Omens (Cainsville 1)

She left the room before I could answer. I headed for the front door. Aside from that earlier bullying about Gabriel, the visit hadn't been nearly as bad as I'd feared. Now, I could only hope she'd let him know I'd visited and that would provide just the excuse he needed to take another run at me.

I opened the front door ... and there stood the man himself.

Chapter Thirty

"Ms. Razvan will be with you in a moment, sir," I said. "Please take a seat in the parlor."

I made a move to slip past him. Useless, of course. If Gabriel Walsh wanted to block a doorway, he just needed to stand there.

I looked over my shoulder.

"Yes," he said. "My aunt let me know you were coming. I'd like to speak to you."

"Fine. I charge in fifteen-minute increments. Hundred bucks each."

"That would be my profession. For yours..." He dug loose change from his pocket.

"Is that suppose to be a tip? Don't expect more than five minutes of my time, and I'll forget half your order and spill coffee on your sleeve."

A twitch of a smile. He pulled out a twenty. When I took it, he looked surprised.

I shoved the bill into my pocket. "You have fifteen minutes. Walk and talk. I need the exercise."

As I'd expected, he was still hell-bent on selling me his services

. While most lawyers hire private investigators, Gabriel's methods were irregular--in other words, not always legal or ethical--so he undertook the fieldwork himself.

Next came the list of credentials. His success rate was excellent, which may be a little disconcerting, considering he specialized in cases others wouldn't touch. As my research had already revealed, he was best known as the lawyer for Satan's Saints, a Chicago biker gang with a record so clean it was the envy of Illinois' homegrown Outlaws.

If the hard sell didn't convince me he really wanted the job, he sealed it by offering to negotiate a reduced rate. He claimed it was only fair, as success would benefit him as well.

"Yes," I said as we walked toward the empty school yard. "But I don't need to solve this. I won't spend a day in jail or owe a dollar in fines if I don't hire a lawyer. It's pure curiosity and self-interest, and I won't blow my trust fund on that. For starters, I want a sliding scale."

"A--?"

"Sliding scale. Your aunt offered me one for her services."

"My aunt and I are hardly in the same line of--"

"A matter of opinion. I want one day of your time for free. Then the rate will increase on a predetermined schedule, as you prove your worth."

His brows shot up. "Prove my--?"

"Yes. You won't use your usual scale of billable hours, either. I'm not paying fifteen minutes for a two-minute phone call or thirty for an e-mail."

"That's standard practice--"

"--in a law firm where the partners are breathing down your neck, making sure you put in eighty billable hours a week. You're your own boss. You can set your own rates. I want real-time charges, and I don't want you doing anything that I could do myself--phone calls, e-mails, letters, library research--unless we've agreed to it in advance."

"I believe you're overestimating my interest in this case, Ms. Jones."

I met his gaze. Hard to do when he was still wearing his shades, but I approximated. "No, I don't think I am."

His lips pressed together. Annoyed with himself for tipping his hand.

When I'd looked up Gabriel online, his work record suggested he was no more than thirty. In other words, he might act like a seasoned professional, but he wasn't really. More of a quick study, passing the bar, then attacking his job with a single-minded ferocity that earned him a reputation fast. Young enough that he could screw up and act rashly.

"Those are my terms," I said. "I'll give you a minute to consider them."