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I choke on a laugh, and she quickly added, "I mean the case. I can imagine you'd need security for something like that."
It wasn't the first time Gabriel had been mistaken for my bodyguard. When we met, I'd pegged him as hired muscle myself. Even the expensive cut of his suit had only made me amend that to "hired muscle for someone with a lot of money." He was at least six four and built like a linebacker. It was more than his size, though. He just had that look--the one that makes people get out of the way.
The trooper said something to one of the paramedics, who nodded and opened the smaller body bag. Imogen's mother. Death had obviously been smoke inhalation, with signs of suffocation and only minimal burning, mostly to the clothing. Which meant there was no chance we were looking at the badly-burned corpse of a stranger. And the second corpse? Imogen herself, mistress of Marty Tyson, one of my mother's victims. The only person who could have testified that Tyson actually killed the first two alleged victims. It would have been the reasonable doubt we needed to overturn the conviction.
And now we'd lost it.
#
The next morning, Gabriel drove me to work. He'd spent the night at my house in Cainsville. In his room, I hasten to add. We'd been up half the night discussing the case. Now as he pulled into the laneway of his office greystone, his topic of conversation had nothing to do with work and everything to do with distracting me from fretting over my parents' appeal. Gabriel had put himself through law school with illegal gaming.
"Blackjack," he said as he closed his car door. "That was my specialty. It's simple and efficient."
"Also one of the easiest games to cheat in, isn't it? Counting cards?"
"No one counted cards at my table. Not after the first time."
Something at the periphery of my vision caught my eye. I glanced over see the front door of the office building swing open, no one behind it. I stopped short. When I blinked, the door was shut again.
A door opening on its own. The sign of an unwanted visitor.
"Olivia?"
I shook off the omen. Given what Gabriel did for a living, we got plenty of unwanted visitors.
"Sorry. Missed my cue," I said. "So, tell me, Gabriel, what'd you do the first time you caught someone counting cards?"
He studied me, suspecting something was up.
"Are you going to tell me?" I said. "Or is this one of those stories you tease me with and then say Whoops, looks like we're at the office already. I'll finish later."
His lips twitched. "You like it when I do that. It builds suspense."
"I hate it when you do that. It's sadistic. You have five seconds--"
"Gabriel?" Lydia stepped out of the office, closing the door behind her.
Gabriel bristled at the interruption.
"Client?" I guessed.
Lydia nodded, and we backed farther from the door.
"It's a woman," she said. "She claims to be a relative."
Gabriel made a noise deep in his throat.
The fact Gabriel had a legit job made him one of the few "white" sheep in the Walsh family. So, yes, I was sure relatives showed up now and then, in need of his services. Which he would happily provide, providing they could pay his fees.
"Prospects?" he said to Lydia.
Lydia's look answered.
"I'll get rid of her," I said. "Give me ten minutes."
Gabriel hesitated, his need for control warring with an equally strong desire for efficiency. Also, listening to some distant relative sob on his sofa was terribly awkward and--more importantly--a pointless waste of billable hours.
"The sooner we get rid of her, the sooner we can get to work on our appeal strategy," I said. "I'd appreciate that."
