Omens

Getting the Story

The journalist spooned through his soup, looking for more meatballs, annoyed by the shortage but really, if he admitted it, annoyed with himself for blowing a story. It’d been an easy assignment. Everyone knew the councillor was a huge fan of the Cubs—or, at least, a huge fan of the player her husband had hired for his car dealership ads. The problem? No one could prove it.

Then the Post got an anonymous tip. The Cub boy toy had checked into a motel and the tipster saw the councillor slip into his room. The journalist got there and staked out the place. Two hours later, he’d heard the roar of the ballplayer’s Porsche peeling from the parking lot, which meant the fifty-year-old councillor must have climbed out the motel window. Hey, she was banging a twenty-six-year-old, so she wasn’t exactly an arthritic old lady. But his editor wasn’t going to buy that. He was in deep shit.

And that’s when he saw Gabriel Walsh.

He knew Walsh on sight. Everyone at the Post did. Their readers loved him. Or loved to hate him. Same thing, really. At thirty, the man was already a legend. Graduated first in his class. Grew up on the streets. Had a juvie record for picking pockets. Paid for law school with an illegal betting ring where he’d played the triple role of bookie, loan shark, and collection agency. Or that was the legend. The truth, as anyone who’d done his research knew, was a little different. Walsh had graduated in the top quarter of his class but hardly first. The betting? Street life? Juvie record? All unproven. Even his age varied from story to story.

Yet the fact that the rumors were unproven and not disproven meant they were still in play. Oh sure, they could just be mean-spirited gossip invented by envious colleagues. Maybe despite his reputation, Gabriel Walsh was a very nice guy.

The journalist laughed, nearly choking on his Coke. While some girls at the office were certain Walsh only played the role of a cold son of a bitch, it was generally accepted he was not a nice guy. Or even a reasonably decent guy. There were too many stories.

If the journalist could prove one of those uglier rumors was fact, he’d have a real article. Others in his esteemed profession had tried. A couple from lesser publications had written stories rife with innuendo and anonymous sources. One resulted in a lawsuit that forced the closure of the weekly rag and the reporter’s decision, at thirty-two, to take early retirement in Mexico. In the other case, the magazine survived the lawsuit, but the reporter had ended up where he’d hoped to put Walsh—in jail. Apparently it wasn’t a good idea to go after a guy like Walsh when you have a coke problem so serious you’re dealing on the side to pay for it. Of course, there were those who said the dealing started after the article came out, at the prompting of the journalist’s supplier, who had some tenuous connection to the Satan’s Saints. But that was just rumor.

All things considered, though, it was probably best if he forgot about digging up a story on Walsh and settled for enjoying the very nice legs on his female companion. When he’d noticed her notebook and pen, he thought maybe she was a reporter, some cute young thing who’d managed to snag an interview. But no, others had tried that gambit. Walsh allowed his clients to do interviews but never gave them himself.

Was she his date, then? She was attractive enough, with the kind of face you noticed and thought was beautiful, then on closer inspection realized wasn’t really—nose and jaw a little too strong—but you kept looking anyway. Her glasses were flattering, but why the hell would she wear them when she had such a striking face? And her hair … That was the worst. A horrible red dye job that was already fading. Underneath, her hair looked blond. That was as much a crime as the glasses. Why would you dye your hair when—

The young woman turned, her gaze following a woman’s bag adorned with poppies. She frowned slightly and when she did, at that angle…

Holy shit.

It couldn’t be. He never got that lucky.

He yanked out his phone and ran a quick Internet image search. The tiny screen filled with results. He clicked on one and looked at the photo, then at the young woman, now listening to something Walsh was saying.

Olivia Taylor-Jones.

Eden Larsen.

The society-brat-turned-serial-killers’-daughter was having lunch with the man who’d once represented her mother.

Now he had a story.