Omens (36 page)

“Do what?”

“Qualify and backtrack in an attempt to keep from looking foolish. I’m a professional psychic, Olivia. People come to me and say they’ve been cursed by their neighbor, possessed by demons, visited by an angel … I’ve heard it all and I never think the worse of anyone for it.”

“Never?”

She shrugged. “Demon possession strains the boundaries of credulity, given the sheer number of times it seems to happen. One would really hope demons had better things to do with their time.”

She pulled the powder-strewn paper toward her, peered at it, then went to her desk and retrieved a magnifying glass. She took a better look. She rubbed some on her forefinger. She sniffed it. Even tasted it. Then she examined the photos again.

“It’s a ward,” she said finally. “Very old. Gaelic or Celtic, I believe.”

“To ward something off,” I said. “What? Evil? Bad luck?”

“Possibly … depending on what someone thinks of you.”

“Thinks of me?”

“It’s a ward
against
you. A magical ‘get lost.’”

“An anti–welcoming committee?”

She nodded. “The cards foretold difficulty, which is why I suggested you get a gun. Cainsville has welcomed you, and Cainsville is not a welcoming place. Someone has noticed that and is either envious or concerned.”

“Why?”

“As I’m sure you’ve realized, Cainsville is a peculiar little town. As to the exact depth and nature of its peculiarities?” She shrugged. “Pay attention. That’s all I can say. Answers will come when you’re ready for them. It’s not my place to say more.”

“Okay…”

“Let’s get back to this, shall we?” She poked at the powder again. “Monkshood to warn you that danger is near. Yellow carnation for rejection. Rhododendron telling you to beware.”

“In other words, a no-holds-barred ‘scram and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.’ Could it be Grace? She has a key to my apartment.”

Rose shook her head. “The only complaint she’s made is about your cat, and even then, she’s only grumbling. For Grace, that’s as close to a seal of endorsement as you’ll get.”

She looked at the photos again. “Let me think on this and see if the cards will provide direction. In the meantime, I heard that my nephew brought you that gun?”

I nodded.

“Good. Keep it close.”

Saturday was my day off. Dr. Evans had e-mailed me the evening before to get my work schedule. He was working on setting up some interviews for the next week. He’d also invited me over Sunday, to talk some more if I wanted. I hadn’t given him an answer yet, but I planned to go. Talking to him
did
help.

Having no plans for the day, I decided to sleep in … and my phone rang at seven thirty.

I checked the number. A Chicago-area one I didn’t recognize.

I answered.

“Ms. Lars—” a woman began. She stopped herself. “My apologies. Ms. Jones?”

“Yes…”

“This is Dr. Yvonne Escoda. I was contacted by the office of Gabriel Walsh, in regards to your medical files.”

After the hospital visit, I’d made an offhand comment to Gabriel that I should really get my old medical records. The conversation hadn’t gone any further. Had he placed the call before I fired him? Or after…

“Ms. Jones?”

“Sorry. This is just unexpected. Mr. Walsh no longer represents me. When did he call?”

“Yesterday. His admin assistant didn’t mention that you were a client. She said you were a friend, and he was doing this as a favor.”

Damn it.

Dr. Escoda went on. “Regardless of the circumstances, Mr. Walsh discovered that my father had been your primary physician. He had arranged a meeting at my office this morning to deliver your records to you.” She paused. “We do have a file for Eden Larsen. Daughter of Pamela and Todd Larsen. Born 1987.”

“That’d be me.”

“It ends when you were nearly two. Your parents decided to take you to another physician. I believe they’d moved and our office was no longer convenient. Normally, the file would have been transferred, but there’s no record of that.”

“So you only have my early file. That’s fine.”

“No, I’m afraid it isn’t. The file we have for Eden Larsen can’t be yours. The child in it had spina bifida. If you were her, you’d be in a wheelchair by now, which you are not, as I understand.”

“Definitely not. So your father mixed up the records?”

“I … I cannot imagine him doing that, but
someone
has made an error.”

She went on to assure me that her staff was searching old records for the file that belonged to me. She promised she would contact me as soon as it was found.

I
stood there, holding the phone, feeling … pissed. Yes, I was pissed. Unreasonably so, really. I’d only thought in passing of getting my preadoption medical records and had promptly forgotten mentioning it to Gabriel. But now that my files seemed to be lost, I wanted them. Or, at least, I wanted to know that I’d be able to get them if necessary.

When a knock sounded at the door, I walked over and opened it on autopilot. I saw Gabriel and I completely forgot that he wasn’t supposed to be there, and all I thought was
thank
God
. Gabriel was here, and he’d know what to do about this.

Then I noticed he was holding coffees. Definitely not his usual MO. Which is when I remembered that I’d fired him. In the same moment, I remembered what Dr. Escoda said, about Gabriel setting up an appointment for me to get my medical records. Which is why he was here. To take me to that appointment. To present his peace offering.

“Hey,” I said. “Come on in.”

He hesitated, as if surprised.

“Dr. Escoda called,” I said.

“Ah.”

He handed me a coffee. I took a sip. A mocha, made exactly the way I liked it.

Rose had said Gabriel wanted this job. Apparently, he
really
wanted it. There was a moment where I paused and wondered if his eagerness was a tad suspicious. I couldn’t see any nefarious motivation for wanting back on the case. Money and the chance to free notorious serial killers was quite enough.

“You’d mentioned wanting those records,” Gabriel said. “So I got them. As…”

“An apology?”

His lips tightened at the word. “A conciliatory gesture.”

“No apology then?”

He said nothing, but his look asked if I really wanted to go there.

“I appreciate your trying to get my records,” I said. “Even if the doctor’s office apparently has lost them.”

“What?”

I explained, then said, “Do records routinely go missing? Should I be concerned?”

“Concerned that it’s not a mere clerical error? That someone has purposely hidden your file?” He sat at the dinette. “I don’t think so, but I’ll see how common this is. If it isn’t, there may be grounds for a lawsuit.”

“Um, no. I wouldn’t sue for a clerical error.” At least, I wouldn’t as long as I was confident I’d get my trust fund on my next birthday.

“I will investigate in any event,” he said. “I also have a lead on Pamela’s case.”

“Where’d that come from?”

“A gentleman never reveals his sources.”

“Which is why I’m not asking one.”

He tapped his coffee cup. “I have a friend in the state attorney’s office,” he said finally.

“You mean a contact you’ve groomed into thinking he’s a friend.”

“It was his idea.”

I smiled. “I’m sure it was.”

“In this case, I provided information that he wanted. Information of negligible value obtained through an informant, not a client. Perfectly legitimate. In return, I gave him a very strict set of parameters on what I was looking for in the Larsen case, and he found something. A friend of Peter Evans reported that Peter had learned something shortly before his death. Something that upset him greatly.”

“Which was?”

“I have no idea. It was a comment gathered during initial interviews, and the police didn’t pursue it because the friend claimed Peter never actually told him what he learned.”

“You think the friend lied?”

“I read the transcript. His language suggests he did know and was waiting for the police to get it out of him.”

“Make him talk, so he wouldn’t be responsible for spilling his dead friend’s secrets.”

“Precisely. The detectives failed to see that. They’d made a note to return to it later. Then they arrested the Larsens and the interviews weren’t revisited.”

“Is the guy still around?”

Gabriel sipped his coffee.

“Okay,” I said. “Presumably he’s alive, but you aren’t going to give me anything that might help me find him myself. I probably still could, given my special new relationship with Peter’s father.”

“Yes, you could.”

I watched the cat travel to his food bowl. Then I looked back at Gabriel. “How much did Lores pay you?”

He sighed.

“I’d like an answer, please.”

“It was, as you guessed, not a significant amount. The point, Olivia, is that my clients are often the subject of media interest, with or without their permission. If I know a journalist willing to conduct an unbiased interview, then I do not believe I’m committing any ethical violation of my client’s trust by accepting payment for finding that journalist.”

“No, but you are if the client makes it
very
clear that she does not want the interview and you push her into it for monetary gain.”

“
Not
for monetary gain. You had agreed before changing your mind at the last minute. I have a relationship with Mr. Lores that I was unwilling to endanger by reneging—”

“Just tell me how much.”

He hesitated before saying, “Five hundred.”

“I want it. Not deducted from my bill. Not put against my laptop. Cash. Preferably twenties.”

He looked to see whether I was joking.

“To you, it’s nothing. To me, it’s more than a week’s wages. Give me the money. Stick to the terms of our original agreement. And don’t charge me for getting my medical records. Fair?”

He studied me. He didn’t seem to be weighing the offer. He just … studied me.

“I seem to recall that you have today off,” he said finally.

“I do.”

“I’ll set up an interview with Peter Evans’s friend.”

“Good. Then we’re back in business.”

G
abriel called Peter’s old friend, a guy by the name of Josh Gray. He got a busy signal. While he waited to phone back, he suggested something else.

“Pamela has been calling my office,” he said. “She’s back in prison and would like to see you. She says she has new information, but I fail to see how that’s possible, given that she’s spent the last twenty years in a cell. She simply wants to see you. I am not averse to the idea.”

I said nothing, just sipped my coffee.

“Unless you are…” he said.

No. I
wanted
to see her, had all week and felt guilty for staying away. That was the problem.

“Do we have anything to ask her?” I said.

“I could come up with a few questions.”

In other words, he knew very well that I might like to see her and was providing the excuse. Damn, the man was full of gifts today.

I found my gaze sliding to the window. Looking for a sign. I shook it off and pulled my attention back.

“We’ll do that after we speak to Gray.”

Gabriel phoned back. This time, Gray answered. Gabriel introduced himself and said he was investigating the death of Peter Evans, and Gray hung up on him. Which meant he was about to get an unexpected visitor or two.

Englewood has some decent sections. Gray didn’t live in—or even near—any of them.

Gabriel found a monitored lot nearly a mile away, gave the parking attendant a healthy tip to watch the car, and promised to double it if we returned to find the Jag unscathed.

“Would have been cheaper to take a cab,” I said.

“I don’t take cabs.”

I shook my head. Then I stopped. A murder of crows perched on a dead tree. The old rhyme played in my head.

There were eight crows.

Gabriel noticed me staring at the birds.

“Olivia?”

“Sorry.” I yanked my gaze away. “So how do you want to handle the interview?”

We continued on, passing people that I’d have normally crossed the road to avoid—even with a gun in my purse. But they all steered clear. That may have had something to do with the big guy in shades walking at my side.

We reached the walk-up apartment. An unconscious drunk lay on the stoop, his hand extended, fingers poised as if he’d been holding something. Probably his keys. They were long gone. So was everything of value in his apartment by now, I’d bet.

As we climbed the stairs inside, I saw a dead crow on a landing. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, but I kept going.

I’d seen the poppies a few days ago, and Pamela hadn’t died. Or had it been a warning that she was in danger? I scowled and rubbed my neck again. That’s how superstitions thrive—you see a so-called omen, and when it doesn’t come true, you find another event that fits … if you ram that square peg into the round hole.

We knocked on Gray’s door. A woman answered, and I was glad I’d suggested Gabriel stand back. I’d worked at the shelter long enough to recognize an addict—the haunted expression, the gaunt face, the telltale tracks. Despite the obvious wear and tear on her body, she was decently groomed and had some color in her cheeks. A recovering addict? Either way, she wouldn’t respond well to a guy who could pass for DEA.

“Hi,” I said, flashing my friendliest smile. “I’m looking for Josh Gray. I’m a friend of his sister, Terri.” Gabriel’s background check had turned up a half sister in her early twenties.

“The college brat?” The woman looked me up and down. “If she sent you to score from him, Josh don’t do that no more.”

She started shutting the door. My hand shot out to stop it.

“It’s not that. She said he might be getting back into graphic design”—that was his college background—“and I was hoping to hire him.”