Lost Souls (Cainsville 3.6)

Liv hadn't been going to the diner for a coffee. She must have a perfectly good coffeemaker at home. She'd been going because it was the most likely place to bump into him.

She wanted his help with this. Not that she'd have said so. Oh, no, she'd have given the same performance at the diner. Ignore him, knowing he'd want an update on the ghost case. Play him a little, making him work for details. And then oh-so-casually mention that she planned to try contacting the ghost...to impress Gabriel.

Impress Gabriel? No. This was about going behind Gabriel's back to do something he would forbid. Yes, she would impress him if she made progress in the case, and that was always a factor in the careful dance between them. Partly about impressing the other, but more about proving themselves equal partners, worthy of each other's attention. Not unlike the mating displays of many species, though Patrick doubted they'd appreciate the comparison.

They'd hit a dead end with the case, and Liv wanted to break through it, but her only idea was one that Gabriel would hate. She knew better than to do it alone, and while Ricky might seem the obvious partner, that made him equally culpable. Liv didn't particularly care if Gabriel got angry with Patrick. And Patrick's research skills and fae abilities would be an added bonus.

"All right," she said finally. "You can help. If you insist."

"I do."

EIGHTEEN

GABRIEL

It was past six, afternoon stretching into evening. Gabriel had not heard from Olivia. He hadn't expected to. But hoped? Yes. He'd hoped that she would wake up this morning and seize on some new avenue to pursue in the case, perhaps even one as far-fetched as his, proving he wasn't the only one desperate to mend this rift. But he knew better. She'd given him chances. One after the other. He'd used them up and not only continued making mistakes but--never one to rest on past successes--he'd made each worse than the last.

He would fix this, though. He would. Starting with this case. He just needed a valid lead to lure her back.

He looked up at the building before him.

This was not a valid lead.

It was an office building, of exactly the sort one might expect to house a small charity foundation. Not suspiciously downtrodden or suspiciously ostentatious. An older building, in much worse shape than his own. While his greystone might not be in the most prestigious neighborhood, it had dignity and history, perfect for a successful independent lawyer. He'd chosen it for that very reason...and the fact that he'd gotten a significant discount by offering a lifetime of legal advice to the former owner, who'd run a meth lab out of the basement.

There were no meth labs in this building. There were lawyers, though. He noticed several plates as he walked down the hall. No names he recognized. It was not that sort of building. Rather, it was exactly the sort he'd been determined to avoid--the sort that said you'd only opened your own firm because you weren't good enough to join a large one.

It was a three-story walkup, like Olivia's. No elevator. Which gave him the excuse for wandering, noting the types of occupants. Three lawyers. Two accountants. A graphic designer. A "lifestyle coach"--which gave him pause, thinking of Olivia's joke about the ghost, but a box of pamphlets attached to the door suggested it was actually what it advertised. Still, in Gabriel's opinion, that was one business where one clearly should have a more prestigious address. Same went for the person down the hall advertising his services as a stock analyst. It was hardly good advertising for such businesses to be in a building like this.

The office he wanted was on the third floor. Up there, he found fewer professionals and more offices not intended to receive visitors, discreet signs noting the business name only for deliveries.

At the end of the hall, he found the number he wanted, on a door marked "Pigsie Industries." He double-checked the address. It was definitely the one attached to the suicide prevention charity.

An Internet search on Pigsie Industries brought back no hits in the Chicago area. It was an odd word, childlike. He searched on that alone. Google suggested he meant "Pigsy," and he informed it that he did not. But what returned for Pigsie or Pigsy was nonsense. Fictional characters and online names and such.

And there were no hits for Pigsie Industries at all.

When he examined the door more closely, he noticed the camera and cursed himself for missing it. From this side, it looked as if the door had a peephole, like the others, yet this one was slightly different. That prompted a closer inspection, upon which he determined that it was actually an eyehole camera.

Gabriel was retreating when he heard a click from inside the office. He put his ear to the door. Another click. The camera? Or was someone inside?

He knocked. He'd already been seen by the camera, so he might as well rap and hope someone opened the door and gave him a glance inside as he made a "wrong address" excuse.

No one answered his knock.

Another click sounded. A mechanical one. Then silence. He strained to hear.

Nothing.

One last look around, and then he left.

Gabriel was eating dinner in the kind of place he did not eat dinner. Or any other meal. Apparently, it was vegetarian. He'd missed that detail, noting only that it looked like a healthier choice than the surrounding fast food shops.

He was not particularly fond of fast food, but it was--as advertised--quick. Which meant that he ate it more often than he should as a cheap and efficient way to refuel. He could blame habit from his years on the street, but even before Seanna left, Gabriel had had to buy his own food, and he'd learned to make healthy choices. A banana and milk would get his body farther than fries and a Coke. His recent fast food habit was pure laziness...and a major factor contributing to that soft middle he was trying to fix in the gym.

So while vegetarian would not be his first choice, he stuck with the restaurant, if only because finding another would be inefficient.

As he ate, he considered what he'd discovered. Was the records address for the charity incorrect? That wasn't impossible, but Gabriel suspected otherwise. He was a Walsh; he'd smelled a con from the moment he'd clicked on the website for Greater Chicago Suicide Prevention. Both professional and bland, it looked like exactly what a con artist would post to seem like a real business while not giving away anything that could be traced.