Betrayals Page 5

  He nodded and pulled two twenties and a ten from his wallet. She took it and stuffed it in her pocket.

  "The problem, you see, is one of sociological evolution," a voice said behind me.

  I turned to see Patrick sitting on a trash bin.

  "Yes, you aren't the only one who gets the dramatic recreation version," he said. "So much more interesting than merely reading the words, isn't it?"

  "You said something about evolution."

  He hopped off the can and started walking down the alley, away from the rutting couple. "Precisely. Look at the lamiae. How old do they appear?"

  "Teenagers," I said as I followed him to the street.

  "In the modern period, yes. They're teens--a stage of life that was created in the twentieth century to deal with the problem of prolonged adolescence."

  "Because in earlier times, you went straight from childhood to adulthood. Betrothed at twelve. Married at fourteen. Usually to a guy at least a decade older."

  "Which makes sense from a biological point of view. Nature isn't kind to women. They're at their most fertile in their youth. But times changed, and young women demanded more, not unreasonably. So society accommodated. Today, the average age of a first marriage for Western women is twenty-six. You have evolved, sociologically. The lamiae cannot."

  "Why not just change their glamour? Be twenty-five instead and hang out in singles' bars."

  "Not all fae have that freedom. The lamiae have only two forms: the girl and the snake."

  "So they look like teenage girls, and they need to have sex. They'd find plenty of teen boys willing to oblige."

  "Boys are a poor source of what lamiae need. They're too young, too unstable, still coming into their full life power. Ideally, the lamiae need regular and reliable access to adult men. And as society changed, that became increasingly difficult to get in any safe and acceptable way. They go from priestesses to ladies' maids to prostitutes. From power and privilege..."

  "To destitution and danger."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Our next stop was Rose's place. The woman who answered Gabriel's knock was obviously a relative of his. The same pale skin and the same black hair with the same widow's peak. Admittedly, the tall and sturdy build flattered the male Walshes better, but Rose's full figure denied any hint of masculinity. She had light blue eyes, too, though hers were darker, well within the realm of normal.

  Rose doesn't smile much more than her great-nephew does, but when she opened the door, she looked pleased.

  "I saw the car," she said. "I was hoping you'd pay me a visit."

  "Something up?" I asked.

  She waved us into the parlor. "The cards suggest someone might be in a bit of trouble. Nothing serious--or I would have called."

  "Let me guess," I said. "Is it Ricky?"

  She glanced over.

  "If you saw them this morning," I said, "you're running on a bit of a delay. That's what we're here about: trouble involving Ricky, which involves fae and possibly the Cwn Annwn."

  Gabriel said, "I'll make tea," giving me time to poke around the room. There's always something to discover in Rose's parlor. Today it was the underside of a turtle shell.

  "Scapulimancy," Rose said. "Shoulder bones are also used, as the name suggests, but I'd rather have that on my shelf. It was a method of divination in ancient China. Heat the underside of the shell until it cracks and then read the future from those cracks."

  "Huh." I bent to examine the shell cracks. "This one seems to say that it's destined to spend a very long time on a psychic's shelf, where it will eventually acquire a thick layer of dust."

  Rose shook her head and waved me to the desk. We settled, and I told her what had happened and about my visit to Patrick. She pulled a few books off her own shelf. Hers were human folklore, which meant they only mentioned Lamia as the Libyan queen and lamiae as a Greek vampire or succubus subtype.

  "What I couldn't ask Patrick was about the Cwn Annwn," I said. "I heard the Hunt right before my vision, and Ricky didn't."

  "Meaning it was another part of your vision," Rose said.

  "Apparently. The Cwn Annwn were hunting someone. What I saw suggests that this Ciro Halloran guy is killing lamiae. The province of the Cwn Annwn is hunting killers whose crimes are connected to the fae."

  "In other words, Halloran would be a prime target."

  "And now that he's disappeared..."

  "You're thinking the Hunt took him."

  "Right. Which means the next step is to confirm it with the Huntsmen, ensure that there's no way of linking Ricky to Halloran's death, and tidy up any loose ends. Case solved."

  "You have a method of contact for the Huntsmen, do you not?" Gabriel asked as he brought in the tea.

  "Ioan gave me one." Ioan was the leader of the local Cwn Annwn.

  "Is it a complicated process?" Rose asked.

  "Kind of. It needs to be done while standing in a forest clearing flooded with moonlight. Then I face east, chant a few lines in Welsh, and, at the stroke of midnight, dial Ioan's cell phone number." I reached for a cookie. "Or I could just call him."

  "Call," Gabriel said. "We can have lunch in town and then meet with him."

  I paused with the cookie at my lips and then said, "I should take Ricky to see Ioan. He's their champion. It's like you and the Cainsville Tylwyth Teg."

  "She's right," Rose said. "This Ioan is much more likely to talk with Ricky there."

  Gabriel gave a curt nod. "Understood."

  "I'd totally go for lunch, though," I said. "If that offer still stands."

  His jaw worked, as if ready to say, No, it does not. I'd rejected an overture. He would retreat behind his wall. That's how it always went. But after a moment he said, "Of course it does."

  --

  Lunch with Gabriel went well enough. We talked about work. Safe and easy conversation. After it, he suggested I go visit my father in prison. I hate that. No, let me be clearer. I love seeing Todd; I hate seeing him in there.

  Todd Larsen has spent the best years of his life in a maximum-security facility for crimes he didn't commit. I hear about stuff like that on the news. I see it as a plot in books and movies. But until I found out about my dad, I'd never really thought about what it means. My father was a year younger than I am now when he went to jail. He has slept in a cell for twenty-two years. Eaten prison food for twenty-two years. Dealt with whatever horrors befall a good-looking young prisoner. Dealt with whatever shit befalls a convicted serial killer.

  I've heard he spent a lot of that time in solitary, and while part of me is glad he was shielded from the other prisoners, at least temporarily, I cannot actually fathom what that would be like, either, living for weeks with little to no human contact. He tells me it hasn't been so bad for him--I suspect the Cwn Annwn had something to do with that--but the fact remains that he has spent half his lifetime in prison, wrongly convicted. I've known that for months now and yet I can't get him out. Some days, the sheer frustration threatens to drive me mad.

  We sat on our respective sides of the Plexiglas barrier. There was a speaker between us, meaning anyone around could eavesdrop on our conversation. Todd didn't care. He was just happy to have me there, and that was why I kept coming, as much as it hurt.

  Todd and I discussed books, as we often did, sharing a love of mysteries. And, yes, in my mind I still refer to him as Todd. I had a dad growing up, and it feels disloyal to grant that title to someone else, however deserving. But I do call Todd "Dad" to his face because I know how much it means to him.

  As he talked with me, I could see him relax. Where Pamela looks every one of her forty-five years, my father could pass for late thirties. The age is there, in crow's feet and faint lines around his mouth, but his blond hair is untouched by gray, and while his build is slight, he obviously spends time in the prison gym.

  "So I'm guessing a PI impersonating a cop is out of the question," he said, about a private-eye novel he was reading.

  "Yep," I said. "Al
though, if someone mistakes me for a police detective because of how I dress that day? Or my manner, or my choice of words? That's fair game. I can't really pull it off, though. I don't have the right look, as someone loves to remind me."

  Todd glanced at Gabriel. "Much easier for you, I suspect."

  "True," Gabriel said. "It's hardly my fault if my size leads some to draw the conclusion that I work in a different area of the law. Or, occasionally, on the other side of it, which can be even more useful."

  Todd laughed, and we continued dissecting the book until the visit was down to the last ten minutes.

  Gabriel stepped in then and provided an update on Todd's appeal, admitting we hadn't yet been able to find Imogen Seale. Imogen was the one person who knew my parents hadn't committed the first pair of murders, but she'd been on the run for months now.

  "Our prospects aren't as encouraging as I'd like," he said, "but proving innocence is difficult when innocence is not the case for all parties." He chose his words with care, given the semi-public nature of the setting. "I will not ask you to change your mind about turning against her. We've been through that often enough."

  I shifted in my seat.

  Todd's gaze met mine. "I can't, Liv. I'm sorry. She's still the woman who went to prison so our child could walk."

  "Then she should have taken the fall and left me my father."

  "I wouldn't have allowed that."

  "Bullshit. The DNA was hers."

  Gabriel cleared his throat, reminding me to watch my words.

  I looked at Todd. "I want you out."

  "I will get out, eventually. You don't need your daddy anymore, Liv. You're doing fine. If the appeal doesn't work, I will tell the truth. That's our deal. But you agreed to let me try it my way."

  "I didn't agree. You refused to do anything else."

  "It's still a deal." He gave me a quarter smile. As much as I seethed, arguing with Todd was like battering a foam wall. It seemed soft and yielding, but I couldn't break through, no matter how hard I tried.

  I stayed silent for the rest of the visit. I said my goodbyes as genuinely as I could, not wanting to storm off in anger, but the minute the visiting room door closed, I strode ahead, leaving Gabriel to catch up.

  He said nothing until we were in the car. Then it was, "You're upset."

  "Let's just go," I said.

  He sat there, one hand on the steering wheel, those damned shades covering his eyes. He was eager to be gone but clearly felt some unwelcome obligation to pursue this.

  "It upsets you," he said finally, and I almost snapped a reply, but managed instead to say, "I don't want to talk about it."

  He gave an abrupt nod, and what sounded like a sigh of relief. Anyone else would have prodded, made sure I wasn't holding back. Gabriel couldn't get that car in gear fast enough. He'd fulfilled his obligation by acknowledging that I was "upset"--not once but twice--and I'd let him off the hook. That was enough.

  We didn't talk for the rest of the ride.

  DANGEROUS GAME

  Lunch with Olivia had not gone well. Not as well as their lunches used to go. It was perfectly cordial. Like eating with Don or another long-term client. Not like having lunch with someone who'd been a friend, a good one. Simply working a case together wasn't going to bring Olivia back to him.

  He'd suggested they go visit Todd because he knew she loved seeing her father. Gabriel was proving he understood her, could provide what she wanted. Except it hadn't been what she wanted at all. It only reminded her of Todd's situation.

  He had to go further. Had to take a risk. Had to do whatever it took to give her the one thing she wanted most right now.

  Gabriel had betrayed Olivia's trust three times since they'd met, which would not be nearly so grievous a track record if that first encounter hadn't been a mere six months ago. And now, as they struggled to recover from the third misstep, he decided to attempt to fix it with...another betrayal. A measured risk in the hope of solving a problem he knew she desperately wanted solved.

  First, though, he would do something he'd never done in his life: get advice.

  Rose answered on the third ring.

  "I need to speak to you," he said, "about something that Olivia has forbidden me to do."

  Rose's response came slowly, as if she was bracing herself. "All right..."

  "I've decided to do it anyway."

  He could have sworn he heard the thump of Rose falling into a chair. Her breath hissed along the line. "Please tell me that's a joke."

  "I never joke."

  "Tell me you've started trying. It's a poor effort, but --"

  "I don't appreciate being mocked."

  "It isn't mocking. It's praying, by whatever gods one might pray to, that you are attempting a little levity, because the only other possible excuse would be that you've fallen down the stairs and hit your head."

  "I am in full possession of my senses."

  "Not if you're considering betraying Liv again. I know patience is not your strong suit, and yes, it's been a few months, but if you really are ready to give up, then may I suggest you just step back. Don't vent your frustrations on her."

  "That's not what I have in mind," he said, his voice chilling. "At all."

  "You've used up your chances with Liv, Gabriel, and--"

  "I wanted your opinion on what I am about to do. On whether my reasoning is sound."

  She went quiet. Then, "You want my support."

  "What?"

  "You want me to tell you that whatever you have planned, it's perfectly all right, and she'll have no reason to be angry."

  Gabriel gripped the phone tighter, his words brittle now. "I was calling to ask your opinion, because you have, in the past, suggested that, before I do something imprudent where Olivia is concerned."

  "You're right. I'm sorry. I--"

  "No, I'm sorry. This was a mistake. The decision is, of course, my own, as are the consequences, and I did not intend to shift blame. I apologize for bothering you."

  He hung up. Rose called back. He let voice mail answer. She called again. Then she texted. He shut off his phone, pulled on his jacket, and headed out.

  --

  Gabriel sat at the table, his hands folded on the top, gaze fixed on the door. It opened, and a guard prodded a woman in.

  News reports claimed Olivia looked like her mother, but Gabriel saw a resemblance only in gestures and expressions. Olivia's jaw would set, and he'd glimpse Pamela. Or her eyes would ignite with a spark of ruthlessness, and there, too, lay her mother. Flares only, rising and falling away. It was the same with her father. Those moments when she'd be carefree and childlike, that was Todd. Or when she'd dig in her heels, her expression warning him there was no sense pushing. Mostly, though, he saw only Olivia, her own person, untethered to either parent.

  When Pamela spotted her visitor, she stopped short. He waited, his hands still folded, gaze on her, no challenge in it. Yet there was challenge there. He'd told the desk that Pamela had rehired him, and now all she had to do was deny the ruse and this meeting would be at an end.

  She looked at him. Then she nodded for the guard to leave.

  "Misrepresenting yourself, Gabriel?" she said as she sat. "I shouldn't be surprised. I am surprised it took you so long to come." She leaned back in her seat. "Go ahead. Tell me exactly how you feel about me."

  Pamela let the silence stretch until she shifted, unable to hold it. "Let me guess--it took so long because you were trying to figure out a way to make me pay, legally. To prove that I tried to have you framed for murder. Failing that, you've come to tell me that I'll pay, one way or the other."

  He stayed exactly as he was, hands folded, gaze resting on her.

  "Stop that," she snapped.

  "I'm waiting for you to finish speculating on the nature of this visit. You seem to be enjoying it, so I will indulge you, though I must warn that, as you know, our time is limited."

  "What do you want, Gabriel?"

  "The question is wh
at you want."

  "What do I want?"

  "Me."

  A harsh laugh. "Your head on a pike, I suppose? No, sorry to disappoint. I want you out of my daughter's life, but it appears I can only wait until she comes to her senses and sees you for the manipulative son of a bitch you are."

  "You want freedom," he said. "What do you need for that, Pamela?"

  Her jaw set in a way he knew well.

  "What do you need, Pamela?" he repeated.

  Her jaw clenched so hard he heard her teeth grind. She barely pried her mouth open enough to spit, "Bastard. You enjoy this, don't you?"

  "It's not pleasure. It's control."

  "You take pleasure in control."

  "No, I take comfort in it. It makes life easier. You need me. My counsel. My services. You need me to represent you--along with Todd--in your appeal. It's your only chance of seeing the outside of this prison."

  "If your appeal frees Todd, it will free me."

  Gabriel eased back, hands falling to his lap. "Not necessarily. That's what Todd wants, but if you think it's what your daughter wants, you are sadly mistaken. If you cannot be tried for James Morgan's death, she'll happily see you stay in here. What she wants is Todd's freedom. What I want to give her is Todd's freedom." He straightened, hands on the table again. "It's not going as well as I'd hoped."

  "Are you actually admitting--?"

  "You will wonder why I'm offering to represent you, and that is the answer. The last time I saw you, you said that if I took your case again, you might be able to recall more useful answers to our questions. I presume that still holds true?"

  "It does."

  "Then it seems..." He met her gaze. "That you win this round."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ioan had asked us to meet him at an address in the Loop. I figured it was a high-rent residence there--Gabriel's own condo was nearby. But when I told Ricky the address, he said, "That's office space." He was right--it led to a skyscraper a few blocks from James's corporate offices. The route would have taken us right past, but Ricky detoured, saving me from those memories.

  "I'm sure I wrote the address down right," I said as we looked up at the building.

  "I'm sure you did, too. I'm wondering if we're being sent on a wild goose chase."

  The building was dead quiet on a Saturday afternoon. Inside, we told the guard who we were there to see, and he sent us up to the twenty-third floor.