Rough Justice (Cainsville 5.5)

Certainly, private investigators were not supposed to share client information, but if Heather hadn't hired one, it was a gray area. Gabriel saw two on Heather's list that he knew would happily profit from exploiting that gray area and selling him details. He would discuss this with Olivia over dinner.

He checked his watch. It was past seven. He'd have thought she'd have called by now.

He reached for his phone, only to discover it wasn't beside his elbow. He looked about the kitchen table, where he'd set up a temporary office.

Oh, yes. He'd been so deep in thought earlier that he'd left his phone in his jacket. He retrieved that to find a text from Olivia, sent over an hour ago, asking whether he wanted to meet up and investigate together.

Before he could call back, he saw another message, more recent.

Johnson = cold-blooded SOB who deserves Hunt. Well, if I'm right. Found a few things. Incl what set him on Nansens. Going to talk to HN. Call me!

Olivia was heading out to talk to Heather Nansen...apparently having decided that Johnson was responsible for Alan's death. Which meant she had no idea what Heather might be capable of.

Gabriel hit Olivia's number. When it rang through to voice mail, he grabbed his jacket and hurried out.

Twenty-four

Olivia

I met Heather at her house. She quickly got over her surprise at me showing up on her doorstep and invited me in. I accepted a coffee this time. I hadn't heard back from Gabriel, and it looked like it was going to be a long night, possibly without dinner.

"One angle we'd like to pursue is uncovering the identity of the person attempting the break-ins," I said. "Presumably, the same person sent Alan those texts, and if we can prove it, we have our case."

She nodded. Said nothing, just nodded.

I went through my usual spiel on the search for alternative suspects...or at least one Gabriel could put forward to raise that Hail Mary of reasonable doubt.

Do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against you? Anyone at all?

We'd done this at our first meeting, and she seemed annoyed at me bringing it up again, but I said, "You've had time to think about it. Is there no one?"

She fluttered her hands. "Of course, there's always someone. If you've gotten through life without making enemies, count yourself very lucky."

"Oh, believe me, I haven't."

"I'm not the type who makes them naturally. Sure, there might be an ex who isn't thrilled with me, or a frenemy from my past, but no one who'd want revenge on this scale. I just don't have that sort of personality." She paused. "Alan does. Did, I mean. He could be...abrasive."

"All right, you can also hurt people accidentally. For example, in literal accidents. Like with a car."

She tensed.

"Have you or Alan ever been in an accident? One where you were at fault? Where someone was hurt? Possibly killed?"

I waited for the denials. She said nothing.

"This might jog your memory." I took out my phone and read the anonymous e-mail. "Dear Mr. Johnson, Two years ago, you lost your wife in an accident on North End Road. Another vehicle took the corner too fast. The driver lost control and hit your car, knocking it off the road. The driver then fled the scene without stopping to see whether you were all right. I know what happened because I was a passenger in that car. My husband was that driver. I begged him to call 911, but he refused and threatened me. If I'd had any idea how serious the accident was, I would have done something. I saw the news of your wife's death the next day, and I have never forgiven myself for my cowardice. No apology can ever bring her back, but I need you to know how sorry I am. I've anonymously wired you money. If you don't want it, please donate it appropriately."

I looked up from the screen. "Do you want to tell me again what happened to your second vehicle?"

"How--how did you get--?" she stammered.

"Does it matter? I know this is you. If you want to deny it, well, then we lose our best hope of finding the person whose harassment led to you getting a gun."

A long pause. Then she nodded. "Yes, that was me. But I did it anonymously--the e-mail, the money transfer. I don't see how Mr. Johnson could have known."

"Nothing is anonymous," I said. "Not if you're motivated enough to dig."

"So how do we prove he's the one who harassed me, who sent those texts to Alan?"