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This wasn't about research. No, it was about father-son bonding time. Thirty years late, to be sure, and yes, it was a little tougher when Gabriel didn't realize he was Patrick's son, but that would change soon enough. Liv had figured it out. And she'd been furious. Marvelously, majestically furious. Which should not make Patrick nearly so happy, being the recipient of that fury, but it did because she was furious on Gabriel's behalf.
That was what his son lacked most in his remarkable life: someone firmly and unwaveringly on his side. Patrick himself had played that role, but not in the right way. He realized that now. The silent cheerleader had its place, but his son had never needed that. What he needed was Liv.
Liv hadn't told Gabriel that Patrick was his father. She was protecting him, as always. But Gabriel's parentage could not remain a secret, and as soon as Liv realized Gabriel was in danger of finding out, she'd break it to him herself.
Patrick's job now was to establish enough of a relationship to soften the blow. He'd lost Gabriel before. Lost him as a baby when Seanna stole him away. Lost him as a teen when Seanna took off and Gabriel disappeared onto the streets. Lost him twice; he would not lose him again.
A few weeks ago, Gabriel had come to Patrick. Of his own accord, for the first time ever. Admittedly, it'd been for information--fae lore to help Liv. And that, Patrick realized, was the key to establishing a relationship with Gabriel.
Quid pro quo.
The unwritten motto of the bocan. Give and take. A proper offering had to be something of value, naturally. What did Gabriel value? He would say money, but that was just the tangible representation of a deeper need for security, to feel he would never again be that teenage boy, alone on the streets.
Or never again be that child who might as well have been alone on the streets, saddled with a mother who expected him to earn his keep picking pockets. Gabriel had suffered that while his father lived in comfort and ease. A father who would see him every few weeks in Cainsville when Seanna dumped Gabriel at her aunt Rose's place. A father who thought talking to the boy--paying attention to him, buying him a soda--was all he needed, really.
Patrick pushed aside the old regrets. There was work to be done. Work that would not undo the damage but which acknowledged that damage had been done.
Patrick walked to the cafe counter and placed his order. Just a coffee, and not because he needed it, but because it gave him a table to work at and access to the Internet. Also, admittedly, a change of scenery was always welcome. The scenery here was certainly fine, a young barista adding plenty of eye contact to her conversation, taking longer than necessary to serve his coffee, telling him refills were on the house. More than refills were being offered, he suspected, and he appreciated that, even if he was too busy to pursue the flirtation. He put a five in the tip cup in thanks for the flattery of her attention. Quid pro quo.
Coffee obtained. Ego bump achieved. Time to dive into the research trenches. Patrick had a story to construct. A ghost story for his son.
THREE
GABRIEL
The sun was dropping when Gabriel arrived at the spot where Robert Lambert's SUV had given up the ghost...in more ways than one, apparently. While it might seem inopportune--reaching the scene just when he'd need a flashlight to examine it--his timing was intentional.
Thirty minutes from now placed him at the exact time of day when Lambert had stood on this spot and seen his passenger disappear. Gabriel sought to reconstruct the scene as precisely as possible. Rain would help, but it had stopped before Lambert reached this point. Despite Patrick's hyperbole, it had not been a dark and stormy night. Simply growing dark after a rather mundane rain shower, according to the report.
"They gave you the police report?" Patrick had said. "I'd have thought the Chicago Police Department wasn't exactly your biggest fan."
True. But this was outside the CPD's jurisdiction. The state police were not terribly fond of him either, but whether city or state, Gabriel could always find officers and support staff open-minded enough to value monetary reward over petty prejudice.
"You bribed someone for it," Patrick had said.
"A bribe requires subterfuge, which would become tiresome in an extended relationship. I expressed an interest in the case. My contact offered to send me the report. I will pay him for his time. Or, I should say, you will, as the client in this case."
"How much will I pay?"
"You were generous, as one should be with those who devote their lives to keeping our streets safe."
"Again with the sarcasm."
"It's your imagination. That's what comes with being a writer of fiction."
Gabriel hadn't told Patrick that he intended to visit the scene. The bocan might have tried to accompany him.
Gabriel looked back at his Jag, parked on the road over a hundred feet away. There was no way he could have driven it back here. He wasn't even sure how Lambert's SUV had managed it.
As he bent to examine the tire tracks, his phone sounded with a tone that had him scrambling to answer, imagining the greeting, as familiar and jaunty as that ring, a singsong "Hey, it's me."
Or that's what he used to get. Now, Olivia's, "Hey," thudded between them, leaden and dull.
"Got your message," she continued. "This isn't too late, is it?"
"Of course not."
"Good. Sorry I didn't call sooner. Long day of riding. Ricky n
