When I walked away from my family home, I left a lot of things behind. There were times when I did miss those advantages. Like when it was dinner hour and my stomach was grumbling, and I hadn't thought of what to make, much less started cooking. Tonight that
was covered. Gabriel had texted me to say he was coming to discuss the case and would be bringing takeout for both of us. Very nice, even if I suspected he'd add it to my bill.
So I was working at home, drinking cold coffee from the diner, and munching on slightly burned cookie rejects. The cat was on his towel. I'd broken down and bought him some food. Also, a flea collar. I'd seriously contemplated a real collar--a sparkly green one--if only because I was sure it would offend his dignity.
At 5:50 my phone rang.
"It's Gabriel," he said, as he always did, as if I might not recognize his number. Or his voice. "I just had a very interesting visitor."
He paused. I played along, asking, "Who?"
"William Evans."
"Who?" I barely got the question out before the name clicked. "The father of Peter Evans. Jan Gunderson's boyfriend."
"Correct."
"He stopped in to speak to you?"
"Not quite. He came right after I left for an appointment. I suspect that was not a coincidence. When I represented Pamela, Mr. Evans made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with me. Refused all my requests for interviews. Now it seems he wants to speak to you."
"Me? Why? To threaten me like..." I trailed off as I thought of Niles Gunderson.
"Mr. Gunderson was mentally unstable. William Evans is not. While he is nearing seventy, he still works as a clinical psychologist."
"He's a shrink? That's not much better." I sighed. "Are you saying I should call him?"
"Yes. We can do that tonight if you'd like me to coach you through it."
"I can handle it."
"All right, then. I'll give you his number."
I Googled William Evans before I called. I had to add "Chicago" and "psychologist" to narrow it down, but once I did, he popped up. A well-known guy it seemed. Lots of awards and accolades for his work. Several charity affiliations, particularly Peter's Angels, an organization he'd founded to offer free grief counseling for the victims of violent crime.
I dialed his number.
"Oh God, do I smell miso soup?" I said as I let Gabriel in.
"Small-town life has its limitations, doesn't it? Not much hope for Japanese in Cainsville, which lacks even the requisite Chinese takeout."
"Having eaten from small-town Chinese takeouts, I'm not missing anything. Though if those old urban legends about them are true, it might solve my cat problem."
The cat glanced up from his spot by the stove and fixed me with a baleful stare.
"Don't give me that look," I told the cat. "You've caught one mouse since you've been here. And what do you get in return? Food, shelter, and a human servant to clean up your shit. You didn't even warn me when someone was at the door."
"Because his sixth sense tells him I can be trusted."
"Then his sixth sense is broken."
I took the soup to warm in the microwave.
"Did you call Evans?" Gabriel asked as he emptied the takeout bag.
"Yes. He'd like to see to me. Seems that friend of Jan's called to warn him I was investigating Peter's murder. He wants to help."
"Help?"