He was equally pleased by how quickly she’d handed over that file, despite Evans’s warnings. She seemed to trust him in a professional capacity, which would make their partnership much easier.

To his surprise, it was indeed becoming a partnership. There was a reason he ran his own law firm. All right, there were several. But one of them was the simple fact he didn’t play well with others. They brought too much baggage to the table, petty annoyances like morals and ethics.

While Olivia certainly had those, she’d demonstrated a capacity to nudge them aside when the situation demanded it. He’d seen a glimmer of ruthlessness there, which cemented his own growing sense that he could actually work—and work well—with Olivia Taylor-Jones.

He checked his watch. Enough of that or he wouldn’t get out early after all. He popped open his briefcase and dropped in a last file.

When his cell phone rang, he considered letting voice mail pick up. But years of jumping every time his phone rang, praying for work, had conditioned him well. He’d check caller display and if it wasn’t urgent . . .

Olivia.

Almost certainly not urgent, but he still found himself answering.

“Hey, is this a bad time?” she asked.

He clicked his briefcase shut. “Not at all.”

“Did you get your verdict?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Guilty. He’s off to jail for twenty years.”

“Hey, at least he didn’t get the death sentence. Illinois still has that, as my research into the Larsens taught me. I thought we’d gotten rid of it.”

“Probably because there was a moratorium on it for the last decade. And, actually, it is now illegal. It was abolished last year.”

“Ah, well, at least your client didn’t get life, then. So how’d he take it?”

Gabriel paused. Olivia didn’t make small talk, which may be one of the reasons he found working with her less than painful. That meant she was expressing an interest in his work because she wanted something.

And yet . . . He didn’t mind telling her about the case. She’d seemed genuinely interested in it earlier, in a purely intellectual way, divorced from any actual feelings about a man who’d murdered his longtime business partner and tried to dissolve the body. That was refreshing.

And it wasn’t as if he was rushing off to anything. He did have plans for the evening. Dinner with a potential client at seven. Then a game of one-on-one with an assistant DA who seemed to think Gabriel needed friends, and that by filling the void, he might earn insight into Gabriel’s cases and win a promotion. To get that information, though, the young lawyer realized he ought to give some in return, which was making it a very profitable relationship for Gabriel.

He sat back in his desk chair, and told Olivia how the case had ended. As they talked, his phone beeped, telling him he had another call coming in. He checked the display. Martin Lores. He ignored it.

At last he said, “I should probably let you go. I was just leaving.” And waited.

“Right. Actually, um, sorry about this, but could you do something for me first?”

He felt his lips twitch in a small smile. She was good at this.

“Yes?” he said.

“You mentioned you have research notes on the ritualistic aspects of the Larsen killings. Expert opinions.”

“I do.”

“Could I get those? I’ve been doing some research here and I . . . might have found something.”

He let the chair snap upright. “What?”

A laugh. Almost teasing. She was obviously in a good mood, and when she was, that side of her came out—warm and quick-witted.

“I’d . . . rather not say just yet.”

He imagined her eyes flashing as she said it. Definitely teasing. “If you don’t say, then you don’t get the files.”

“Oh, come on. Give me the chance to look exceedingly clever. And to avoid making a complete fool of myself by telling you, then reading the files and discovering I’m completely off-base.”

“Hmm.”

“I could let you do the research instead,” she offered.

“No, thank you.”

She laughed. “Didn’t think so. So, can I have them? Please?”

Now he really did smile. When Olivia wanted something from a man—whether it was information or extra whipped cream on her mocha—her contralto voice took on a husky note. She didn’t even seem to be aware she was doing it. A fascinating bit of learned behavior.

Not that it worked on him. A lawyer couldn’t afford to be susceptible to female clients, so he’d developed an immunity early on. Which was useful, working with Olivia, who was undeniably attractive, in an intriguing variety of ways.

Still, there was no reason not to give her the files. He turned his computer back on.

“I’m e-mailing them now,” he said. “With any luck, they’ll be more useful to you then they were to me.”

“Got ’em,” she said after a moment. “So I’ll talk to you—Oh, wait. You said you’d arranged interviews for later this week. Who was it again? I should do some research on them, too.”

He chuckled. “You can do all the research you like. I’ll e-mail you the names now.” He did that, too.

“Damn, you’re good. Okay, then. Thanks and have a good night.”

She hung up. He was just about to put the phone into his pocket when it rang again. Lores. What the hell did he want? Gabriel checked his watch, hesitated, and answered.

He’d barely gotten a hello out before Lores spilled his story, peppered with so many anxious apologies that it took Gabriel a few moments to realize what he was saying. When he did, he knew why Olivia had called for those files.

Damn.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

It had been three when I called Gabriel. That meant he would probably knock on my apartment door by about four fifteen. Unless Lores didn’t tell Gabriel he’d screwed up. But Lores seemed smart enough to realize his mistake wouldn’t go undetected for long. He’d confess before Gabriel found out so he could smooth things over.

Gabriel would realize this was too serious for a phone call. He’d come in person to tell me it was all a misunderstanding and, really, I was making too big a deal out of it.

Four fifteen, then.

I checked my watch. Four twenty-five. I dug into my meat loaf as Gordon Webster—who owned the hardware store—stopped by my table to say hello. How was the meat loaf? Was I working tonight? He thought it was my night off. It was a little creepy that people were following my schedule, but Gordon was this side of forty, recently divorced, and Ida claimed he’d been coming to the diner a whole lot more since I started. That was fine. He was a nice enough guy, and he tipped well.