Omens
Page 89
When he finished, he continued down the stairs, and I recalled what Dr. Evans had said about Gabriel’s mother. I’d suspected she’d been an addict. Now I knew it.
And I knew this wasn’t an argument I could win. I remembered Gabriel’s expression when he’d walked in and found Desiree high. Satisfaction, yes. But contempt, too. He couldn’t look at this and see Desiree Barbosa. He could only see his mother, and nothing I said would change that.
We walked outside. He flipped his shades on.
“If Ricky offered her drugs, clearly she accepted,” he said. “No one forced them on her. If she’d been serious about rehabilitating herself, she wouldn’t have accepted.”
That’s how he saw it. She’d been tested. She’d failed. Just as I’m sure his mother had, enough times that he hadn’t doubted Desiree would take the bait. Maybe he was right. Maybe she would have fallen off the wagon anyway, and if we could give her a push to our own advantage, then I shouldn’t feel so guilty. But I did.
We walked down the street in silence.
“Can I ask you not to do that again?” I said as we turned the corner. “Not on my case?”
“It was very specific circumstances that I highly doubt would repeat themselves, so the chances of—”
“Can I just ask you not to? Please?”
We were at the next corner before he said, “While I will reiterate that I was not involved in any drugs being given to Ms. Barbosa, I will agree to allow no such thing to happen again on this case without your knowledge.”
“Thank you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
We’d been on the road for about ten minutes when I said, “Are we going to discuss what Desiree said? Or are we presuming it’s drug-addled crazy talk? I mean, obviously the CIA isn’t killing people by posing as serial killers.”
“Likely not. It’s an intriguing concept, and actually quite brilliant, but it would suggest more creative thought than any government agency is capable of.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, well, I also doubt Peter and his girlfriend would be murdered for discovering that his father used to work for the CIA, but do you give any credence to the rumor that Will Evans did work for the CIA? That Peter may have, coincidentally or not, discovered it shortly before his death?”
“I’m quite certain it’s true. As for whether the discovery was coincidental, that’s what we need to find out.”
“You really think Evans could have been CIA?”
He didn’t answer right away. As he drove, he seemed to be relaxing, the tightness leaving his face.
“I’d be willing to lay a wager on it,” he said finally.
“Meaning you know something, because I’m quite sure you don’t gamble unless you’re guaranteed to win.”
He didn’t smile, but he flexed his hands on the wheel, losing a little more tension. “Yes, I’ve heard that William Evans was at one time employed by the CIA. It came up during my initial background checks.”
“So it wasn’t a secret.”
“It isn’t something he brings up at cocktail parties, I suspect. But his employment doesn’t seem to be a classified matter. I couldn’t confirm it at the time, but admittedly, I didn’t try very hard because I didn’t see the relevance. Now I do, so we will investigate.”
• • •
We decided to postpone our visit to Pamela. We had a lead and should concentrate on it. That wasn’t an easy decision to make. She would have been told we were coming and been looking forward to it. Canceling felt cruel.
But we did have a lead to pursue. And we were starting with a stop at Gabriel’s office.
As we walked in, a voice called, “Finally, I’ve been trying to ring you all day, Gabriel. I realize it’s a Saturday, but I told you I’d be working and I’d really like to be able to contact you when I am.”
It was the same throaty voice I’d heard whenever I called the office. Gabriel’s admin assistant, Lydia.
When I saw the woman sitting behind the reception desk, I had to do a double-take and, for a moment, thought the words were coming from someone else. Whenever I’d pictured the woman on the other end of that sultry voice, I’d imagined someone suitably ornamental, the sexy secretary befitting the successful young lawyer. Instead, I saw a woman old enough to be my grandmother. Small and trim with short, steel-gray hair. She hadn’t turned but was still tapping away at her computer.
“Perhaps, Lydia, we could maintain the illusion that I’m in charge of this office, at least when there’s a client present.”
“Client . . . ?” She turned and saw me. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Walsh. I”—she waved at a tiny screen—“saw you get out of the car and you seemed to be alone.”
“I am not.”
“You never bring clients to the office on the weekend.”
“So it’s my fault. Naturally. Lydia, I’d like to introduce you—”
“Ms. Jones. Of course.” She came out from behind the desk. “Please forgive my manners. May I get you a coffee or cold drink?”
I looked at Gabriel. “Are we staying?”
“We are.” He turned to Lydia. “We need to conduct research involving your former employers. Don’t bother with drinks. You should go enjoy your weekend.”
She nodded, and I said good-bye as Gabriel led me through a second door into his office.
Back in high school, I’d had a friend whose father was the kind of guy who never flew business class . . . because he never flew commercial at all. Her family made mine look positively middle-class. Her house had been a twenty-thousand-square-foot ode to modernity, yet her father insisted on having a study that he’d literally had transplanted from a historic manor. I remembered how much I loved that office, like something out of a Victorian novel. Gabriel’s reminded me of that, though his actually suited the building.
The walls and floor were wood. The ceiling was decorative plaster, the design so intricate that I could lie on my back and stare at it for hours. And he had the chaise longue for exactly that, though from the looks of the leather, it didn’t see much lounging. There was a massive fireplace along one wall, with the faint smell of ashes suggesting that did get used. The other three walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. It even had a wooden ladder on a track, for reaching books on the top shelf. That, too, didn’t look used—Gabriel would stand head and shoulders above your average Victorian.
And I knew this wasn’t an argument I could win. I remembered Gabriel’s expression when he’d walked in and found Desiree high. Satisfaction, yes. But contempt, too. He couldn’t look at this and see Desiree Barbosa. He could only see his mother, and nothing I said would change that.
We walked outside. He flipped his shades on.
“If Ricky offered her drugs, clearly she accepted,” he said. “No one forced them on her. If she’d been serious about rehabilitating herself, she wouldn’t have accepted.”
That’s how he saw it. She’d been tested. She’d failed. Just as I’m sure his mother had, enough times that he hadn’t doubted Desiree would take the bait. Maybe he was right. Maybe she would have fallen off the wagon anyway, and if we could give her a push to our own advantage, then I shouldn’t feel so guilty. But I did.
We walked down the street in silence.
“Can I ask you not to do that again?” I said as we turned the corner. “Not on my case?”
“It was very specific circumstances that I highly doubt would repeat themselves, so the chances of—”
“Can I just ask you not to? Please?”
We were at the next corner before he said, “While I will reiterate that I was not involved in any drugs being given to Ms. Barbosa, I will agree to allow no such thing to happen again on this case without your knowledge.”
“Thank you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
We’d been on the road for about ten minutes when I said, “Are we going to discuss what Desiree said? Or are we presuming it’s drug-addled crazy talk? I mean, obviously the CIA isn’t killing people by posing as serial killers.”
“Likely not. It’s an intriguing concept, and actually quite brilliant, but it would suggest more creative thought than any government agency is capable of.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, well, I also doubt Peter and his girlfriend would be murdered for discovering that his father used to work for the CIA, but do you give any credence to the rumor that Will Evans did work for the CIA? That Peter may have, coincidentally or not, discovered it shortly before his death?”
“I’m quite certain it’s true. As for whether the discovery was coincidental, that’s what we need to find out.”
“You really think Evans could have been CIA?”
He didn’t answer right away. As he drove, he seemed to be relaxing, the tightness leaving his face.
“I’d be willing to lay a wager on it,” he said finally.
“Meaning you know something, because I’m quite sure you don’t gamble unless you’re guaranteed to win.”
He didn’t smile, but he flexed his hands on the wheel, losing a little more tension. “Yes, I’ve heard that William Evans was at one time employed by the CIA. It came up during my initial background checks.”
“So it wasn’t a secret.”
“It isn’t something he brings up at cocktail parties, I suspect. But his employment doesn’t seem to be a classified matter. I couldn’t confirm it at the time, but admittedly, I didn’t try very hard because I didn’t see the relevance. Now I do, so we will investigate.”
• • •
We decided to postpone our visit to Pamela. We had a lead and should concentrate on it. That wasn’t an easy decision to make. She would have been told we were coming and been looking forward to it. Canceling felt cruel.
But we did have a lead to pursue. And we were starting with a stop at Gabriel’s office.
As we walked in, a voice called, “Finally, I’ve been trying to ring you all day, Gabriel. I realize it’s a Saturday, but I told you I’d be working and I’d really like to be able to contact you when I am.”
It was the same throaty voice I’d heard whenever I called the office. Gabriel’s admin assistant, Lydia.
When I saw the woman sitting behind the reception desk, I had to do a double-take and, for a moment, thought the words were coming from someone else. Whenever I’d pictured the woman on the other end of that sultry voice, I’d imagined someone suitably ornamental, the sexy secretary befitting the successful young lawyer. Instead, I saw a woman old enough to be my grandmother. Small and trim with short, steel-gray hair. She hadn’t turned but was still tapping away at her computer.
“Perhaps, Lydia, we could maintain the illusion that I’m in charge of this office, at least when there’s a client present.”
“Client . . . ?” She turned and saw me. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Walsh. I”—she waved at a tiny screen—“saw you get out of the car and you seemed to be alone.”
“I am not.”
“You never bring clients to the office on the weekend.”
“So it’s my fault. Naturally. Lydia, I’d like to introduce you—”
“Ms. Jones. Of course.” She came out from behind the desk. “Please forgive my manners. May I get you a coffee or cold drink?”
I looked at Gabriel. “Are we staying?”
“We are.” He turned to Lydia. “We need to conduct research involving your former employers. Don’t bother with drinks. You should go enjoy your weekend.”
She nodded, and I said good-bye as Gabriel led me through a second door into his office.
Back in high school, I’d had a friend whose father was the kind of guy who never flew business class . . . because he never flew commercial at all. Her family made mine look positively middle-class. Her house had been a twenty-thousand-square-foot ode to modernity, yet her father insisted on having a study that he’d literally had transplanted from a historic manor. I remembered how much I loved that office, like something out of a Victorian novel. Gabriel’s reminded me of that, though his actually suited the building.
The walls and floor were wood. The ceiling was decorative plaster, the design so intricate that I could lie on my back and stare at it for hours. And he had the chaise longue for exactly that, though from the looks of the leather, it didn’t see much lounging. There was a massive fireplace along one wall, with the faint smell of ashes suggesting that did get used. The other three walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. It even had a wooden ladder on a track, for reaching books on the top shelf. That, too, didn’t look used—Gabriel would stand head and shoulders above your average Victorian.
