Deceptions
Page 75
“Actually, no. There’s a reason he might be annoyed with me, but this is beyond annoyance.”
“Then it’s stress. It’ll pass.”
Maybe, but if he was that upset with me, working it out might decrease his stress.
I rapped on his door. When he didn’t answer, I turned the handle.
“Yes?” he said, voice crackling with such irritation you’d think I’d pranced in ahead of a marching band.
“Can we talk?”
He waved a hand across his desk, covered in files.
I closed the door behind me. “I wanted to apologize.”
“I’m busy, Olivia.” An emphatic gesture at his desk.
“If you’re upset about last night . . .”
“Why would I be?” He lifted those empty blue eyes to mine. “First I had to stop you from going to the Carew house—”
“No, I was coming back on my own. I realized I was doing something stupid—”
“Then you went and had a vision anyway, knowing how I felt about it.”
“I was sitting on a bench. The vision came—”
“I do not have time for this, Olivia. You can see the state of my business . . . in addition to the murder charge I now face.”
“After weeks of telling me that you’re helping because you want to—and because it’ll further your career—you’ve suddenly decided I’m ruining that career?”
“I did not say—”
“Bullshit.” I strode over and put my hands on his desk. “You are in a pissy, pissy mood. Lydia says you’re stressed. Completely understandable. But do not take it out on me. Yes, maybe I didn’t handle last night as well as I should have. I apologize for that.”
“I have work to do, Olivia.” His eyes were ice-cold. “And if you intend to keep your job, I might suggest you do as well.”
The temptation to quit then and there was almost overwhelming. Instead, I straightened, said, “Yes, sir,” and walked out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I pored over Pamela’s file for a while longer before deciding to do some legwork. Traffic was good, and in thirty minutes I made it to my destination: the home of Jon Childs, the man Chandler had wanted us to kill.
I hopped out of the car and cut across the lawn, because whoever set up the underground sprinkler system apparently thought the walkway needed water instead. That’s when I kicked a sparrow.
A dead bird in your path is a sign to turn your ass around. There are few superstitions surrounding sparrows specifically, though, meaning the warning wasn’t exactly a red flag. Maybe burnt orange. I decided it meant there was something worth investigating here.
I knocked on Childs’s door. There were no flyers in the box now, but the town house was dark and no one answered. I rapped again . . .
“He’s out.”
The neighbor had a trowel in her hand and wore knee guards.
“He’s back from wherever he went,” she said. “But he just stepped out.”
“Oh. I . . .” I checked my watch.
“He’ll probably be home at any moment. Why don’t I fix you a coffee while you wait. I could use a break from the war of the weeds.”
“And I’d love to take you up on that, but I was just popping by on my way past. Thank you, though.”
My cell buzzed with an incoming text. I ignored it, and thanked the woman again before heading back to my car.
“I spoke to him about you,” she called after me.
Shit.
“He said his sister has taken a turn for the worse, and she’s in care. He appreciated your concern and said if you stopped by, I was to ask for your number again. He’s misplaced it.”
So Childs knew my story was bullshit. Huh. I scrawled my number on a scrap of notepaper. As I handed it to her, my cell buzzed with another text.
“I really do need to run,” I said, “but please give him that and thank you for all your help.”
—
When I got to my car, I checked my phone. It was Gabriel. First message: Where are you? Second message: Olivia . . .
I replied with one word: Working.
He responded immediately. Where are you?
Out. Working.
Where?
Chicago.
His response took a moment. I imagined him starting to seethe, possibly hitting a wrong key or two, cursing me as he fixed it.
Olivia . . .
Gabriel . . .
I didn’t wait for a reply, just quick-typed: I’m working on the case, as requested.
I didn’t tell you to leave.
Am I not allowed to leave?
Pause. Pause. Pause. Thinking through an answer. Well, no, I’m sure he didn’t need to think about it. His answer would be that I should be right where he left me just in case he needed me. However, being a smart man, he did not say that.
Where exactly are you?
In my car.
Five seconds. My phone rang.
I sent one last text. Working the case. No time to chat. Talk later.
I turned off the ringer and left the phone vibrating in my bag as I pulled from the curb.
—
I drove to a little bungalow in Brighton Park. A ten-year-old van sat in the drive. I pulled in behind it, walked up to the stoop, and knocked. When the door opened, I was ready to stick my foot in the gap to keep it from slamming shut. I’ve seen Gabriel pull that trick many times. I suspect it works better with a size-twelve loafer.
Luckily, I didn’t need to risk bodily injury. The man took one look at me and said, “I wondered when you’d show up.” Then his gaze went to my Jetta. “Walsh isn’t with you, I take it.”
“Then it’s stress. It’ll pass.”
Maybe, but if he was that upset with me, working it out might decrease his stress.
I rapped on his door. When he didn’t answer, I turned the handle.
“Yes?” he said, voice crackling with such irritation you’d think I’d pranced in ahead of a marching band.
“Can we talk?”
He waved a hand across his desk, covered in files.
I closed the door behind me. “I wanted to apologize.”
“I’m busy, Olivia.” An emphatic gesture at his desk.
“If you’re upset about last night . . .”
“Why would I be?” He lifted those empty blue eyes to mine. “First I had to stop you from going to the Carew house—”
“No, I was coming back on my own. I realized I was doing something stupid—”
“Then you went and had a vision anyway, knowing how I felt about it.”
“I was sitting on a bench. The vision came—”
“I do not have time for this, Olivia. You can see the state of my business . . . in addition to the murder charge I now face.”
“After weeks of telling me that you’re helping because you want to—and because it’ll further your career—you’ve suddenly decided I’m ruining that career?”
“I did not say—”
“Bullshit.” I strode over and put my hands on his desk. “You are in a pissy, pissy mood. Lydia says you’re stressed. Completely understandable. But do not take it out on me. Yes, maybe I didn’t handle last night as well as I should have. I apologize for that.”
“I have work to do, Olivia.” His eyes were ice-cold. “And if you intend to keep your job, I might suggest you do as well.”
The temptation to quit then and there was almost overwhelming. Instead, I straightened, said, “Yes, sir,” and walked out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I pored over Pamela’s file for a while longer before deciding to do some legwork. Traffic was good, and in thirty minutes I made it to my destination: the home of Jon Childs, the man Chandler had wanted us to kill.
I hopped out of the car and cut across the lawn, because whoever set up the underground sprinkler system apparently thought the walkway needed water instead. That’s when I kicked a sparrow.
A dead bird in your path is a sign to turn your ass around. There are few superstitions surrounding sparrows specifically, though, meaning the warning wasn’t exactly a red flag. Maybe burnt orange. I decided it meant there was something worth investigating here.
I knocked on Childs’s door. There were no flyers in the box now, but the town house was dark and no one answered. I rapped again . . .
“He’s out.”
The neighbor had a trowel in her hand and wore knee guards.
“He’s back from wherever he went,” she said. “But he just stepped out.”
“Oh. I . . .” I checked my watch.
“He’ll probably be home at any moment. Why don’t I fix you a coffee while you wait. I could use a break from the war of the weeds.”
“And I’d love to take you up on that, but I was just popping by on my way past. Thank you, though.”
My cell buzzed with an incoming text. I ignored it, and thanked the woman again before heading back to my car.
“I spoke to him about you,” she called after me.
Shit.
“He said his sister has taken a turn for the worse, and she’s in care. He appreciated your concern and said if you stopped by, I was to ask for your number again. He’s misplaced it.”
So Childs knew my story was bullshit. Huh. I scrawled my number on a scrap of notepaper. As I handed it to her, my cell buzzed with another text.
“I really do need to run,” I said, “but please give him that and thank you for all your help.”
—
When I got to my car, I checked my phone. It was Gabriel. First message: Where are you? Second message: Olivia . . .
I replied with one word: Working.
He responded immediately. Where are you?
Out. Working.
Where?
Chicago.
His response took a moment. I imagined him starting to seethe, possibly hitting a wrong key or two, cursing me as he fixed it.
Olivia . . .
Gabriel . . .
I didn’t wait for a reply, just quick-typed: I’m working on the case, as requested.
I didn’t tell you to leave.
Am I not allowed to leave?
Pause. Pause. Pause. Thinking through an answer. Well, no, I’m sure he didn’t need to think about it. His answer would be that I should be right where he left me just in case he needed me. However, being a smart man, he did not say that.
Where exactly are you?
In my car.
Five seconds. My phone rang.
I sent one last text. Working the case. No time to chat. Talk later.
I turned off the ringer and left the phone vibrating in my bag as I pulled from the curb.
—
I drove to a little bungalow in Brighton Park. A ten-year-old van sat in the drive. I pulled in behind it, walked up to the stoop, and knocked. When the door opened, I was ready to stick my foot in the gap to keep it from slamming shut. I’ve seen Gabriel pull that trick many times. I suspect it works better with a size-twelve loafer.
Luckily, I didn’t need to risk bodily injury. The man took one look at me and said, “I wondered when you’d show up.” Then his gaze went to my Jetta. “Walsh isn’t with you, I take it.”
