"Not wearing any," I said. "I'm twenty-four. I don't need to trowel it on."
He nudged his shades up and opened the car door. I got in.
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As he peeled from the curb, he said, "Your hair color is washing out."
"Yes, apparently, I bought temporary dye by accident. I'll get the proper stuff."
"Don't bother. It isn't helping."
I glanced over.
"The cut, the color, and the glasses are useless. To anyone who has seen the photographs, you are obviously Eden Larsen in hiding." He turned onto Main Street. "Do you want to look like Eden Larsen in hiding?"
"No."
"Then I'd suggest you don't bother with the rest. Your features are too strong to disguise yourself with anything short of plastic surgery. And as long as you insist on playing poor, you can't afford plastic surgery."
I wasn't touching that. "Is that why you insisted on the dowdy disguise today? In hopes Jan Gunderson's sister won't recognize me?"
"Partly. I'm hoping that the families of victims will avoid the articles." He paused. "The exception, of course, being Niles Gunderson. I hear you've already encountered him."
I tried not to react. I must have given something away, though, because he glanced over.
"Yes, I'm sure that was unpleasant. Being attacked in your home. But the man is mentally unstable. Everyone knows that, including the journalist--or more likely Internet blogger--who alerted him that night. He clearly did it hoping for exactly the kind of scene he got."
I cleared my throat. "Maybe there's another reason he"--I stopped myself before referring to Niles in the past tense --"is unstable. The family closed ranks after Christian killed himself. Presumably because they thought he'd been innocent. What if Niles knew he wasn't?"
"And was driven mad by guilt?"
"Maybe. I know what it's like to have a serial killer in your gene pool. But at least I can say I'm not responsible for what the Larsens did. If it's your child who is the killer? Not only could it be in your genes, but you might have done something to make him commit murder."
Gabriel murmured something that could be agreement.
I reclined my seat and closed my eyes, and he turned up the stereo--Haydn this time--and accelerated onto the highway.
Anna Gunderson lived in an older suburb of North Chicago, a once-separate town, swallowed by urban sprawl. According to Gabriel, she'd moved there with her daughter after a recent divorce. She had a small bungalow with frilly curtains in every window. On the door hung a handcrafted welcome sign adorned with red flowers. There were more flowers in every garden. Lawn cutting service truck out front, young guy unloading a mower. He stared at the Jag as Gabriel pulled in.
"Sweet ride," he said as we got out. "What's she got under the hood?"
"I have no idea," Gabriel replied, his tone freezing out further comment.
"Bullshit," I whispered as I rounded the car. "You drive like that, you know what's under the hood."
"No, I do not. When I hit the accelerator, it speeds up. When I turn the wheel, it corners. When I hit the brakes, it stops. If it does all that to my satisfaction, then the particulars are unimportant."
"It'll be a five-liter V8. At least four hundred horses. Maybe five. Which, as the boy said, is very sweet. Yes, I know cars. It was my dad's hobby."
"And you left yours behind when you made your vow of poverty?" he said.
"I didn't have my own. With my dad's garage to choose from, that would be like Hugh Hefner sticking to one girlfriend. I also like being chauffeured. Which, may I say, you do very nicely."
He shook his head and ushered me to the door.
Chapter Thirty-one
I'd seen photos of Jan Gunderson. She had looked as if she'd time-warped from the seventies, with long blond hair, a fresh complexion, and a penchant for peasant blouses and long skirts. Had she lived, I suspected she'd now look a lot like her sister, Anna. Blond hair cut to her shoulders, pin-straight. Dark eyes behind retro glasses. Loose khaki pants and an even looser blouse.