Omens (15 page)

She came out bearing a tray of steaming plates. A couple across the diner looked up expectantly. She nodded and moved a little faster. As she rounded the corner to our aisle, Ida’s cane fell. It didn’t drop with a clatter, just silently slid to the floor.

Margie didn’t notice. No one seemed to notice. Margie was heading straight for it. I looked around. The writer caught my gaze. He looked at the cane, then back at me, smiling slightly, as if in challenge.

I glanced at Margie. Her expression was determined, but her nostrils were flared, her eyes a little too wide. Anxious. Exhausted, too, if the circles under her eyes were any indication.

I took another swig of coffee and lifted the menu. I thought I heard the writer chuckle. I didn’t, of course—he was too far away and the clatter of plates and murmur of voices would have drowned him out.

Margie tripped over the cane. Not just a stumble, but a full-out sprawl that sent the plates crashing to the floor, oatmeal splattering everywhere, including on the two diners who’d been awaiting their breakfasts.

Larry ran from the back, apologizing as he handed the customers damp towels and promised to cover dry cleaning. Margie picked herself up, babbling about the cane. I quietly slid from the booth and cleared away the broken bowls and plates.

“You’re fired,” Larry said, spinning on Margie. “Go on. Get your things. I’ll send over your last check.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” she protested.

“It never is. Get out.”

She started to say something else, but a glare from Larry shut her up, and she slunk away. Larry bent to help me with the broken dishes. “You still looking for a job, miss?”

Larry needed me to start right away. Fortunately, it was only until lunch, when the other server—Susie—could take over. I say “fortunately” because, while I may have been able to draft funding proposals and counsel abused women and prepare keynote speeches, when it came to taking orders and serving tables I was about as competent as your average five-year-old. Maybe less.

I took it slow and steady, not carrying too much, and writing down every order—complete with a numbered map of tables and descriptions of the diners—so I wouldn’t screw up. Luckily the breakfast rush was over before I began. Otherwise I might have been on the street competing with Margie for employment.

I took Grace back an extra-large steaming coffee and two scones. I returned her money, because I’d been late, but she still grumbled.

What she didn’t mention—and I’m sure she knew—was that I’d had a visitor. I opened my door to find a business card slipped under it. On the back, in thick strokes, someone had written: “In case you misplaced the last one.”

I turned it over. Gabriel Walsh. I tossed the card into the trash with the first and headed into the apartment. I sat at the dinette and took out the notes I’d made at the library—the list of things I needed to compile to apply for permission to learn where the prison system had stashed Todd Larsen.

It was not a short list.

I thought of spending months waiting for the forms and background checks. Months of nightmares, bureaucratic and otherwise. And what if, after all that, Todd Larsen refused to see me?

Pamela was an hour away, and she did want to see me. There had to be a way.

I glanced down the hall at the wastepaper basket, walked over, and took out Gabriel Walsh’s card.

A suitably sultry voice answered his office phone. I gave my name, and she checked to see if Mr. Walsh was in. Given that Grace said he was the only lawyer at his firm, one wouldn’t think she’d need to check, but she came back to tell me he was out. She would relay the message.

Twenty minutes later he returned my call. His timing was perfect—long enough so he didn’t seem too eager, not so long that I might change my mind about speaking to him.

“I’d like to reconsider your offer,” I said. “I’m still not convinced it’s something I’m prepared to do but … I’ll hear you out.”

“How about dinner?”

“Actually, before we talk, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”

He didn’t hesitate, as if reciprocity was to be expected. “What might that be?”

“I want to see my mother.”

It couldn’t have been easy to get permission, because two hours passed before I heard from him again. I suppose I should have felt guilty—making him do all this when I had no intention of reconsidering his offer. But as Grace said, men like Gabriel could be useful. And I was sure he wouldn’t hesitate to use me, too.

G
abriel had offered to pick me up, but while I could ill afford a taxi, I wasn’t spending an hour alone in a car with him. My cab was coming at three. I quickly showered and changed.

Before I stepped into the hall, I checked for powder at my door. I don’t know why I bothered. It wasn’t as if the stuff was going to mess up my dark pumps. But something compelled me to check, so I did.

Nothing. Still, I stepped over the spot. As I did, I heard a girl’s voice, raised in a singsong rhyme.

I looked down the hall. No kids. I hadn’t seen any in the building. In fact, I hadn’t seen much of anyone. Just a glimpse of a neighbor or two, ducking in or out, usually too quick for more than a “good day.”

Children, though, were rarely so quiet, meaning I was pretty sure there weren’t any living here. Something told me Grace wouldn’t allow it. The girl must be outside then. As I started down the stairwell, though, I could hear a child skipping along a hallway below, the irregular
tap-tap
of little shoes as she sang.

“Wednesday’s child is full of woe,” I whispered, then stopped myself.

Well, at least it wasn’t superstitious doggerel. Not really. As her voice faded, I struggled to remember the rest of the poem. Which one was Friday? That was my day. Loving and giving, wasn’t it? Proof that it really was just a poem, considering what I’d done to Margie that morning.

When I reached the second floor, I could hear the tapping of the girl’s shoes clearly as she skipped back my way.

I opened the hall door to pop my head in and say hello. The
tap-tap
came closer, her voice high and clear.

The hall was empty.

I blinked and looked both ways. No girl. No singing. No skipping.

I backed into the stairwell again. Everything stayed quiet. I let the door close.

I yanked open the door just as the last word faded. I stepped into the hall and looked around. It was just like my corridor—a short one with two doors on each side, all four shut tight. I strained to pick up the sound of singing from any of the rooms, or coming through a window, but that churchlike hush blanketed everything.

I turned to go.

“What’s Thursday’s child, Mommy?”

I spun, the words still seeming to hang in the air. An empty hall stretched out in both directions.

“Thursday’s child has far to go,”
a woman’s voice answered.

“That’s me!”
the girl giggled.
“I have far to go.”

The woman laughed.
“You do indeed, my Eden. You do indeed.”

I hurried into the stairwell.

I made it to the front door, grabbed the handle and was about to push it open when I was yanked by…

Gabriel Walsh. He was opening the door, one hand on the knob, the other on his sunglasses. Seeing me, he left his glasses on and stepped back to wave me out.

I took a moment to regain my composure before looking up at him. “I told you I didn’t need a ride.”

“No, you said you didn’t want one. Considering the cost of a fare and the fact that you’re apparently working as a waitress”—did I imagine it or did his lips twitch?—“I decided you do need it.”

“I have a cab coming.” The only vehicle in sight was his Jag, purring in front of the building.

“I told him you wouldn’t be needing his services.” He closed the door behind me. “Our appointment is at four. That’s the latest I could make it.”

In other words, ride with him or don’t go at all. Damn him.

I looked up. He hadn’t gotten any smaller. I’m not usually intimidated by men of any size, but those sunglasses made me anxious. Silly, I know, but unsettling all the same. As was the hint of a smile on the visible part of his face. Amused? Mocking? Insolent? I couldn’t tell without having his eyes to complete the picture.

He reached into his suit pocket, took out his cell phone, and handed it to me.

“You can put 911 on speed dial.”

Okay, definitely mocking.

He steered me toward the car. “If it makes you feel better, you can call the CPD and ask about me. You won’t hear anything flattering, but they’ll admit I’ve never been accused of assaulting anyone.” A pause as he opened the passenger door for me. “Well, not any clients.”

I slid into the cool interior. The sharp smell of new leather and strains of Bach swirled around me. As Gabriel got in, I braced myself for the sales pitch, but he only turned up the stereo and roared from the curb.

He didn’t say a word for the first half of the trip, which was good because, considering how fast he drove, I really preferred he kept his attention on the road. When he whipped past a cruiser, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

“We’re fine,” he said. “I drive this route regularly. They used to pull me over, but it got tedious. Now I offer a generous contribution to their annual fund-raiser, and we call it even.”

“Nice.”

“Efficient.”

We fell back into silence.

Zooming along the highway, I managed to close my eyes and soon realized I was enjoying the rumble of the road beneath me, the sensual perfection of Bach coming from the car’s stereo, the rich smell of fine leather. I also realized I felt safe for the first time in four days. Cocooned in a world I knew.

“Safe” probably wasn’t the right word to use with a man like Gabriel in the driver’s seat, but even he seemed to add to the ambience, like a tacit chauffeur who could play bodyguard in a pinch.

He didn’t speak until we were within sight of the prison gates. Then he pulled onto the shoulder and sat there, hands on the wheel, gaze forward, car idling.

Now it was coming. The sales pitch, delivered before we passed those gates. Damn. I’d gotten so close, too.

After a moment, he said, “What do you know about Pamela Larsen, Ms. Jones?”

“Olivia, please.”

He glanced over then. Even if I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew the look—telling me he wasn’t falling for that. This was all business, and if I was being friendly, I had an ulterior motive.

“Olivia, then,” he said. “What do you remember of your mother?”

“A week ago, I’d have said nothing. But I’ve been remembering things. I’m not sure if they’re real.”

“And you want to see if she’s what you remember?”

“I want to face her.”

“Face her.” He rolled the words out, considering them. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“You think I shouldn’t?”

“That wouldn’t be in my best interests.” He swung the car back onto the road. “And clearly you are resolved on the matter.”

Gabriel said nothing as he parked. Nor as we got out of the car. He just silently steered me in the right direction.

Having him beside me was a comfort as I approached the looming jail. Again, I knew that was silly. I was hardly in danger of being jumped by rioting prisoners. But right or wrong, as I listened to the distant clang and imagined a cell opening, imagined Pamela Larsen coming out to meet me, having a silent monolith at my side did make me feel better.

As we approached the doors, I said, “You asked what I know about her. Is there something you want to tell me?”

He said nothing. I thought he was considering, but we went through two doors and he didn’t say another word.

“If there’s something I should know about her, I’d like to hear it.”

He made a noise in his throat, as if he preferred to keep silent on the subject but couldn’t quite bring himself to say there was nothing I should know. I glanced over, in the vain hope of seeing an actual expression. Instead, I forgot what I’d been asking.

He must have taken off his sunglasses when we’d come in. To say he had blue eyes sounds so innocuous that I’m reluctant even to name the color. They were ice. Not cool in that sexy way that sends delicious shivers down your spine. I mean cold. Completely and utterly cold.

The irises were such an unnaturally pale blue that for a second I thought they weren’t real. Couldn’t be real. They must be colored contacts meant to throw a prosecutor or reluctant witness off balance. But this wasn’t the kind of color you could get from contacts.

The edges of the irises were dark. Blue, I suppose, but I didn’t look close enough to be sure. The impression I got was of black rings around pale irises. Black lashes, too, so thick and long that they should have been gorgeous frames to a pair of remarkable eyes. They weren’t. The contrast between the dark pupils, the dark lashes, and those odd dark rings set against the pale irises and whites was too unsettling.

Dear God, was I crazy? This might be the most terrifying thing I’d ever done in my life, and the only person I had for support was this man? This complete stranger I couldn’t even look in the eyes?

“Yes?” he said.

“Nothing.”

I let him take the lead.

G
etting inside took a while. Finally they escorted us to a room with a table and three chairs.

I paused inside the doorway. “So she’ll just … come in here?”

“Is that a problem?” Gabriel asked as he headed for a chair.

“No, I just thought there’d be a barrier.”

He turned those cold eyes on me. I must have flinched. I saw it on his face, and I was sure what would come next. A look of amusement for a reaction he must get all the time. But his brows drew together in a frown, as if he didn’t understand why I’d pulled back. Then he turned away and sat before he said, “Would you
like
a barrier?”