Visions (Cainsville 2)

I hesitated. Damn it. He was right that I'd hit roadblocks trying to see Todd myself, but I really didn't like the idea of being indebted to Gabriel.

"Hold off," I said. "For now. I'll . . . give it some thought. We can talk later."

I hung up before he could argue. When I got home that evening, I called James and agreed to dinner the next night.

--

I know people often think being rich means a life of leisure. It can, if your goal is to do as little as possible, but most who have enough cash to quit working don't. My father definitely didn't, and I learned from his example. I like to be very busy--it's the only thing that truly clears my mind. So for the past couple of days, I'd come home from work and, well, worked.

What I wanted to do was dive back into the Larsen case. I'd meant what I said about wanting them to have the best possible chance at a solid appeal, and my personal issues wouldn't interfere with that. I'd be fine with investigating and turning over my work to Gabriel for free.

The problem was that he had the case files. I had only a partial copy. I'd spent a couple of hours compiling notes on the other victims--then researching them online--but I felt as if I was investigating with a patch over one eye, my field of vision and depth perception shot to hell. Was that really because I didn't have the full file? Or because I didn't have my detecting partner? I won't lie. I missed him. I've said that. Won't say it again.

Before they were caught, my parents had been known as the Valentine Killer. It meant that they'd killed couples . . . in Chicago, where Valentine's Day will forever be tainted by the memory of a bloody mob massacre. No one used that name anymore. From the time of their arrest, they'd become "the Larsens."

Their first alleged victims were Amanda Mays and her fiance, Ken Perkins. Next came a married couple, Marty and Lisa Tyson. Then Stacey Pasolini and Eddie Hilton. Finally, Jan and Peter--the two we'd proven they hadn't killed.

Jan and Peter had fit the pattern, though. Twentysomething couple, Chicagoans, white, middle-class. Beyond that, the profile varied. Dating, married, engaged. Blond, brunette. College educated and not. Employed and not. All that suggested the victims hadn't been selected with any great care.

I compiled everything I could find on the six remaining victims. Minimal analysis for now. Then I moved to Ciara Conway. I read every scrap of Internet "news" on her disappearance--from snippets in the papers to blog posts to Facebook updates. I use the term "news" loosely, because there really wasn't anything, save wild conjecture. The obvious investigative path here would be to speak to Ciara's family and friends, but I couldn't listen to them hoping and praying she'd return when I knew she wouldn't. So I sat on my ass and surfed.

I dug up enough details to fill in a better picture of her life. It had been a good one, by any standards. She grew up in the suburb of Oak Park. Affluent but not outrageously so. They'd lived in the same house since she was born. Dad was an architect; mom was a biologist. Her older brother was studying for his PhD in medical research. Ciara herself was no slouch, winning an athletic scholarship to Northwestern, where she'd been studying neurobiology. There her grades had fluctuated, suggesting that's when the addiction issues kicked in.

I was still doing online searching when my cell rang. A Chicago number. It wasn't one I recognized, but my brain was preoccupied and I answered on autopilot.

"It's Lydia." A pause. "Gabriel's secretary."

As I struggled for a polite response, she continued, "I'm sorry for using my home number. I wasn't sure you'd answer otherwise. This isn't about Gabriel."

"Okay . . ."

"Richard Gallagher would like you to call him."

"Rich . . . ? Oh. Ricky."

I relaxed. Lydia seemed to do the same, laughing softly.

"Yes, Ricky. I'm not sure he likes being introduced that way, so I don't take the chance. I understand you met him last week."

"I did."

"Apparently you made an impression. He's called twice for your number. While I'm very good at telling clients no, that boy could charm the habit off a nun. I finally agreed to pass along a message to call him. Do you have his number?"

"I do."

"Can I tell him you'll call? He's coming into the office Monday, and as much as I am determined not to give out your number, he's even harder to resist in person."

I chuckled. "I can imagine. Yes, I'll call him."

"Thank you." A pause, then, "How are you, Olivia?"

I stiffened. "Fine."

"I don't know what happened between you and Gabriel, but . . ." She exhaled. "No, I'll mind my own business and only say that I'm glad he'll still be representing Pamela. He really is her best possible chance."

"I know."

"Have a good weekend, and if you ever need anything and would prefer not to contact Gabriel, you can call me at the office or here, at my personal number."