Deceptions: A Cainsville Novel (31 page)

W
hen we left the Huntsman, I texted Gabriel a quick
You still up?
, which got an immediate
Of course.
I called and told him we had information and a lead. Gabriel didn’t even let me finish that sentence before naming a coffee shop halfway between his place and the clubhouse.

The coffee shop was surprisingly funky—surprising in that Gabriel knew of it. At one in the morning, most patrons were sitting alone, headphones on, chugging coffee, catching their second wind as they chased some deadline or other. Gabriel had taken a table and comfy chairs in a corner nook.

Three cups waited on the table. Gabriel’s coffee, of course. Black. A mocha for me, with slowly melting whipped cream. Black coffee for Ricky, too, with cream and sugar on the side. Apparently, buying him a coffee and knowing how he took it demonstrated the proper degree of consideration—fixing it for him would cross a line.

“Eventful evening?” Gabriel said as we sat down.

“I killed an elf,” Ricky said.

“A
dökkálfar
,” I said. “If I’m saying that right.”

“Which is why I’m sticking with elf.” He looked at Gabriel. “It was self-defense. It attacked.” He pointed to the bandage on his neck. “Elf bite.”

“Vampire elf?” Gabriel said.

“There is no such thing as vampires.” I turned to Ricky. “He keeps hoping for them, and he’s always disappointed.”

“I am not—” Gabriel began.

“Are too.”

He opened his mouth to retort and settled for, “You’re serious, then. About the . . .
dökkálfar
?”

“I wouldn’t lie about elves,” Ricky said.

“We were in the forest outside the clubhouse,” I said. “We got separated. Ricky was attacked by a dark elf who’d been posing as a hanger-on in the club. There were also
disir
.”

“Wights,” Ricky said.

“I like the foreign names. It makes these conversations mildly less ridiculous.”

“We’re still talking about being attacked by an elf.”

“True.”

“So I killed it,” Ricky said. “Killed
him
. I shouldn’t call him an it. Makes it sound better, less culpability, but yeah, it was still a guy, of some sort.”

“Who tried to murder us,” I said.

“True. Then the Cwn Annwn showed up,” Ricky said. “They’ve looked after the evidence. The remains, the knife. I’ll get Liv a new one as soon as possible.”

“You said this
dökkálfar
was passing as human? Is that a concern?”

“I doubt it,” Ricky said. “There was an incident at the clubhouse earlier. No one will expect him back. The Huntsman said he’d take care of the rest.”

“We should be fine,” I said. “I don’t think Illinois law covers elf-icide.”

Ricky found a smile for me. I knew it bothered him more than he let on. I’d pointed out earlier that I’d been the one who put the knife in Beau, but we both know that wasn’t what killed him.

“So why exactly did this
dökkálfar
attack
you
?” Gabriel asked.

“Taking out Liv’s bodyguard.” Ricky lied as smoothly as Gabriel, then redirected the flow. “I found out about myself, too. My heritage. I’m up to speed on all counts.”

Gabriel glanced at me.

“I told him the Matilda connection, too,” I said. “He needed to know why they all want me. Which leads back to the original purpose for this meeting. I know who offered my parents the deal, but that doesn’t tie things up as neatly as we might have hoped.”

—

As we talked, I e-mailed Detective Pemberton to see if he’d give me the name of Marty’s girlfriend. I gave him a story adjacent to the truth—that we had a good lead on someone who said she’d been involved.

Even without the name, Gabriel wanted to start digging, and I was fine with that. There’s no way I could have slept. Ricky had a presentation in the morning, so he took off.

Gabriel drove and we were halfway across the city before he said, “About what the Huntsman said . . . Your parents . . .”

“Hmm?” I said.

He fell silent, shaking his head.

I looked over. “I know you said it doesn’t matter if they’re guilty or innocent, you’ll still defend Pamela. This doesn’t change anything, then? Knowing she’s guilty?”

He drove another block, streetlights flickering through the car. “Under the circumstances, you might prefer I dropped the case. I would consider it if you did. But . . .” He rubbed his thumb on the steering wheel. “I don’t know what my decision would be.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for saying you’d consider it. And thanks for being honest.”

—

We spent the next few hours at the office combing through the first two pairs of murders again, hunting for a connection and finding none. When my yawning got too loud, Gabriel promised we’d leave soon, and suggested I rest in the chaise longue in the meantime. I did . . . and woke four hours later to find him still in his office chair, laptop shoved aside, arms folded on a stack of papers, his head on them. Sound asleep. He looked adorable. I considered taking a cell phone picture for future blackmail. I may even have done it, but I’ll admit nothing.

I went out and returned a half hour later. Gabriel woke when I placed a steaming coffee beside his head. He groaned as he opened his eyes. Groaned louder, pairing it with a wince, when he lifted his head.

“Yep, that’s going to hurt,” I said. “You should have taken the longue.”

“It was occupied.” He winced again as he pushed himself into a relatively upright position. “Even if it wasn’t, I don’t fit on it.”

Which was true. It looked as if it had never been used. He was too tall to sleep on it, but I’d bet he’d never even sat there. So why buy it? Another Gabriel mystery.

“Coffee,” I said, pushing it toward him. “Extra large.”

“Thank you.”

“And this.” I fished a vial of Tylenol from my bag. “For your neck. But don’t take it until you’ve eaten. Luckily, food is also provided.” I set down a box of four still-warm muffins. “Blueberry, banana nut, lemon poppyseed, and double chocolate. Your pick.”

He took the banana nut and set the double chocolate down by my coffee cup. I smiled. “Thank you.”

He leaned back with the muffin and coffee as I settled into the other chair. He eyed the painkillers but didn’t open them. I reached over, popped the lid, and shook out two.

“Your neck is hurting from sleeping like that. It’s only going to get worse. We may have a full day ahead. Take.”

He did.

“Thank you,” I said. “Now, when you’re feeling better, Detective Pemberton got back to me with a name.”

He looked up so fast he winced, pulling his neck again.

“Relax,” I said. “Let the meds kick in. It can wait.”

“You realize, as your employer, I legally have access to your e-mail.”

“I didn’t use my office one.” I smiled and let him simmer for a minute, just for fun. Then I said, “Imogen Seale,” and he was on his laptop in five seconds flat.

I waited until he said, “All right. I have—” Then I passed over my notebook, with Imogen’s current address and a page of notes.

“Early bird gets the scoop,” I said. “Eat, drink, let those pain meds do their work, and we’ll get out of here.”

We were heading out as Lydia arrived. I left the two remaining muffins on her desk. She said, “Good morning,” and refrained from comment on the early hour or the fact I wore an oversized Iron Maiden concert shirt, grabbed from the Saints clubhouse because mine had been stained with blood.

“It’s too early to buy a shirt, isn’t it?” I said to Gabriel as we walked down the front steps.

“At this hour, if you hope for business wear, yes. There are a few options, though. Nothing fashionable, but perhaps a little less . . .”

“Like I slept with an aging roadie, and he ripped my shirt off?”

A quirk of a smile. “Yes.”

“Lead on, then. I won’t ask how you know where to buy clean clothes at eight in the morning.”

T
he shirt came from a diner, a tee that advertised their business. Whch was better than what the other one seemed to “advertise.”

By ten, we were at Imogen’s house. Or the house where she lived, which actually belonged to her mother. At twenty-four,
I
’
d
felt too old to still live at home. Imogen was forty-three.

When we arrived, I was certain we’d made a mistake. We were looking for a house. This was a street of walk-ups and apartments. And, as it turned out, one house, wedged between two towering buildings, like a recalcitrant dwarf squatting between giants, refusing to give ground. Which is, I suspect, exactly what happened. Imogen’s family had refused to sell, so they were left there, in the shade of those apartments, with only a house and a strip of grass.

Gabriel knocked. When a stooped, elderly woman answered, he still did the “foot in the doorjamb” trick. Rightly, as it turned out. She took one look at me and tried to slam the door.

“Get your damned foot out of there,” she said. “Or I swear I’ll crush it—” She yanked feebly on the door, her face reddening. Then she peered up at Gabriel. “I’ll call the police.”

“We’d like to speak to Imogen Seale. She’s your daughter, I presume?”

“Get the hell off my property.”

“We believe Ms. Seale has information vital to a case—”

“What case? Setting two psychos loose?”

She turned on me, her wizened face threatening to fold into its own creases. Our research said she was in her early seventies, but she looked more like ninety, her wrinkled skin yellowed by tobacco, the stink of the cigarettes blasting on her breath.

“I don’t know why you’re here to see my girl, but you’re not going to. She’s barely been out of her room since you turned up in the news, reminding her of all that mess. Do you know how long it took to get her right again? After what you people did?”

“You people?” I said.

“Your parents, murdering the man she loved. After that, she wasn’t right for years.
Years
. And now you pop up in the news, upsetting her again. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

I could have pointed out the logical inconsistencies in that. Sometimes, though, it’s clear you aren’t dealing with a logical person. Or even a particularly bright one. So I let her rant and nudged Gabriel to silence when he seemed ready to jump in.

“She can speak to Mr. Walsh alone, then,” I said when she paused for breath.

“How’s that supposed to help? It still dredges up . . .” She continued talking.

I counted to three, then cut in with, “Gabriel? I’m going to let you handle this. I don’t want to cause trouble. I’ll wait in the car.”

As soon as I started down the stoop steps, he eased over, blocking Mrs. Seale’s view of me before resuming his requests to speak to Imogen.

I made certain the old woman’s attention was on Gabriel. Then I scooted between the house and a neighboring apartment. Ahead, a shadow scurried behind that next-door building. Imogen, making her escape. I jogged along the wall until I could peek around it.

A middle-aged, painfully thin woman with badly bleached hair stood midway between the apartment and the adjacent parking garage. Her gaze darted about, dark eyes too big for her gaunt face. She reminded me of a bird. Not a raven or an owl, but an undernourished sparrow that’s had one too many run-ins with the big guys. She was breathing hard, fluttering in place as she watched for trouble.

I evaluated my position. Five feet from a window in the Seale house. Ten from the back door. In other words, too close to where I could be spotted by a pissed-off momma bird. But Imogen just stood there, catching her breath after the short dash and watching her house, as if expecting us to come after her.

I picked up a fist-sized rock and sent it rolling her way. Hardly a sign of descending enemies, but Imogen was skittish enough to flee. I followed. Again she didn’t go far, stopping in the mouth of the parking garage.

I texted instructions to Gabriel. Then I settled in to wait. A few times Imogen peeked from her shadowy spot, as if contemplating a return to the nest, only to decide it was too soon.

When I got a text from Gabriel, I set out. I made it halfway to the garage before Imogen did one of her peek-checks. She saw me and retreated fast. I heard a shriek, and I burst into the garage as she was wheeling to run back out, a large shadow blocking her other escape options.

I lifted my hands. “We just want to speak to you.”

“I don’t have anything to say.” Her voice was girlish. Everything about her was, now that I closed in and got a better look. A pink blouse, white jeans, bare feet with hot-pink nails. She even had pink barrettes in her hair. Cute on a seventeen-year-old. Sad at forty-three.

“Your mother says you’re having a rough time,” I said. “With me popping up in the news. Bringing back memories, is it?”

Her sharp chin bobbed.

“Memories or guilt?” I asked.

“Wh-what?” Then she glanced quickly at Gabriel, her look pleading. A woman accustomed to turning to men. When Gabriel only stood there, silent and impassive, she inched toward him and directed her answer his way. “I don’t have anything to feel guilty for,” she said.

“No?” I stepped toward her. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

She flinched.

I continued. “Marty knew the first victims: Amanda and Ken. Their connection is very intriguing. One that would be of great interest to others. The police, the press, my parents . . .”

She dove to the side. I had no idea where she thought she was going. We were in an enclosed parking garage. Cars lined either side of the narrow lane. One exit was behind me, another behind Gabriel. But she chose to race sideways, smacking into the rear bumper of a pickup. Then she dropped and scuttled under it.

I looked at Gabriel. He shook his head and took up position on the other side of the truck. It didn’t seem as if she planned to escape that way—or any way at all. She was just hiding.

“All right,” I said. “I take it that means you’d rather speak to the police.”

“I’m not talking to anyone,” her breathy voice whispered.

“I don’t think you’ll have much choice in that. It’s a murder investigation. You did hear that it’s reopened, didn’t you? I proved my parents didn’t kill Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans. All the murders are being reexamined. As soon as I tell the police about that very interesting link I found—”

“It was her fault.”

I paused. “Amanda’s?”

“No, Lisa. Marty’s bitch wife. It was her fault. Her idea.”

I glanced at Gabriel. He was thinking fast, his gaze gone distant, but no answer seemed to be forthcoming quickly enough.

“Is that what Marty told you?” I said.

“It’s the truth. He always told me the truth. She tricked him into marrying her, and then she threatened to hurt him if he left. She tricked him into the other thing, too, and threatened him if he told anyone.”

“He was ex-military and twice her size.”

“That doesn’t matter. She knew stuff—satanic stuff. She was evil.”

Gabriel’s eyes snapped wide, as close to a genuine
Holy shit
look as he could manage. Luckily, being under the truck, Imogen couldn’t see us staring dumbfounded at each other.

In fishing for a connection, I’d been throwing my hook wide and blind, having no idea what could connect the two couples.
This
hadn’t occurred to me.

“That’s why they did it,” I said. “Witchcraft.”

“Satanism,” Imogen said. “It’s not the same thing.” A two-second pause. Then, belatedly, “I mean, that’s what the bitch was into. I don’t know what you mean about
why they did it
. Did what? I never said anything.”

“Um, yes, you said she made him do it. We both know what we’re talking about, Imogen.”

“I never said—”

“Marty and Lisa killed Amanda Mays and Ken Perkins.”

Another two seconds, during which I heard her breathing. Then a weak, “What? You’re crazy. I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to,” I said, and walked away.