Omens (46 page)

It was a news article dated today. The police were searching for Josh Gray following a tip left by his girlfriend, Desiree … who’d jumped off a neighboring apartment roof yesterday evening, leaving a suicide note confessing to Gray’s murder.

“Desiree?” I said. “That … that’s not poss—” I stopped as I remembered the drop of blood on her shirt.

“Admittedly, it does seem unlikely,” Gabriel said. “She certainly gave no sign that she knew he was dead, much less had murdered him. To maintain that front when she was high would be extremely difficult. But as to why she would confess if she didn’t do it…” He shrugged. “I have no explanation. It would appear, though, that this
does
explain the death omen.”

No, it doesn’t
.

I knew that. Felt that. The omen was not about Gray or Desiree. But there was
something
there, an answer I wasn’t seeing.

I remembered Gabriel telling me about Niles Gunderson. I’d asked him if it seemed strange—Niles’s neighbor poisoning him over a poker game.

I’d found two bodies. Two men who might have had answers I needed. Both dead. Both murdered by people completely unconnected to anything I was investigating. For reasons presumably just as unconnected.

It made no sense.

Yes, it does,
the little voice whispered.

But no matter how hard I racked my brain for a connection, I saw none. I glanced at the poppies again.

What are you trying to tell me?

My phone blipped, seeming so loud I jumped. I pulled it from my pocket. There was a voice mail.

“Evans,” I said. I lifted the phone and played his message.

“Olivia.” Evans’s voice was tight, almost breathy. “I just received your text message. I don’t think you understand the urgency of the situation. I absolutely must speak to you immediately. Please call me as soon as you receive this message.”

I replayed the message on speaker for Gabriel. As I did, I stared at the poppies. When the message ended, I said to Gabriel, “I need to go there. Now.”

G
abriel dropped me off a half mile away. I headed out, slowly, waiting until he was in position at the Evans house. Finally he called to say he was hidden in the yard, with a clear view into Evans’s office, where the doctor sat at his desk.

When I arrived, I had my gun in my jacket pocket, my hand resting inside, as casually as possible. The housekeeper answered my knock. As we walked to the office, Mrs. Evans passed and said hello. Seeing them, I relaxed. If anything nefarious was happening here, Evans would have made sure his wife and housekeeper were out of the house.

Evans greeted me, relieved that I’d finally arrived. When he offered coffee, I accepted. I sure as hell wasn’t drinking it, though—from everything I’d read on MKULTRA, sneaking drugs into beverages was one of their specialties.

“You said you have proof about Gabriel?” I said as I took the mug.

He nodded and laid a file folder on his desk. “Do you have a strong stomach, Olivia?”

“Strong enough.”

He opened the folder. On top was a mug shot of a woman. She looked in her forties, but was probably younger. As with Desiree, you could see the aging effects of drugs—the hard eyes, the thin face. No haunted look, though. This woman stared straight forward, chin up, light blue eyes fixed in a look I knew well.

“Gabriel’s mother.”

“Yes, Seanna Walsh. And this is the autopsy photo of the woman found in the empty building. I warn you, she’d been there for weeks before she was discovered.”

“I know.”

The body was not pretty. Decomposed. Scavenged. Naked on a morgue slab.

Was it Seanna Walsh? Given the condition of the body, there was no way to be completely certain without DNA. Still the wavy black hair and the shape of the face and body seemed to fit.

The proof that she’d been moved could be seen on crime scene photos—drag marks in the dirt, the position of the body, haphazardly covered, postmortem bruises.

Evidence of murder? That was tougher. According to the report, the needle had gone in awkwardly, suggesting someone else injected her. Given that Seanna was an experienced drug user, Evans’s private eye had said it was unlikely she’d OD’d.

As I read, my gaze kept being pulled to a crow fluttering outside the window. Only one, which should have been fine, but if it was at a window, that was different. Another omen of death.

I clutched the warm coffee mug and struggled to keep my attention on the report, but I kept feeling the pull of that crow. Kept thinking about the poppies by the road.

Was it a warning that I was in danger here? That Evans was plotting something?

Or a warning that I wasn’t viewing this evidence with a clear and disinterested mind? I didn’t want Gabriel to be guilty. In my gut, I was certain he wasn’t because…

Because I trust him.

Dear God, had I actually just thought that? I
trusted
Gabriel Walsh? The guy I knew was capable of pretty much anything to get what he wanted? The guy who’d already betrayed me once? This was the man I trusted over a respected, elderly psychologist who’d never been anything but helpful?

I liked Evans. In spite of my feelings about shrinks and even in spite of his involvement in MKULTRA, I liked him. I just thought he was mistaken about Gabriel.

I trusted Gabriel. At least in this. There was no rhyme or reason for it. No logic. My gut told me he was not trying to frame Evans. The scheme was too complicated; bringing me into it was too risky.

Evans continued, “I know I said earlier that I wasn’t certain of Mr. Walsh’s motives, but I’m convinced now that it seems to be blackmail. As I said, I believe he is not unfamiliar with the concept.”

When I didn’t argue, Evans frowned, leaning forward. “You do know his reputation, don’t you, Olivia? You seem to take this all very calmly, which leads me to believe you don’t think he’s capable of committing a crime.”

Sure he was. Lies, deception, threats, blackmail, drugs, assault … they were all tools in Gabriel’s arsenal. From the way Evans was studying me, I wasn’t reacting appropriately.

“Olivia?”

“I-I don’t know what to think,” I said, injecting as much uncertainty into my voice as I could. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you believe he’s trying to frame me?” Evans asked. “For the murder of my son?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you believe I’m capable of murdering my son?”

My surprise then was genuine. “No, people don’t—”

“They do, Olivia.”

“But not for something like this. There was a senate hearing on MKULTRA. It’s part of history. If your son found out, it wouldn’t matter.”

“Yes, it would. But not in the way Gabriel seems to think.” He folded his hands on the desk. “I am ashamed of that part of my life and would have hated for my son to know about it. That’s why his mother and I agreed to keep it a secret.”

“So Peter never found out.”

“No.”

“Actually he did. Peter found out just before he died and he told Josh Gray.”

“Who?”

One word. That’s all it took. One single syllable and with it, I knew Evans was lying, and I felt a thud in my gut. I’d wanted to believe he had nothing to do with this. Really wanted to believe it, so much that I’d barely dared entertain the possibility.

I’d been wrong.

“Josh Gray,” I said. “Peter’s best friend.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t know all my son’s friends, and I’ve forgotten those I did—”

“Josh called you yesterday.”

A shot in the dark, but Evans went very still.

“We confirmed the phone records,” I lied as I set my coffee on the desk. “By the way, would you try this? It tastes off.”

“Wh-what?”

“My coffee. It doesn’t taste right.”

He looked at my cup and when he did, I could tell he knew exactly what I was talking about, and if I’d entertained any last shred of doubt, it died there. Evans was involved. My coffee was dosed. I was in danger. I tried to keep my breathing steady.

Where was my gun?

In my jacket. Which was on the back of my chair. I could get to it if I needed to, but there was no way to do so quickly, not without Evans noticing. My cell phone was in my jeans pocket, which meant there was also no way to discreetly text Gabriel. I had to play this out.

“My coffee tastes wrong,” I said. “I think the cream’s bad.”

A soft exhale of relief. “Oh, of course, I’m sorry. I misheard. I’ll get Maria to pour you a fresh cup. Now, about this friend of Peter’s, Josh Gray. I’m sure there’s been some mistake.” He paused, as if considering. “Gabriel told you this, didn’t he? About Gray and the phone records.”

Before I could answer, the phone rang. He glanced down at the call display. Consternation crossed his face. “I’m sorry, Olivia. I do need to take this.”

He rose to carry the cordless phone elsewhere so he could speak privately. I rose, too, leaning over the desk to see who was calling.

E. Chandler
showed on the base unit call display.

Evans looked startled by my rudeness.

The phone had stopped ringing. He set it back in the base. “I suppose Maria or my wife got it. They’ll take a message.” He cleared his throat and looked about, as if he’d momentarily forgotten where he was. After a long pause, he lowered himself into his chair. “As we were saying…”

The door opened. Evans jumped. Then he let out a breath as the housekeeper walked in. She carried a plate of cookies.

“Thank you, Maria,” Evans said. “That’s very thoughtful. Before you go, there seems to be a problem with Ms. Jones’s coffee. Could you please—?”

Maria dropped the tray. As it clattered to the desk, I noticed something gripped in her hand. My brain didn’t have time to fully process the image before I heard the shot.

Evans’s face exploded in a shower of blood. As his chair toppled backward, Maria put two more bullets into him.

There was a moment where I didn’t react. Couldn’t react. I just stood there, frozen in shock.

Evans’s housekeeper just
shot
… No, that wasn’t … Couldn’t be…

But it was. It took only a split-second for the shock to crumble. For me to realize, without a doubt, what had just happened. That Evans’s middle-aged housekeeper had shot him. That he was dead. That she was still holding the gun. That I’d witnessed a murder.

I grabbed my jacket from the chair, fumbling to pull out my gun—

Maria pivoted toward me, her face and blouse spattered with blood, her face empty. Again there was a second where my brain just seized up. Her expression was so terrifyingly blank that I couldn’t quite comprehend it. Then I saw the gun rise.

I hit the floor as she fired. I’d lost my grip on my jacket, and it lay a few feet away.

I rolled just as Maria fired again. Then I sprang for her legs and knocked them out from under her. The gun went off. Probably dumb luck that the bullet didn’t hit me. And that my assailant was double my age and twice my weight. She fell like a rock.

The gun flew from her hand. It sailed across the room. I started to go after it, then stopped.

That’s the gun that killed Evans.

I couldn’t touch it.

I kicked the gun under the desk and went for my own, still in my jacket. Maria scrambled after her gun. I pulled out mine and trained it on her.

“Stop,” I said.

It was as if she didn’t hear me. She just dropped to her hands and knees, and reached under the desk.

I stepped closer. “I said
stop
!”

Not even a flicker of expression crossed her face. There was a gun pointed right at her, an arm’s length away, and she just calmly retrieved her weapon. Then she pushed to her feet.

“Stop,” I said. “I swear if you lift that gun—”

She swung it up, right at me and—

I shot her. Point blank. In the chest.

She went down. I stood there, gulping breath.

I told you to stop. Why the hell didn’t you stop?

I forced myself to close that gap between us. I was sure she was dead, but when I stepped around her, I saw her face, eyes open, lips working, looking confused, as if wondering how she got on the floor.

My hands tightened on my gun, ready to fire again if she reached for hers. She didn’t. It was right beside her, and she just lay there, mouth opening and closing.

Was she dying?

I swallowed.

Should I help her?

I looked at Evans’s body, then back at Maria.

Why?

How?

It made no sense, but I couldn’t stop to think about that. Couldn’t stop to help her, either. I needed to get out of there.

I
kicked Maria’s gun out the door while checking back over my shoulder, making sure she wasn’t getting up.

“Olivia.”

Gabriel came around the corner, Chandler’s big .45 in hand. I gave Maria’s pistol another kick and he saw it. He bent to scoop it up.

“Don’t!” I said. “It was used on Evans. I don’t want to leave it where—”

He lifted it by the barrel.

“Or I could have done that.”

He caught my arm and tugged me into the living room as he whispered, “Shhh. The wife and housekeeper are still here.”

“We don’t need to worry about the housekeeper. I…” I glanced down at the gun in my hands and swallowed. “I shot her. I think she’s dead. Or dying.”

He shot me a look. Quizzical. Confused.

“Okay…” he said slowly. He straightened. “We’ll handle this. We’ll say that Evans shot himself, and she walked in—”

“No, she shot Evans.”

Full-blown “Huh?” on his face now, and I realized that whatever he’d seen from his post, it wasn’t enough to understand what had happened. That’s why he’d been bewildered when I said I’d shot the housekeeper. He didn’t know why, and that was his reaction. Not horror or shock. Just confusion.

Footsteps sounded in the next room. Mrs. Evans. She must have heard the shots. Yet she didn’t seem to be running. Just heading this way.

Gabriel still had hold of my wrist, and his grip tightened as he looked around the living room.

He started shoving me toward the sofa. “Get behind it. I’ll handle this.”