Omens

Chapter Forty-one

Giving me Jan’s file seemed like a breach in doctor–client confidentiality, but when I told Gabriel what Evans had done, he said that according to Illinois law, psychologists weren’t bound after a client’s death. Evans could refuse to turn it over, but it had been his idea, and he’d redacted information, so he was acting ethically.

As I read the file, Gabriel drove to Starbucks. River Forest wasn’t the kind of place where you were likely to find a nice little generic coffee shop. Which was fine, because I was craving a mocha and espresso brownie about as much as I’d been craving sushi.

We ate outside. It wasn’t perfect weather for it—a little windy, which in Chicago-speak means gusts that will snatch your newspaper but not your breath. It was overcast though, so we had the patio to ourselves.

I told Gabriel what Evans had said about him. He only snorted as he ripped a chunk from his muffin.

“Seems he did a background check on you when you first started sniffing around,” I said. “Allegations of drug dealing. Assault with intent. Murder.”

“I didn’t go sniffing around.”

“That’s the only accusation that bothers you?” I shook my head. “Anyway, yes, he doesn’t trust you, so I can’t share this.” I waved the file.

“Judging by the noises you made while reading it, I presume there’s something useful in there.”

That breeze gusting past seemed to turn to an icy blast. I shivered.

“Is it that bad?” Gabriel’s voice dropped.

“Do you have siblings?”

“No.”

“Me neither, but I still can’t imagine…” I trailed off and yanked my gaze from the folder.

He waved at my drink and snack. “Chocolate therapy?”

“Yes. A cliché, I know. But it works for me.” I pushed the folder over to Gabriel. “There’s no way you can help me on this investigation without reading that. So enjoy.” I paused. “Or not.”

According to that file, Christian Gunderson may have broken the oldest taboo. If he hadn’t, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

It started when Christian was thirteen and Jan was twelve. They’d been goofing around—Jan swiped something of his and when he caught her, they started play-wrestling and … well, it may not be a good idea to play-wrestle with your thirteen-year-old brother. From what I recall of that age, guys can get “stimulated” by rubbing against pretty much anything. Not their fault. It’s just hormones, and I’m sure it’s embarrassing as hell, especially when it’s your sister you’re rubbing against.

I’d think the natural reaction to that would be shame and humiliation. You’d feel like a pervert, even if it was a purely physiological response and didn’t mean you thought of her “that way.” Except that wasn’t what happened. Not according to Jan. Christian had his “reaction” and freaked out a little, but she pretended not to notice what happened. A mature response. When Jan feigned innocence, though, Christian seemed to think it meant she was okay with it. Evans didn’t speculate on Christian’s thought process. Jan was his patient and all he cared about was her reaction, her emotional fallout.

Was Jan ever a willing participant? She never said. How far did it go? Evans didn’t push. All he knew was that at fifteen, she’d gone to spend the summer with her grandmother and ended up staying with her for almost a year. When she came back, she’d told Christian to keep his hands off her or else.

That should have ended it. Instead, his physical advances turned to protestations of love. He loved her and, yes, it was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. That continued until she left for college. When she returned, things seemed to have changed. Now Christian was actively trying to set her up with Tim Marlotte. Jan agreed to date him and soon they were engaged and all was fine … until she dumped Marlotte for Peter Evans.

I’d wondered why Christian would push his sister on a friend he might have always suspected was gay. Now I knew. Because Marlotte was safe. Christian was sharing her without really sharing her and someday Jan would come to him, frustrated—emotionally and sexually—and he’d be there for her.

Gabriel read the file in silence.

I suspect Gabriel Walsh could read murder files all day and not bat an eye. He didn’t bat one now, but his hands tightened around the folder and his lips tightened, too, and when he set the file down he opened his mouth … and nothing came out.

“Yep, pretty much my reaction, too,” I said, then told him my theory about Jan, Christian, and Tim Marlotte.

“It explains why Christian would be furious when Jan broke it off with Marlotte,” I said. “Especially when she took up with Pete Evans, an attractive younger guy who seemed to be crazy about her. Christian reaches a boiling point, they argue, and he accidentally kills Jan in a rage. Then he kills Pete and stages it to look like the recent killings of young couples. Or Pete’s his target, Jan catches him, and they fight. He kills her and stages it.”

“Plausible, but don’t get too wrapped up in specifics, Olivia. If you’re convinced you know who did it and why, you’ll ignore other possibilities.”

“Right. Thanks. So we should…?”

“Make notes of the theories, then speak to Dr. Evans again. He seems to expect that.”

“He does.”

“Good.”

Gabriel checked his e-mail while walking to the car. He did that a lot, as if the mere act of locomotion wasn’t sufficient use of his time. Sometimes he tapped out a quick reply; sometimes he called Lydia; sometimes he simply seemed to skim his inbox. Only once had I seen him react to his messages—when he’d learned Niles Gunderson was dead. Now, as he slowed to read something, my gut clenched.

“Niles Gunderson was murdered,” Gabriel said before he opened the car door.

“What?”

My surprise was absolutely genuine, but I still felt him studying me over the roof of the car. He even raised his shades, those pale eyes pinning me.

“What?” I said again.

He motioned me into the car. When the doors were closed, he made no move to start the engine, just turned to me, glasses off now.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me, Olivia? About this?”

I blinked. “What would—? You think I killed—”

“No.” The word came quick and firm. Then he paused. “You wouldn’t murder anyone in cold blood. An accidental killing in self-defense? I could see that. Yet if that were the case, I would have realized it when I first told you he was dead. You’re a decent actor, but we need to work on your instinctive reactions.”

He was right, of course. Just this morning, I’d given myself away to Evans once, caught off guard.

“Niles Gunderson was murdered by his neighbor,” Gabriel said. “Poisoned, it seems, over a disputed poker game. The man confessed. Senselessly, considering that the coroner had already ruled it a natural death. In light of the confession, they delayed the funeral, tested Gunderson’s body, and confirmed the story. The man will spend the remainder of his natural life in prison. But at least he’ll have a clear conscience.”

Sarcasm and contempt twisted through that last sentence and, without thinking, I found myself nodding.

“On the subject of Niles Gunderson and confession, though, is there something you’d like to tell me, Olivia?”

“Relieve my guilty conscience?”

“No. Whatever it is, you don’t seem to feel guilty. But you are troubled.”

Damn it. The man might claim to have inherited none of his aunt’s second sight, but he had an eerie ability to read people.

I shook my head. “It’s nothing I’d burden you with.”

“Burden?” He said the word as if he wasn’t familiar with it. “I’m your lawyer, Olivia. You could tell me that you murdered Niles Gunderson, and I would only offer to handle your defense should you be charged.”

“And it wouldn’t bother you? If I killed an old man because … I don’t know, because he attacked me at home and I wanted revenge?”

I expected him to say that I was his client and what I did was of no personal concern to him. Instead, he spent a couple of minutes considering the matter.

“Yes,” he said finally. “If that was your rationale, it would concern me.”

“Because you’d be working with a psychopath?”

He seemed to think on that, too. “I suppose that could be a problem.”

“Just maybe, huh?”

“If you displayed murderous intentions, I’m sure I could take care of myself. The point, however, is moot, because you did not kill Niles Gunderson. Nor, I believe, would you have unless it was a matter of necessity. Yet when I told you the other day that he was dead, you didn’t seem surprised.”

I took a deep breath. “Because I wasn’t. I went to his apartment last Sunday. I was going to pretend to know Anna, in hopes of getting her contact information. I found Niles there. Dead.”

“I see.”

“The door was unlocked,” I said. “I thought … well, I thought maybe he was out and I could slip in and find Anna’s information.”

His nod was almost impatient, as if breaking into someone’s home was such a natural response to the situation that it didn’t warrant comment.

“I left him there,” I said. “I found him and I didn’t do anything about it.”

“You think you should have?”

Now it was my turn to pause and consider. “I think I should have felt worse about not doing anything. I think it shouldn’t have been so easy to just leave him there.”

“Had you called me, I would have advised you to do exactly as you did. Witnesses saw him confront you only days before. You broke into his apartment. Even if his death appeared natural, there would have been questions. You instinctively made the right move, and I’m pleased to see it.”

Which was not particularly comforting. I didn’t say that, of course. Just nodded and waited until he’d pulled from the parking spot before I asked, “About the murder, though. Does it seem weird to you? Poisoning someone over a poker game?”

“Yes,” he said. And nothing more.