Holy shit.
It couldn't be. He never got that lucky.
He yanked out his phone and ran a quick Internet image search. The tiny screen filled with results. He clicked on one and looked at the photo, then at the young woman, now listening to something Walsh was saying.
Olivia Taylor-Jones.
Eden Larsen.
The society-brat-turned-serial-killers'-daughter was having lunch with the man who'd once represented her mother.
Now he had a story.
Chapter Thirty-two
As we walked to the car, Gabriel gave me research assignments.
"Summarize your findings and e-mail them to me. I'm in court most of tomorrow, but if you have it to me tonight, I can give it a read and suggest new research directions."
"I can't do it tonight. I work until eleven and the library closes at six."
"Library? Why...?" He sighed. Deeply.
"Yes, I need a computer. I'm saving up for one."
He waved for me to cut through a parking lot. "I imagine that's a new experience for you."
"It is. I'm catching up on everything I missed not being raised by the Larsens. Counting my pennies. Saving up for a new bike, a Ouija board, a hunting knife to teach a lesson to all the mean girls..." I put my notebook away. "Speaking of which, how's the gun situation coming along?"
"I'm reconsidering the wisdom of that right now." He waved me to the left. "It's coming. As for the computer..."
"I need better Internet access, I know. Larry has a computer at the diner. He'd probably let me use it--"
"Mr. Walsh!" a man's voice called behind us.
As Gabriel turned, he pulled me behind him, the move so smooth I didn't even realize what he was doing until I was confronted by the wall of his back.
"Yes?" Gabriel said.
The patter of jogging footsteps. "Colin Hale. Chicago Post. I--"
"Turn around, Mr. Hale, and go back the way you came."
"I just want--"
"I don't speak to reporters, Mr. Hale. Turn around now."
"It's actually your client I'd like to talk to." A nervous laugh. "Or maybe client is the wrong word. I imagine Miss Larsen is looking for information on her mother. Right? Family history, so to speak."
Hale tried to sidestep, but Gabriel blocked him. I stayed where I was. As much as I might like to stand up for myself, I didn't need another "serial-killer junior" photo in the paper. And Gabriel did make a very good wall.
"I'm going to ask you one more time, Mr. Hale. Turn around now."
Hale tried to dodge around him again and Gabriel's arm swung. I heard the crack of fist hitting bone. I saw Hale fly off his feet, blood spraying from his mouth.
Hale hit the pavement, and Gabriel strode over. He reached down and patted the man's jacket pockets. When Hale's hands flew up to ward him off, Gabriel just swatted them away, his face expressionless. He found what he was looking for--the reporter's cell phone--and took it, then walked back and nudged me to resume our journey to the car.
Gabriel stayed behind me. When I glanced back, he was doing something on the phone, nonchalantly, as if unconcerned about turning his back on a man he'd just decked. At the scrabble of gravel, he tensed. He didn't look back or even stop walking, but he was clearly listening.