Omens
Page 111
He looked over. “Olivia?”
“Let’s do this.”
• • •
We reached the visiting room. Pamela was already there when we arrived. Her eyes lit up when she caught sight of me.
Dr. Evans had told me to be wary of Pamela. To remember that I could be dealing with a sociopath who would show me whatever facade would get her what she wanted. When he’d said it, I’d looked back on my encounters with Pamela and wondered if I’d already seen proof of that.
But her anticipation and delight as I walked through that door wasn’t feigned. She loved me. I might wish she didn’t, but that wouldn’t change the truth of what I saw in her face.
I saw more, too, as I walked in. I saw the pale, faint lines around her mouth and eyes, and I knew she hadn’t fully recovered from the attack. She was still in pain, maybe not sleeping, and I wanted to back out and demand to get a doctor and make sure she was still being treated. Make sure she was healthy and comfortable and safe.
I’d loved Pamela Larsen once. Adored her. That doesn’t go away. It can’t, even when you think it should. Like my feelings for Lena Taylor. Or for James. However much they’d hurt me, I still loved them.
I should have raced in to tell Pamela the news. Seen her face light up with hope. Hugged her as we celebrated. While I could imagine the scene playing out in a TV movie—heartwarming and heartrending at the same time—I could not imagine myself in it.
“You were right,” I said to Pamela. “You didn’t kill Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson.”
She went still. Stared. “You . . . you found . . .”
“There’s another man in custody,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll tell you about it soon. His name is Edgar Chandler. He claims William Evans confessed to killing his son and Jan Gunderson years ago. Unfortunately, Evans is now dead and Chandler will likely be charged with his murder. But whether Evans did it or Chandler did it, that should clear you and . . . and my father.”
She collapsed then, her shoulders falling as she slumped forward, eyes filling. “Oh my God. All these years . . . And you . . .” She reached out and clenched my hands so tight it hurt. “So many people tried, and you did it.”
“Not alone,” I said, with a glance toward Gabriel.
Her gaze flitted his way. She went still. Then she inhaled and looked at him.
“Thank you, Gabriel.”
She tried to be gracious, but I could tell the words hurt almost as much as that knife wound in her side.
“There will be an appeal now, naturally,” Gabriel said.
“And I suppose you want it.” She glanced at me. “You haven’t promised him anything, have you, Olivia? I know the Taylor-Jones family has money, but—”
“Olivia has not offered to pay for your appeal,” Gabriel said. “Nor would I allow her to. I have no expectation of representing you.”
She released my hands and eyed him to see if he was bluffing. The fact that she even bothered trying proved she didn’t know him very well.
I continued, “Finding another killer for two of the victims is a good start, but . . .”
“It’s two of eight,” she said, turning back to me. “Only a quarter of the way there.”
“And having Chandler say that Evans copied the earlier crimes doesn’t help. It’s unlikely he killed all eight, which is what we were hoping for—a single killer. This complicates things.” I paused. “It further complicates things because you asked me to investigate those two. Specifically those two.”
She paused, as if processing my meaning. Then she shook her head. “I picked them because they didn’t fit the timing pattern. It was a place to start.” She met my gaze. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“But it could have been my father.”
“What? No.” She clutched my hands again. “That’s not the way to go, Olivia. My lawyers wanted to use that angle, to raise the possibility that your father acted alone. I refused because I have no doubt—no doubt—that he isn’t responsible. If you’re even entertaining the idea, you need to see him. Either way, you need to see him.” A wistful smile. “You loved your mommy, but you were Daddy’s girl.”
Just like at home, with my other parents.
I pulled back. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll be watching the Chandler case, and looking for a connection to the other victims. You also need to think of anything else I can use. I’m sure you’ve done that a million times in the last twenty years, but I’m going to need more.”
“I’ll put together everything I can.”
I stayed for a little longer, just talking. Then the guard came to say our time was up. As Pamela rose, I said, “One more thing. I’m trying to get my medical records. Do you remember who I saw after Dr. Escoda?”
“Escoda?”
I spelled it. She said the name didn’t ring a bell.
“You should ask your father,” she said. “He took you to most of your appointments, and he has a much better memory for dates and names. Is something wrong?”
“No, just checking.”
“So you’re all right?” she asked, waving off the guard’s attempts to lead her away.
“I am.” I walked over and tried to give her a hug, but the guard wouldn’t let me. I stood there as she walked away, looking over her shoulder, watching me until the door closed between us.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
That evening I was sitting in my favorite Chicago restaurant, attacking a T-bone like it was my last meal. Dinner was Gabriel’s treat. A celebration. I could argue—and had—that he should be resting, but that was like jumping in front of a train and ordering it to stop. He had his cane, and that was the only concession he’d make.
As this was a celebration, the subject of our investigation was off-limits. Gabriel wasn’t just paying, he was entertaining, too, and spent the meal regaling me with past cases. I listened to his stories and I ate my dinner and I drank my wine and I was happy.
I shouldn’t have been happy. I should have been traumatized, curled up in a corner, reliving the ordeal at the Evans’s house. I’d shot two people. Maybe in a few days that would hit me, but for now, I only regretted that it had to happen.
“Have I made legal life sound exciting?” Gabriel asked as he refilled my wineglass.
“Let’s do this.”
• • •
We reached the visiting room. Pamela was already there when we arrived. Her eyes lit up when she caught sight of me.
Dr. Evans had told me to be wary of Pamela. To remember that I could be dealing with a sociopath who would show me whatever facade would get her what she wanted. When he’d said it, I’d looked back on my encounters with Pamela and wondered if I’d already seen proof of that.
But her anticipation and delight as I walked through that door wasn’t feigned. She loved me. I might wish she didn’t, but that wouldn’t change the truth of what I saw in her face.
I saw more, too, as I walked in. I saw the pale, faint lines around her mouth and eyes, and I knew she hadn’t fully recovered from the attack. She was still in pain, maybe not sleeping, and I wanted to back out and demand to get a doctor and make sure she was still being treated. Make sure she was healthy and comfortable and safe.
I’d loved Pamela Larsen once. Adored her. That doesn’t go away. It can’t, even when you think it should. Like my feelings for Lena Taylor. Or for James. However much they’d hurt me, I still loved them.
I should have raced in to tell Pamela the news. Seen her face light up with hope. Hugged her as we celebrated. While I could imagine the scene playing out in a TV movie—heartwarming and heartrending at the same time—I could not imagine myself in it.
“You were right,” I said to Pamela. “You didn’t kill Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson.”
She went still. Stared. “You . . . you found . . .”
“There’s another man in custody,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll tell you about it soon. His name is Edgar Chandler. He claims William Evans confessed to killing his son and Jan Gunderson years ago. Unfortunately, Evans is now dead and Chandler will likely be charged with his murder. But whether Evans did it or Chandler did it, that should clear you and . . . and my father.”
She collapsed then, her shoulders falling as she slumped forward, eyes filling. “Oh my God. All these years . . . And you . . .” She reached out and clenched my hands so tight it hurt. “So many people tried, and you did it.”
“Not alone,” I said, with a glance toward Gabriel.
Her gaze flitted his way. She went still. Then she inhaled and looked at him.
“Thank you, Gabriel.”
She tried to be gracious, but I could tell the words hurt almost as much as that knife wound in her side.
“There will be an appeal now, naturally,” Gabriel said.
“And I suppose you want it.” She glanced at me. “You haven’t promised him anything, have you, Olivia? I know the Taylor-Jones family has money, but—”
“Olivia has not offered to pay for your appeal,” Gabriel said. “Nor would I allow her to. I have no expectation of representing you.”
She released my hands and eyed him to see if he was bluffing. The fact that she even bothered trying proved she didn’t know him very well.
I continued, “Finding another killer for two of the victims is a good start, but . . .”
“It’s two of eight,” she said, turning back to me. “Only a quarter of the way there.”
“And having Chandler say that Evans copied the earlier crimes doesn’t help. It’s unlikely he killed all eight, which is what we were hoping for—a single killer. This complicates things.” I paused. “It further complicates things because you asked me to investigate those two. Specifically those two.”
She paused, as if processing my meaning. Then she shook her head. “I picked them because they didn’t fit the timing pattern. It was a place to start.” She met my gaze. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“But it could have been my father.”
“What? No.” She clutched my hands again. “That’s not the way to go, Olivia. My lawyers wanted to use that angle, to raise the possibility that your father acted alone. I refused because I have no doubt—no doubt—that he isn’t responsible. If you’re even entertaining the idea, you need to see him. Either way, you need to see him.” A wistful smile. “You loved your mommy, but you were Daddy’s girl.”
Just like at home, with my other parents.
I pulled back. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll be watching the Chandler case, and looking for a connection to the other victims. You also need to think of anything else I can use. I’m sure you’ve done that a million times in the last twenty years, but I’m going to need more.”
“I’ll put together everything I can.”
I stayed for a little longer, just talking. Then the guard came to say our time was up. As Pamela rose, I said, “One more thing. I’m trying to get my medical records. Do you remember who I saw after Dr. Escoda?”
“Escoda?”
I spelled it. She said the name didn’t ring a bell.
“You should ask your father,” she said. “He took you to most of your appointments, and he has a much better memory for dates and names. Is something wrong?”
“No, just checking.”
“So you’re all right?” she asked, waving off the guard’s attempts to lead her away.
“I am.” I walked over and tried to give her a hug, but the guard wouldn’t let me. I stood there as she walked away, looking over her shoulder, watching me until the door closed between us.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
That evening I was sitting in my favorite Chicago restaurant, attacking a T-bone like it was my last meal. Dinner was Gabriel’s treat. A celebration. I could argue—and had—that he should be resting, but that was like jumping in front of a train and ordering it to stop. He had his cane, and that was the only concession he’d make.
As this was a celebration, the subject of our investigation was off-limits. Gabriel wasn’t just paying, he was entertaining, too, and spent the meal regaling me with past cases. I listened to his stories and I ate my dinner and I drank my wine and I was happy.
I shouldn’t have been happy. I should have been traumatized, curled up in a corner, reliving the ordeal at the Evans’s house. I’d shot two people. Maybe in a few days that would hit me, but for now, I only regretted that it had to happen.
“Have I made legal life sound exciting?” Gabriel asked as he refilled my wineglass.
