“Which was?”

“I have no idea. It was a comment gathered during initial interviews, and the police didn’t pursue it because the friend claimed Peter never actually told him what he learned.”

“You think the friend lied?”

“I read the transcript. His language suggests he did know and was waiting for the police to get it out of him.”

“Make him talk, so he wouldn’t be responsible for spilling his dead friend’s secrets.”

“Precisely. The detectives failed to see that. They’d made a note to return to it later. Then they arrested the Larsens and the interviews weren’t revisited.”

“Is the guy still around?”

Gabriel sipped his coffee.

“Okay,” I said. “Presumably he’s alive, but you aren’t going to give me anything that might help me find him myself. I probably still could, given my special new relationship with Peter’s father.”

“Yes, you could.”

I watched the cat travel to his food bowl. Then I looked back at Gabriel. “How much did Lores pay you?”

He sighed.

“I’d like an answer, please.”

“It was, as you guessed, not a significant amount. The point, Olivia, is that my clients are often the subject of media interest, with or without their permission. If I know a journalist willing to conduct an unbiased interview, then I do not believe I’m committing any ethical violation of my client’s trust by accepting payment for finding that journalist.”

“No, but you are if the client makes it very clear that she does not want the interview and you push her into it for monetary gain.”

“Not for monetary gain. You had agreed before changing your mind at the last minute. I have a relationship with Mr. Lores that I was unwilling to endanger by reneging—”

“Just tell me how much.”

He hesitated before saying, “Five hundred.”

“I want it. Not deducted from my bill. Not put against my laptop. Cash. Preferably twenties.”

He looked to see whether I was joking.

“To you, it’s nothing. To me, it’s more than a week’s wages. Give me the money. Stick to the terms of our original agreement. And don’t charge me for getting my medical records. Fair?”

He studied me. He didn’t seem to be weighing the offer. He just . . . studied me.

“I seem to recall that you have today off,” he said finally.

“I do.”

“I’ll set up an interview with Peter Evans’s friend.”

“Good. Then we’re back in business.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Gabriel called Peter’s old friend, a guy by the name of Josh Gray. He got a busy signal. While he waited to phone back, he suggested something else.

“Pamela has been calling my office,” he said. “She’s back in prison and would like to see you. She says she has new information, but I fail to see how that’s possible, given that she’s spent the last twenty years in a cell. She simply wants to see you. I am not averse to the idea.”

I said nothing, just sipped my coffee.

“Unless you are . . .” he said.

No. I wanted to see her, had all week and felt guilty for staying away. That was the problem.

“Do we have anything to ask her?” I said.

“I could come up with a few questions.”

In other words, he knew very well that I might like to see her and was providing the excuse. Damn, the man was full of gifts today.

I found my gaze sliding to the window. Looking for a sign. I shook it off and pulled my attention back.

“We’ll do that after we speak to Gray.”

Gabriel phoned back. This time, Gray answered. Gabriel introduced himself and said he was investigating the death of Peter Evans, and Gray hung up on him. Which meant he was about to get an unexpected visitor or two.

• • •

Englewood has some decent sections. Gray didn’t live in—or even near—any of them.

Gabriel found a monitored lot nearly a mile away, gave the parking attendant a healthy tip to watch the car, and promised to double it if we returned to find the Jag unscathed.

“Would have been cheaper to take a cab,” I said.

“I don’t take cabs.”

I shook my head. Then I stopped. A murder of crows perched on a dead tree. The old rhyme played in my head.

One for bad news,

Two for mirth.

Three is a wedding,

Four is a birth.

Five is for riches,

Six is a thief.

Seven, a journey,

Eight is for grief.

• • •

There were eight crows.

Gabriel noticed me staring at the birds.

“Olivia?”

“Sorry.” I yanked my gaze away. “So how do you want to handle the interview?”

• • •

We continued on, passing people that I’d have normally crossed the road to avoid—even with a gun in my purse. But they all steered clear. That may have had something to do with the big guy in shades walking at my side.

We reached the walk-up apartment. An unconscious drunk lay on the stoop, his hand extended, fingers poised as if he’d been holding something. Probably his keys. They were long gone. So was everything of value in his apartment by now, I’d bet.

As we climbed the stairs inside, I saw a dead crow on a landing. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, but I kept going.

I’d seen the poppies a few days ago, and Pamela hadn’t died. Or had it been a warning that she was in danger? I scowled and rubbed my neck again. That’s how superstitions thrive—you see a so-called omen, and when it doesn’t come true, you find another event that fits . . . if you ram that square peg into the round hole.

We knocked on Gray’s door. A woman answered, and I was glad I’d suggested Gabriel stand back. I’d worked at the shelter long enough to recognize an addict—the haunted expression, the gaunt face, the telltale tracks. Despite the obvious wear and tear on her body, she was decently groomed and had some color in her cheeks. A recovering addict? Either way, she wouldn’t respond well to a guy who could pass for DEA.

“Hi,” I said, flashing my friendliest smile. “I’m looking for Josh Gray. I’m a friend of his sister, Terri.” Gabriel’s background check had turned up a half sister in her early twenties.