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I replied with one word: Working.
He responded immediately. Where are you?
Out. Working.
Where?
Chicago.
His response took a moment. I imagined him starting to seethe, possibly hitting a wrong key or two, cursing me as he fixed it.
Olivia . . .
Gabriel . . .
I didn't wait for a reply, just quick-typed: I'm working on the case, as requested.
I didn't tell you to leave.
Am I not allowed to leave?
Pause. Pause. Pause. Thinking through an answer. Well, no, I'm sure he didn't need to think about it. His answer would be that I should be right where he left me just in case he needed me. However, being a smart man, he did not say that.
Where exactly are you?
In my car.
Five seconds. My phone rang.
I sent one last text. Working the case. No time to chat. Talk later.
I turned off the ringer and left the phone vibrating in my bag as I pulled from the curb.
--
I drove to a little bungalow in Brighton Park. A ten-year-old van sat in the drive. I pulled in behind it, walked up to the stoop, and knocked. When the door opened, I was ready to stick my foot in the gap to keep it from slamming shut. I've seen Gabriel pull that trick many times. I suspect it works better with a size-twelve loafer.
Luckily, I didn't need to risk bodily injury. The man took one look at me and said, "I wondered when you'd show up." Then his gaze went to my Jetta. "Walsh isn't with you, I take it."
"He's not."
"Did they deny his bail?"
I shook my head. "He's out. Just busy working on staying that way."
The man nodded. "Strange business. But it always was." He moved back. "Come on in."
He backed his wheelchair into the kitchen. Detective Chris Pemberton. Retired a year ago, having spent eight years behind a desk after getting in the middle of a gang dispute and catching a bullet in the spine. Twelve years before that, he'd been the secondary detective on a career-making case. Ending a spree of horrific murders and putting the perpetrators behind bars. The Valentine Killers. My parents.
"Wife's out," he said. "I'm going to text and tell her to stay away for a while. She doesn't like it when I talk about the case. I always wondered what happened to you. Adopted by the Mills and Jones department store guy." He shook his head. "I'd say I was glad to hear it--you deserved something good after all that--but it seems things haven't been too easy for you lately."
"I'm doing okay."
"Looks like it." He pulled up to the kitchen counter. "Coffee? Tea?"
I said I'd take either, and he started fixing coffee as I settled in at the kitchen table. I'd presumed a detective who'd helped make the case would want nothing to do with me, which is why I'd come over unannounced. This wasn't what I expected, and I couldn't help bracing for trouble.
"I was there when they arrested your parents," he said, getting cups from a low cupboard. "World-class fuckup, pardon my French. It should never have gone down that way. We were told you and your mom were away, and that Todd had guns. I never forgot the look on your face when the team broke in."
