Omens (Cainsville 1)

"Thank you," I said.

He glanced over at me. Was my tone too casual? As if I'd known that Niles Gunderson wasn't a threat--and why.

"You are my client," he said. "As such, I will look after your interests. It seems, though, that it was unnecessary. Niles Gunderson was found dead in his apartment this morning."

"What?"

Gabriel paused. I was sure I'd sounded shocked enough. Too shocked? Damn it. I should tell him.

Why? To clear my conscience? Leaving Niles dead in his kitchen was wrong, but if I admitted that, I'd only be burdening--and entrusting--Gabriel with my secret.

"He's been dead a few days, it seems," Gabriel continued. "Natural causes. It doesn't affect our investigation, but we will need to temporarily avoid contacting his daughter."

"Okay," I said, and lapsed into silence for the rest of the trip.

My phone rang while I was still sound asleep, and I leapt up, thinking I was late for work. I was so paranoid that I had two alarms for my 7 a.m. shifts--a bedside clock and the one on my phone. In my old life, the only time I woke before eight was when I had an early flight. My biological clock wasn't liking the new world order.

When I glanced at the clock, though, I saw that it was just past five thirty. I fumbled for my phone and peered at the screen.

Gabriel.

Why would--? Oh, shit. The article. I'd been sure it wouldn't run today. Lores still had to write it and sell it.

I answered. "The article ran, didn't it?"

"Good morning to you, too. Yes, it did."

"How bad?"

"Not bad at all. I think you'll be pleased. My apologies for calling so early, but I have court today and I know you're on the day shift. I've e-mailed you the article. I thought you'd want to take a look as soon as possible."

"Thanks."

"Also, you'll be getting a delivery at my aunt's. You can pick it up there after work."

"Files?"

"No, a laptop. I recently replaced mine, and I still had the old one."

"I appreciate that, but I don't want--"

"--charity. I know. And if I'm not inclined to give it to

a homeless man on the corner, I'm certainly not giving it to someone with a multimillion-dollar trust fund. Twenty-five dollars a week seems a reasonable rental fee for a used laptop. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes, but I'll still need to find Internet--"

"My aunt has wireless. I'm sure I can persuade her to part with the password if you promise not to download movies."

"I don't have time to watch movies. Thank you. That will make research much easier."

"Which is the point, so gratitude is not required. I despise online research, and I'm happy to delegate all of it to you."

"So happy that you'll reduce the rental to twenty bucks?"

"No, but I'll persuade my aunt not to charge you for the Internet."

The article was fine. There was nothing to link me to Cainsville. No speculation over what I was doing visiting Pamela Larsen. It was all in my words--or an edited version of them that I was satisfied with. As for the photo, because it was black and white, you couldn't see the leftover red in my hair or that my makeup wasn't the right shade for my skin tone. Martin Lores had treated me fairly and gotten his scoop--the first words from the long-lost daughter of Illinois' most notorious killers. I was old news now. At last.