’s a police station. I’m safe.”

I was teasing, but when he turned, the smile fell from my face. He looked like he’d been awake for three nights straight.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m—” He sat beside me. “Sorry, you don’t need my shit right now. I know that. I just can’t . . . I can’t keep . . .”

“Ricky . . . ?”

“We need to talk, and I know this isn’t the time, and I’ve been trying to push this off, but I can’t.”

“Do you want to step outside?” I asked.

He nodded.

“We’ll tease the desk officer,” I said. “Make him think we’ve actually given up our vigil.”

I smiled, but his expression stayed dead serious. My heart started to thump.

When we were in the parking lot, I said again, “What’s wrong?”

He glanced back toward the police station. “I shouldn’t do this now. It’s just . . . I managed all day, but then night comes, and what I can put off during the day . . . I can’t anymore.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “It’s over.”

“What?”

“You and me. You were looking for easy and comfortable, and that’s not what you’re getting. Between your father and James, and now this . . .”

“Hell, no. I do not want that. At all.”

“Well, it’s obviously something you’d rather wait to tell me, and that’s the only thing that came to mind.”

“I don’t want to lose you, Liv,” he said. “I really, really do not, and I’m afraid . . .” He exhaled hard. “I just want you to know that I thought I was doing the right thing. Obviously, my solution was the wrong one—the worst possible one—and if I could go back and change it, I would. In a heartbeat.”

“Okay, now you’re freaking me out.”

He exhaled again, and I could see the fear in his eyes, and I wanted to slap my hand over his mouth and say,
No, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, if you’re this afraid to say it, don’t, because I don’t want to mess this up. I really do not want to mess this up.
Instead, I took his hands, pulled him in front of me, and said, “Tell me.”

“It’s James. His death. I think—I think it might have been me.”