Deceptions: A Cainsville Novel (23 page)

I
pored over Pamela’s file for a while longer before deciding to do some legwork. Traffic was good, and in thirty minutes I made it to my destination: the home of Jon Childs, the man Chandler had wanted us to kill.

I hopped out of the car and cut across the lawn, because whoever set up the underground sprinkler system apparently thought the walkway needed water instead. That’s when I kicked a sparrow.

A dead bird in your path is a sign to turn your ass around. There are few superstitions surrounding sparrows specifically, though, meaning the warning wasn’t exactly a red flag. Maybe burnt orange. I decided it meant there was something worth investigating here.

I knocked on Childs’s door. There were no flyers in the box now, but the town house was dark and no one answered. I rapped again . . .

“He’s out.”

The neighbor had a trowel in her hand and wore knee guards.

“He’s back from wherever he went,” she said. “But he just stepped out.”

“Oh. I . . .” I checked my watch.

“He’ll probably be home at any moment. Why don’t I fix you a coffee while you wait. I could use a break from the war of the weeds.”

“And I’d love to take you up on that, but I was just popping by on my way past. Thank you, though.”

My cell buzzed with an incoming text. I ignored it, and thanked the woman again before heading back to my car.

“I spoke to him about you,” she called after me.

Shit
.

“He said his sister has taken a turn for the worse, and she’s in care. He appreciated your concern and said if you stopped by, I was to ask for your number again. He’s misplaced it.”

So Childs knew my story was bullshit. Huh. I scrawled my number on a scrap of notepaper. As I handed it to her, my cell buzzed with another text.

“I really do need to run,” I said, “but please give him that and thank you for all your help.”

—

When I got to my car, I checked my phone. It was Gabriel. First message:
Where are you?
Second message:
Olivia . . 
.

I replied with one word:
Working
.

He responded immediately.
Where are you?

Out. Working.

Where?

Chicago.

His response took a moment. I imagined him starting to seethe, possibly hitting a wrong key or two, cursing me as he fixed it.

Olivia . . .

Gabriel . . .

I didn’t wait for a reply, just quick-typed:
I’m working on the case, as requested.

I didn’t tell you to leave.

Am I not allowed to leave?

Pause. Pause. Pause. Thinking through an answer. Well, no, I’m sure he didn’t need to think about it. His answer would be that I should be right where he left me just in case he needed me. However, being a smart man, he did not say that.

Where exactly are you?

In my car.

Five seconds. My phone rang.

I sent one last text.
Working the case. No time to chat. Talk later.

I turned off the ringer and left the phone vibrating in my bag as I pulled from the curb.

—

I drove to a little bungalow in Brighton Park. A ten-year-old van sat in the drive. I pulled in behind it, walked up to the stoop, and knocked. When the door opened, I was ready to stick my foot in the gap to keep it from slamming shut. I’ve seen Gabriel pull that trick many times. I suspect it works better with a size-twelve loafer.

Luckily, I didn’t need to risk bodily injury. The man took one look at me and said, “I wondered when you’d show up.” Then his gaze went to my Jetta. “Walsh isn’t with you, I take it.”

“He’s not.”

“Did they deny his bail?”

I shook my head. “He’s out. Just busy working on staying that way.”

The man nodded. “Strange business. But it always was.” He moved back. “Come on in.”

He backed his wheelchair into the kitchen. Detective Chris Pemberton. Retired a year ago, having spent eight years behind a desk after getting in the middle of a gang dispute and catching a bullet in the spine. Twelve years before that, he’d been the secondary detective on a career-making case. Ending a spree of horrific murders and putting the perpetrators behind bars. The Valentine Killers. My parents.

“Wife’s out,” he said. “I’m going to text and tell her to stay away for a while. She doesn’t like it when I talk about the case. I always wondered what happened to you. Adopted by the Mills and Jones department store guy.” He shook his head. “I’d say I was glad to hear it—you deserved something good after all that—but it seems things haven’t been too easy for you lately.”

“I’m doing okay.”

“Looks like it.” He pulled up to the kitchen counter. “Coffee? Tea?”

I said I’d take either, and he started fixing coffee as I settled in at the kitchen table. I’d presumed a detective who’d helped make the case would want nothing to do with me, which is why I’d come over unannounced. This wasn’t what I expected, and I couldn’t help bracing for trouble.

“I was there when they arrested your parents,” he said, getting cups from a low cupboard. “World-class fuckup, pardon my French. It should never have gone down that way. We were told you and your mom were away, and that Todd had guns. I never forgot the look on your face when the team broke in.”

“All I remember is that it was my half birthday,” I said. “We were going for a pony ride.”

When I saw his expression, I wished I hadn’t said that. He felt bad enough.

“It’s okay,” I added. “I forgot all about it until recently.”

“Maybe, but you never really forget. Any shrink would tell you that. Cream and sugar?”

“Cream, please.”

He poured it. I got up to retrieve my cup from the counter, but he waved me down. “I’ve got it. Nine years in this thing, and I’m a pro.”

He brought both coffees to the table. I thanked him and sipped mine.

“You have questions,” he said. “And since my partner has passed on, it’s down to me. What do you want to know?”

“Why they did it.”

He winced. “Ah, hon, of all the questions . . .”

“It’s the only one I need answered. The most important.”

“You think they’re guilty, then?”

I looked up, startled. “Don’t you?”

He took a long sip of his coffee before answering. “All the evidence pointed that way. I didn’t want to believe it. None of us did. We’d been to your house once, on a tip.”

“Where you pretended to be warning people about a rash of break-ins.”

“Yeah. We talked to your parents, and you were there, and we walked out thinking we were wrong, that it couldn’t have been your folks, and we were glad of it. No one wants to think that about a nice young couple with a cute kid. They were good parents. Whatever else they are, remember that. Anyone could see they loved you very much.”

“Thank you.”

“So did I believe they did it once the evidence piled up? I guess so. There wasn’t much of a choice. But when you and Walsh found that Chandler guy, I’ll be perfectly honest, I . . . I didn’t know what to think. There’s always been a part of me that hated that case. Hated what happened. That’s why my wife doesn’t like me talking about it. Too many sleepless nights, wondering if we’d put the right people in jail. Now that there’s doubt, I should be happy, right? It’s not like I’ll catch any fallout. I’m retired, and this”—he banged the chair’s side—“makes me a goddamn hero. No one’s saying I screwed up. They don’t dare.”

“But you aren’t happy we’ve raised that doubt.”

“I . . . I don’t know.” He paused. “You won’t want to hear this, but where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I cannot believe the system locked up two completely innocent people.”

“Which is why Gabriel Walsh and I are still investigating. Let’s say they did it. Why? I know motive is the prosecution’s concern, but you must have had theories.”

He sighed. “No, I didn’t. That was the toughest part. Why would they do it? It wasn’t about sex or thrills. I’ve seen my share of both. The prevailing theory, as you well know, was witchcraft.”

“You don’t believe that?”

He fingered his half-empty cup. “I always thought it was the best answer. The only sane answer, as insane as it was. But it still takes you back to the original question, doesn’t it? Why?”

I looked at him.

“Why conduct such a ritual?” he said. “No one seemed interested in answering that. I suppose, if they tried, they’d just list the usual reasons people commit regular old murder all the time. Money, power, revenge . . . But none of that fits your parents. Anyone who spent five minutes with them knew they weren’t interested in that. They only cared about each other. And of course—”

His gaze went to mine and he stopped himself, as he realized what he was about to say, to imply. That there were only two reasons the Larsens would commit murder. For each other. And for
me
.

I
f Gabriel was seething before, he’d hit a roiling boil when I refused to answer my phone. I wasn’t trying to piss him off, but the angrier he got, the more annoyed I got.

I texted him.
I really am working. I’m a big girl, Gabriel. I can handle this. Talk later.

I arrived at my next destination: lunch. I had one final stop on my schedule, and I needed sustenance for that one. I was eating a sandwich when my phone rang.

“Gabriel called you, didn’t he?” I said as I answered the phone.

“Yeah,” Ricky replied. “I’d say you must have seen an omen, but with Gabriel, you don’t need them. Apparently, you took off and can’t be trusted to survive alone in the big city.”

I answered that with a few choice words, then said, “I left to do some legwork, and apparently I forgot to ask permission and deliver my minute-by-minute itinerary. I’m not making a statement—I’m just trying to get some damned work done. I’ll text him.”

—

I sighed as I approached the prison’s front doors. “The point of texting to tell you where I was going was to assure you I was fine. It wasn’t an invitation to join me.”

Gabriel didn’t say a word, just bore down on me with a look that made me consider an end run around him. There were guards with guns inside. Surely they’d protect me.

“Stop right there,” I said, putting up my hand. “If you’ve come to give me hell, head back to your car and save it for morning.”

“Are you
coming
to work in the morning?” he asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t . . .” I trailed off. “You thought I quit?”

“I suggested you weren’t doing your job properly, and you walked out.”

“To
do
my job properly. I went out to speak to someone about the case. I told Lydia. I told you. And you thought what? That I’d swanned out, and I was sitting in a coffee shop, sipping a mocha, chortling to myself as I texted you pretending to work? How old do you think I am? Twelve?”

“I—”

“Don’t answer that. Here’s what I was up to: First, I tried to speak to Jon Childs. He wasn’t home, so I visited Chris Pemberton, following up on your question about motive. I hoped maybe he might have some insight. Then I came here to see Todd and get the answers that Pamela won’t give. It’s work, Gabriel. It’s
all
work.”

I strode past him. He followed. Sadly, the prison doors moved too slowly for me to slam them in his face.

“Does it help if I apologize?” he asked.

“Let me give you a tip,” I said as I turned. “If you feel an apology might work, you don’t ask if it will. That defeats the purpose.”

I started to walk away, but he swung into my path. He pulled off his shades.

“I’m sorry, Olivia. You were correct. I was under a great deal of pressure, but that was no reason to take it out on you. I apologize.”

When I hesitated, his eyes widened, as if frantically trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. Shades off, check. Eye contact, check. Sincere tone, check. Clear and unambiguous wording, check.

“I mean it,” he said finally. “I
am
sorry.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in the morning—”

“We haven’t spoken about your vision.”

“I thought I’d speak to Rose about it first.”

I wanted to tell Rose about Gabriel’s connection to Gwynn and get her opinion on how to tell him. I wasn’t punishing him. But his expression said that’s what he felt.

“I thought maybe you didn’t need the distraction,” I said.

“It’s not a distraction. It’s essential information for understanding the situation. We’ll discuss it over dinner. But first, you need to speak to Todd. I’d like to meet him as well.”

“Um . . .”

“Is that a problem?” His gaze met mine, that wall ready to fly back up.

I exhaled. “I guess not.”

It wasn’t the most enthusiastic response, but he pocketed his sunglasses and steered me down the hall.

—

Gabriel agreed to give me ten minutes alone with Todd. When they brought my father in and he saw me, he grinned, and when he did, I remembered what the little girl said: that he was Cwn Annwn. Of their blood. Like Ricky. When Todd grinned, I saw it. Not a physical resemblance, but something in the way his grin sparked, easy and genuine.

When my smile faded, his grin vanished. He quickened his pace to the window and leaned forward to murmur, “You don’t have to do this, Liv.”

“I’m fine. How are
you
doing?”

Todd tried to hide a smile, and I relaxed in a laugh. “Okay. Dumb question. Sorry. I’m not very good at this.”

“I’m fine,” he said as he sat. “I’d say that I was rereading a Sherlock Holmes collection, but that might sound like I’m trying too hard. So I won’t mention it.”

“You just did.”

“True, but I worded it in a way that I’m hoping will help me avoid looking like I’m trying too hard, while still giving us something to talk about. I read
His Last Bow
. It’s horrible.”

I laughed again. “It is not horrible. Maybe not his best—”

“Horrible. He should have quit while he was ahead. Yes, I know, the fans wouldn’t let him, and he felt he had to bring Holmes back after Reichenbach Falls, but let’s face it, it was about money, and it showed.”

“Okay, to some degree yes, but . . .”

We chatted comfortably about the later Holmes works until Todd glanced over my shoulder and then got to his feet.

“Mr. Walsh,” he said. “Good to finally meet you.”

I made a show of gesturing at my watch, to say it hadn’t been ten minutes, but Gabriel wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at Todd, his head slightly tilted. Was he recognizing the fae blood? Or was it what I’d felt on my first visit, that Todd simply wasn’t what he’d expected?

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Todd said.

Gabriel recovered then, pulling over a chair from the next window. “I’m sure you have,” he said in a tone that made Todd laugh.

“Yes,” Todd said. “Not all of it good, but what counts is that you’ve gotten closer than anyone to getting Pamela out of prison. Thank you for that. And for looking after Olivia.”

Gabriel tensed, as if expecting a trap.

“I know about the arrest,” Todd said. “Obviously you’re out, which is good. While I’m hoping that means charges were dropped . . .”

“They weren’t.”

“But it was obviously a setup,” Todd said. “Someone trying to make it look as if you were pinning James Morgan’s murder on the real Valentine Killer. Maybe connected to this man who admitted to killing the Evans and Gunderson kids? The one who took his own life last week.”

“Edgar Chandler. We’re working various angles, including that one.”

“Have you talked to . . . to my mother?” I asked.

“Not since I saw you. We speak a couple of times a month. After twenty years, there’s not much to say beyond ‘How are you doing?’ and, as you might imagine, the answer to that doesn’t change.”

“One reason I’m asking . . . I should warn you, before you speak to her again, she’s convinced Gabriel killed James.”

“What?”

“He didn’t,” I said quickly. “He wouldn’t. And he had an alibi. But even before he was arrested, Pam—my mother—”

“You can call her Pamela, Liv.”

I exhaled. “Sorry. It’s just—”

“You’ve had other parents for most of your life. I understand that. So before Gabriel was arrested, Pamela . . .”

“She told me he did it. Someone convinced her.”

He frowned. “Who?”

“She won’t say, but I’m sure it was a Huntsman. One of the Cwn Annwn.”

He hesitated, and that hesitation told me he knew exactly what I was talking about. That was one thing he didn’t have in common with Ricky—the ability to pull a charming smile and say, convincingly,
I don’t know what you mean
. Todd didn’t even try.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling. “So you know . . .”

“Cainsville, the hounds, the ravens, the owls, Tylwyth Teg, Cwn Annwn, Mallt-y-Nos, Matilda of the Night.” I met his gaze. “I don’t know everything, but I’m figuring it out. I know what you are. Cwn Annwn. The blood, anyway.”

He nodded slowly. “My father, apparently. I found out— Well, it doesn’t matter how I found out.”

“Maybe it does.”

He shook his head. “It might, sweetheart, but I can’t talk about it. Your mother . . .”

“But you’re like them. The Huntsmen. They hunt and kill, and their prey isn’t foxes and rabbits. Is that why you did it?”

There was genuine shock in his eyes. “What?”

“The thrill of the hunt. The need to hunt.”

“No. Absolutely not. I don’t— If there is any of that—any at all—I don’t feel it. I would never— I wouldn’t.”

“Tell me more, then. How did you find out about yourself, about me? What—”

“No, Liv.” He met my gaze. “If I know anything that will help Gabriel fight his charge, I won’t hold back. But my primary concern is protecting you. It always has been.”

“Is that why you did it? To protect me?”

I expected the same reaction. Shock, with the emphatic and immediate denials. Instead, he hesitated again, and my stomach clenched so hard I had to clamp my jaw shut before I hurled my lunch on the floor. When his denial came, I was already on my feet, staggering toward the door.