Omens (39 page)

Not even a hint of a smile.

“Oh, please,” I said. “I know he’s not studying part-time because school interferes with his commitment to Greenpeace. His family business is drugs, with a little murder and mayhem thrown in on the side.”

“No, it is not. Mr. Gallagher runs a legitimate motorcycle club and operates a series of auto repair shops. However, he is constantly under suspicion of criminal activity, which means a relationship with his son would not be wise.”

“Can we skip this conversation? I really don’t think your legal services cover—”

“As representative for both yourself and Don Gallagher, anything between you and his son concerns me. I understand that you’re undergoing a great deal of upheaval in your life. You’ve discovered things about yourself that have thrown your perspective—”

“Stop.”

“—and your sense of identity off balance. You aren’t who you thought you were and that may lead you to consider reckless—”

“Stop. Really. I only rehired you a few hours ago. Since then, you’ve done nothing to make me regret that decision. Quit while you’re ahead.”

“I believe it needs to be said—”

“No, it does not. See this?” I tugged a hank of my hair. “Contrary to popular opinion, blond hair does not feed off brain cells.”

“I never suggested—”

“You were about to. Yes, I’m having identity issues. Can’t blame me really. Wake up the daughter of respected pillars of Chicago and go to bed as the child of its most notorious serial killers. Maybe I’m making some choices that you think are silly and immature, like insisting on living in a smelly apartment and working at a small-town diner. But if I was single, would I have flirted with a cute biker before all this happened? Absolutely. Would I have done more than flirt? Probably not. Too many complications. Would I do it now? Maybe. Not for a walk on the wild side, but as a conscious decision to try something different. My choice. One that has nothing to do with you.”

“Yes, it does, because you are my client and Ricky—”

“God, it’s like talking to a cyborg sometimes. You pretend to listen, but really, you’ve just gone on pause, waiting for me to stop so you can reiterate your original point.”

Gabriel’s phone rang, saving him from an answer. It was Ricky. Gray’s girlfriend was ready for us.

When Gabriel knocked on Josh Gray’s door, Ricky answered. He came out and pulled it almost shut behind him.

“Her name’s Desiree Barbosa. She should talk, but if she tries to stonewall you, just remind her I’ll be back.” He walked past with a smile for me and a whispered, “See you later.”

As Gabriel pushed open the door, I glanced at him. I’d been sure they weren’t resorting to physical violence to persuade Gray’s girlfriend. Was I being naive? Telling her that Ricky would come back if she refused to talk sure as hell sounded like a threat.

We found Desiree in the tiny living room. She was on the couch, her legs pulled up. When we walked in, she didn’t even tense, just said, “Hey,” and waited for us to sit.

As soon as I stepped into that room, I could feel the difference in her. Earlier, it’d been like walking across a carpet in a dry room, her anxiety, her fear, condensing into nervous static-like energy. Now it felt like an island breeze wafting through the room, gentle and warm, telling me to just sit down, relax.

As soon as I felt that, I stiffened, because I’d felt this sensation before, at the shelter. I didn’t need omens or signs to understand what it meant.

As we crossed the room, I studied Desiree. Her pupils were dilated, her jaw slack, her eyelids listing, as if struggling to stay awake.

Ricky hadn’t threatened her. He’d given her drugs.

My gut tightened, and I glanced at Gabriel. His gaze flitted across Desiree and the look he gave was satisfaction mixed with contempt. He knew. Of course he did. He’d set it up.

We’d known Desiree was a recovering addict. After Gray ran and we showed up, she’d been scared and anxious and alone. Vulnerable. When Gabriel saw that, he’d known exactly how to get her to talk. That’s what Ricky meant about telling her he’d come back—he’d given her a hit and promised another if she cooperated.

We’d given drugs to a recovering addict.

I’d just given Gabriel shit for suggesting I was enjoying this walk on the wild side, like a drunken college girl stumbling into a filthy tattoo parlor and letting dirty needles decorate her body with the Chinese symbol for whore. The truth was that I’d been riding a roller coaster of anxiety and adrenaline since Dr. Escoda’s call that morning.

And now this.

I sat there, feeling sick and shocked and angry, most of all furious with myself for being such a fool, such a damned fool.

This wasn’t a game. It was serious and ugly and I wanted nothing to do with it. And yet, in wanting nothing to do with it, I was a hypocrite. I’d followed Gabriel this far because he got me what I wanted. Now he was, once again, delivering. Was I going to sail out on a wave of righteous indignation?

What would I do to prove that my parents—yes, my
parents
—did not kill anyone?

How far would I go?

Everything in me screamed against this. Yet the deeds had been done, the body hidden, the drugs given, the witness ready to talk. Leaving smacked of hypocrisy and empty self-righteousness. So I stayed.

“That guy says you aren’t one of them,” Desiree began. “He said you can help if they come for me.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “But I can’t help until I understand what’s happening.”

She snorted. “I don’t even understand. It’s crazy shit Josh used to tell me when he got high, and I always figured it was just the dope talking. Then he gets a call, and he says it’s about that and I was, like, holy fuck, so he wasn’t making it up.”

“Making what up?” I asked.

“The stuff.” She waved her hands. “The crazy shit.”

As she gestured, I thought I saw a spot of red on her sleeve. A stain the size of a dime. But when I tried to find it again, I couldn’t see it.

“Let’s step back,” Gabriel said. “You were worried I was someone else. One of ‘them.’ Who?”

“The spooks.”

We both paused.

“Do you mean ghosts?” I said.

She gave me an “Are you high, chick?” look. “Spooks. You know. The men in black. The alphabet goons.”

I glanced at Gabriel.

“Federal agents,” he said. “DEA? FBI? CIA?”

“Spooks.”

“CIA?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So Joshua knows something he thinks might make the CIA come after him. Something someone else told him.”

“Right. His friend from back when they were kids. The one that got carved up. Supposedly by that couple.”

“The Larsens.”

She leaned forward. “Only it wasn’t really them. They were framed by the spooks.”

“The Larsens were framed by the CIA?” I said.

“You’re just a baby,” she said with a dismissive wave my way. “I was still a little girl, but I remember my parents talking about those murders, and I’d sneak the papers to read about them. I always knew the Larsens couldn’t have done it. They weren’t more than kids themselves, and anyone could tell they weren’t murderers. Then I met Josh, and he told me what really happened. I didn’t believe him because he’d only talk about it when he was high. I should have believed him.”

“Why did Josh think the CIA had killed Peter Evans?”

“Is that his friend’s name? I always forget.”

I had to repeat the question before she said, “Because of the secret.”

“What secret?”

“What Peter told Josh just before he died.”

I doubted Desiree Barbosa was the most articulate woman at the best of times, but this felt like circling a barbed wire fence, seeing my prize on the other side, unable to find a way in.

“And the secret that Peter told Josh about the CIA, which led to his death was…”

“About his dad.”

“Peter’s dad? What about him?”

“Peter found out his dad worked for the spooks. Least, he used to.”

“Dr. Evans worked for the CIA? Okay. What else?”

She stared blankly.

“A lot of people work for the CIA,” I said. “People don’t get killed every time someone finds out.”

“But it’s supposed to be a secret.”

“Did Peter tell Josh
why
his father’s old job was a secret?”

“Because he worked for the spooks.”

We circled this a few times, but according to Desiree’s worldview, it was perfectly logical that the CIA would murder Peter—and his girlfriend—simply because he’d discovered that his dad used to work for them.

“So they killed Peter and Jan and made it look like the Larsens’ work.”

She shook her head. “Those Larsen kids didn’t kill nobody. They were framed. Like I already said.”

“Because everybody the Larsens supposedly killed knew a secret about the CIA?”

Another “Are you high?” look at me. I glanced at Gabriel, but he made no move to take over, as if he knew this was the best we could manage. That’s what happened when you gave drugs to a potential source.

“Why did the CIA kill the other couples?” I said.

“’Cause that’s what spooks do. They kill people. They’re real clever, though. They know how to hide it, like murdering a whole bunch of people the same way, so it looks like a serial killer. Then they blame innocent folks.”

Gabriel cut in, thanking Desiree for her time and calling Ricky. Seemed he had enough experience with this type of thing to know we weren’t getting more out of her.

I wanted to take Desiree aside and try to change her mind. Yes, she’d stumbled, but it wasn’t too late to get back on the path. There was no sense arguing, though. Not while she was feeling good and wondering why in hell she’d ever given this up.

So I waited by the door while Gabriel stayed with her.

I hadn’t been there long when someone rapped. I opened the door with the chain engaged.

Ricky grinned through the crack. “Hey.”

I unlatched the door.

“How’d it go?” he asked as he walked in.

“She talked. Given her condition, I doubt she had much choice in the matter.”

He looked at my expression and murmured, “Shit.”

He paused, as if he should say something. I waved him into the living room.

“So, I’ll, uh, talk to you later?” he said.

When I didn’t reply, he said, “How about I get your phone …?” He trailed off as he caught my expression. “Or not.”

He got three steps away. Then he stopped. Paused. Reached into his pocket and took out a notebook with a pen hooked on the cover. He jotted something on a page and ripped it out.

“
My
number. I know it’ll probably go in the nearest trash can, but I’m not walking away without giving it a shot.” When I reached out, he held on to the note and met my gaze. “I’m sorry you didn’t know what was going on here. I thought you did. You should have.”

I nodded, and he released the paper. I tucked it into my pocket as he headed into where Desiree waited.

Gabriel came out almost immediately.

“Ready?” he said.

I gave a curt nod and opened the door.

I’d planned to wait until we got in the car to confront him. I made it as far as the stairwell.

“That was a really shitty thing to do,” I said.

“Get answers?”

“You know what I mean. Desiree wasn’t that mellow because you hired Ricky to perform stud service. I worked at a clinic and a shelter. I know what people look like when they’re high on heroin. You gave drugs to a recovering addict.”

“No, I simply asked Don Gallagher to help persuade her to speak to me.”

I stopped. I waited for him to turn around. Face me. Confront me. He just kept walking down the stairs. I hurried to catch up.

“You told him to offer her drugs.”

“I did not. I explained the situation. If that was the route Ricky chose, it wasn’t at my request.”

“But you knew what he’d do. You provided drugs to a woman who’s trying to turn her life around. It’s like seeing someone step onto a ledge and giving her a push.”

He stopped now, turning to face me. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t. I’ve seen women like Desiree. Women who finally get clean. And in my experience—”

“Ah, yes, your experience.” Icy sarcasm seeped into his voice. “Your experience, Olivia, is that of a privileged young woman who mingles with the masses for a few hours a week and presumes to understand—”

“Excuse me? I worked my ass off, putting in full-time hours—”

“I mean your work with addicts. I’m presuming you have no training in it. No
personal
experience with addicts.”

“No, but—”

“So your time spent with them likely worked out to a few hours a week, in a charity setting, where the addicts would be on their best behavior, saying all the right things, because it was the only way those services would agree to help them. Of those who did stop their drug use, how many do you think stayed clean once they got what they wanted from you?”

“I—”

“Let me tell you a few things about addicts, Olivia. They lie. Consistently. Expertly. Pathologically. They lie to anyone who comes between them and their next high. They’ll pretend to quit. They may even actually quit. But it’s a sham. At the first opportunity, they will start using again. Anyone who believes their commitment to self-transformation will be disappointed over and over until they finally wise up and stop hoping.”

There was no passion in his speech. It was a cold recital of facts without one indication that his words held anything personal. But I knew they did. It was like a wall had slammed down.

When he finished, he continued down the stairs, and I recalled what Dr. Evans had said about Gabriel’s mother. I’d suspected she’d been an addict. Now I knew it.

And I knew this wasn’t an argument I could win. I remembered Gabriel’s expression when he’d walked in and found Desiree high. Satisfaction, yes. But contempt, too. He couldn’t look at this and see Desiree Barbosa. He could only see his mother, and nothing I said would change that.

We walked outside. He flipped his shades on.

“If Ricky offered her drugs, clearly she accepted,” he said. “No one forced them on her. If she’d been serious about rehabilitating herself, she wouldn’t have accepted.”