Visions
Page 15
“Is that what you want?”
“What?”
“In return for supporting me as Pamela’s lawyer, you want me to promise not to contact you?”
“Did I say I’m not bargaining here, Gabriel?” I snapped. “You have got the case, and you’ll get your bill paid. There are no strings attached. No expectations. I’m telling you so you don’t need to call, pretending you want to smooth this over, because you’re worried about losing Pamela’s case. You won’t.”
“Meaning that if I attempt further contact, you will rescind your support?”
“Are you even listen—?” I clipped the word off so hard I nipped my tongue and cursed. “Fine. If that helps you understand it, let’s go with that. It’s a bargain. Or a threat. Whichever you prefer. Your bill will be paid, and I will not interfere with Pamela’s case, if you don’t contact me again. Now, I’m going to hang up—”
“Wait,” he said. “I understand you wish to end our working relationship, but if you’re serious about giving Pamela the best defense possible, I cannot agree to no contact. You were a critical part of the investigation that prompted her new appeal, and as such—”
“You’ll need to speak to me.”
“In a purely professional capacity. Related only to that case. While it will be months before an appeal is heard, I will need to talk to you. Soon. We can meet at the diner if that’s simplest.”
“The phone works perfectly well.”
Silence. Then, “This would be easier in person, Olivia.”
“At some point, yes, I’m sure that will be necessary. For now, though, the phone will do. Better yet, e-mail me any questions, and I’ll get back to you by the end of the day.”
Pause. “All right, then. In the meantime, Rose needs to speak to you.”
“I really don’t have time for—”
“She’s had . . . I don’t know exactly. A vision. A reading. Something that bothered her, and she’d like to speak to you about it.”
I’m sure she would. And I’m sure it would go something like, “I’ve had a vision of great calamity befalling you if you don’t pay my nephew’s bill.”
Gabriel continued before I could cut in. “I would like you to speak to her, Olivia. About her vision and about what happened earlier this week. The hound, the poppies, and Ciara Conway.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing, of course. You are—or were—my client, which means I certainly would not discuss the fact that you found a dead body. However, I’d like you to tell her. I think it would help.”
“I haven’t seen anything since Monday. Not even an omen.”
“I’d still like you to speak to Rose, Olivia. She has important—”
“I should go. E-mail me those questions.”
“One last thing . . .”
I exhaled through my teeth, breath hissing into a “Yes?”
“About Todd. Your father. I would like—” He cleared his throat. “In recognition of the fact that I may have overstepped my bounds accepting payment from James—”
“May?” The word came out between a snarl and a squeak.
“I would like to continue facilitating your reunion with Todd. As you know, that’s not proving as easily done as it should be. Lydia is investigating, and I would like her to continue doing so. Without charge.”
I hesitated. Damn it. He was right that I’d hit roadblocks trying to see Todd myself, but I really didn’t like the idea of being indebted to Gabriel.
“Hold off,” I said. “For now. I’ll . . . give it some thought. We can talk later.”
I hung up before he could argue. When I got home that evening, I called James and agreed to dinner the next night.
—
I know people often think being rich means a life of leisure. It can, if your goal is to do as little as possible, but most who have enough cash to quit working don’t. My father definitely didn’t, and I learned from his example. I like to be very busy—it’s the only thing that truly clears my mind. So for the past couple of days, I’d come home from work and, well, worked.
What I wanted to do was dive back into the Larsen case. I’d meant what I said about wanting them to have the best possible chance at a solid appeal, and my personal issues wouldn’t interfere with that. I’d be fine with investigating and turning over my work to Gabriel for free.
The problem was that he had the case files. I had only a partial copy. I’d spent a couple of hours compiling notes on the other victims—then researching them online—but I felt as if I was investigating with a patch over one eye, my field of vision and depth perception shot to hell. Was that really because I didn’t have the full file? Or because I didn’t have my detecting partner? I won’t lie. I missed him. I’ve said that. Won’t say it again.
Before they were caught, my parents had been known as the Valentine Killer. It meant that they’d killed couples . . . in Chicago, where Valentine’s Day will forever be tainted by the memory of a bloody mob massacre. No one used that name anymore. From the time of their arrest, they’d become “the Larsens.”
Their first alleged victims were Amanda Mays and her fiancé, Ken Perkins. Next came a married couple, Marty and Lisa Tyson. Then Stacey Pasolini and Eddie Hilton. Finally, Jan and Peter—the two we’d proven they hadn’t killed.
Jan and Peter had fit the pattern, though. Twentysomething couple, Chicagoans, white, middle-class. Beyond that, the profile varied. Dating, married, engaged. Blond, brunette. College educated and not. Employed and not. All that suggested the victims hadn’t been selected with any great care.
I compiled everything I could find on the six remaining victims. Minimal analysis for now. Then I moved to Ciara Conway. I read every scrap of Internet “news” on her disappearance—from snippets in the papers to blog posts to Facebook updates. I use the term “news” loosely, because there really wasn’t anything, save wild conjecture. The obvious investigative path here would be to speak to Ciara’s family and friends, but I couldn’t listen to them hoping and praying she’d return when I knew she wouldn’t. So I sat on my ass and surfed.
I dug up enough details to fill in a better picture of her life. It had been a good one, by any standards. She grew up in the suburb of Oak Park. Affluent but not outrageously so. They’d lived in the same house since she was born. Dad was an architect; mom was a biologist. Her older brother was studying for his PhD in medical research. Ciara herself was no slouch, winning an athletic scholarship to Northwestern, where she’d been studying neurobiology. There her grades had fluctuated, suggesting that’s when the addiction issues kicked in.
“What?”
“In return for supporting me as Pamela’s lawyer, you want me to promise not to contact you?”
“Did I say I’m not bargaining here, Gabriel?” I snapped. “You have got the case, and you’ll get your bill paid. There are no strings attached. No expectations. I’m telling you so you don’t need to call, pretending you want to smooth this over, because you’re worried about losing Pamela’s case. You won’t.”
“Meaning that if I attempt further contact, you will rescind your support?”
“Are you even listen—?” I clipped the word off so hard I nipped my tongue and cursed. “Fine. If that helps you understand it, let’s go with that. It’s a bargain. Or a threat. Whichever you prefer. Your bill will be paid, and I will not interfere with Pamela’s case, if you don’t contact me again. Now, I’m going to hang up—”
“Wait,” he said. “I understand you wish to end our working relationship, but if you’re serious about giving Pamela the best defense possible, I cannot agree to no contact. You were a critical part of the investigation that prompted her new appeal, and as such—”
“You’ll need to speak to me.”
“In a purely professional capacity. Related only to that case. While it will be months before an appeal is heard, I will need to talk to you. Soon. We can meet at the diner if that’s simplest.”
“The phone works perfectly well.”
Silence. Then, “This would be easier in person, Olivia.”
“At some point, yes, I’m sure that will be necessary. For now, though, the phone will do. Better yet, e-mail me any questions, and I’ll get back to you by the end of the day.”
Pause. “All right, then. In the meantime, Rose needs to speak to you.”
“I really don’t have time for—”
“She’s had . . . I don’t know exactly. A vision. A reading. Something that bothered her, and she’d like to speak to you about it.”
I’m sure she would. And I’m sure it would go something like, “I’ve had a vision of great calamity befalling you if you don’t pay my nephew’s bill.”
Gabriel continued before I could cut in. “I would like you to speak to her, Olivia. About her vision and about what happened earlier this week. The hound, the poppies, and Ciara Conway.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing, of course. You are—or were—my client, which means I certainly would not discuss the fact that you found a dead body. However, I’d like you to tell her. I think it would help.”
“I haven’t seen anything since Monday. Not even an omen.”
“I’d still like you to speak to Rose, Olivia. She has important—”
“I should go. E-mail me those questions.”
“One last thing . . .”
I exhaled through my teeth, breath hissing into a “Yes?”
“About Todd. Your father. I would like—” He cleared his throat. “In recognition of the fact that I may have overstepped my bounds accepting payment from James—”
“May?” The word came out between a snarl and a squeak.
“I would like to continue facilitating your reunion with Todd. As you know, that’s not proving as easily done as it should be. Lydia is investigating, and I would like her to continue doing so. Without charge.”
I hesitated. Damn it. He was right that I’d hit roadblocks trying to see Todd myself, but I really didn’t like the idea of being indebted to Gabriel.
“Hold off,” I said. “For now. I’ll . . . give it some thought. We can talk later.”
I hung up before he could argue. When I got home that evening, I called James and agreed to dinner the next night.
—
I know people often think being rich means a life of leisure. It can, if your goal is to do as little as possible, but most who have enough cash to quit working don’t. My father definitely didn’t, and I learned from his example. I like to be very busy—it’s the only thing that truly clears my mind. So for the past couple of days, I’d come home from work and, well, worked.
What I wanted to do was dive back into the Larsen case. I’d meant what I said about wanting them to have the best possible chance at a solid appeal, and my personal issues wouldn’t interfere with that. I’d be fine with investigating and turning over my work to Gabriel for free.
The problem was that he had the case files. I had only a partial copy. I’d spent a couple of hours compiling notes on the other victims—then researching them online—but I felt as if I was investigating with a patch over one eye, my field of vision and depth perception shot to hell. Was that really because I didn’t have the full file? Or because I didn’t have my detecting partner? I won’t lie. I missed him. I’ve said that. Won’t say it again.
Before they were caught, my parents had been known as the Valentine Killer. It meant that they’d killed couples . . . in Chicago, where Valentine’s Day will forever be tainted by the memory of a bloody mob massacre. No one used that name anymore. From the time of their arrest, they’d become “the Larsens.”
Their first alleged victims were Amanda Mays and her fiancé, Ken Perkins. Next came a married couple, Marty and Lisa Tyson. Then Stacey Pasolini and Eddie Hilton. Finally, Jan and Peter—the two we’d proven they hadn’t killed.
Jan and Peter had fit the pattern, though. Twentysomething couple, Chicagoans, white, middle-class. Beyond that, the profile varied. Dating, married, engaged. Blond, brunette. College educated and not. Employed and not. All that suggested the victims hadn’t been selected with any great care.
I compiled everything I could find on the six remaining victims. Minimal analysis for now. Then I moved to Ciara Conway. I read every scrap of Internet “news” on her disappearance—from snippets in the papers to blog posts to Facebook updates. I use the term “news” loosely, because there really wasn’t anything, save wild conjecture. The obvious investigative path here would be to speak to Ciara’s family and friends, but I couldn’t listen to them hoping and praying she’d return when I knew she wouldn’t. So I sat on my ass and surfed.
I dug up enough details to fill in a better picture of her life. It had been a good one, by any standards. She grew up in the suburb of Oak Park. Affluent but not outrageously so. They’d lived in the same house since she was born. Dad was an architect; mom was a biologist. Her older brother was studying for his PhD in medical research. Ciara herself was no slouch, winning an athletic scholarship to Northwestern, where she’d been studying neurobiology. There her grades had fluctuated, suggesting that’s when the addiction issues kicked in.
