Olivia shook her head. "No, Rose should have help."
"There are others who could do it. Veronica has offered. So has Pepper. It doesn't need to be you, Olivia."
"Yeah, it kinda does." A moment of silence, her gaze shunted to the side before she came back with, "But it doesn't need to be you. Anyway, visiting Seanna doesn't bother me. I consider it my good deed for the week. God knows, my account needs more of them."
Gabriel's fingers tapped the side of the sofa, and he stayed silent for as long as he could manage, which was about five seconds.
"I know you're joking, Olivia, but it's a serious matter. If you are the least bit bothered by visiting--"
"I'm not."
"If there is any chance that you are doing it out of misplaced guilt--"
"Nope, there isn't. It's an opportunity for me to have tea with Rose. There just happens to be this other woman, who is barely there at all. So it's all good." She rose and picked up her tumbler, draining it. "Now that's settled, and it's well past bedtime. Well, my bedtime at least, though I'm hoping you'll join me."
"Of course."
Thirteen
Olivia
After the office the next day, I could hear Gabriel in the adjoining room, where he met clients, which was exactly what he was doing. Only the low rumble of his deep voice penetrated the thick walls, but I could hear the client perfectly well as he demanded Gabriel defeat the evildoers who dared try to imprison him for a crime he...well, a crime he'd committed. But he'd had his reasons, by God, and who were these plebeians to question the reasons of a man of his stature?
Gabriel excused himself, and a moment later, the door to his office opened as he stepped in, closing it behind him.
"Politician?" I said.
"Hmm."
"How much is he offering?"
"Not enough."
"What did he do?" I asked.
"Electoral fraud."
"Boring."
"I thought so." He sat at his desk. "I came in here to check my schedule and see whether I can fit him in."
"Doesn't look like you can."
"Terribly vexing." He glanced at me, lying on the chaise lounge. "Are you all right?"
I put a hand to my forehead. "No. Defeated, I have collapsed on the fainting couch, to softly cry, 'Woe is me.'"
"Didn't find anything useful on the Nansen case?"
"Not a damned thing. Terribly vexing."
He walked over and sat beside me. "And by not finding anything, you mean no connection between the Nansens and Keith Johnson?"
"Exactly." I straightened. "I'm lost here, Gabriel. If Johnson walked in today, asking you to represent him, I'd say hell, yes. Take the case. Because I cannot even fathom how the police would have enough evidence to charge him let alone convict."
"Yet you are being asked to convict."
"I am, and that's the problem. I'm not being asked to defend or prosecute. I'm being asked to judge with no prosecution or defense arguments. Here's this man. We believe he is responsible for this other man's death. What say thee?"
I shook my head. "I screwed up, Gabriel. I agreed to help the Cwn Annwn, and I thought I understood what that meant, but I didn't. I really didn't."
"You couldn't. Not until you had a case like this, one where guilt isn't obvious. Where it isn't even apparent."
"So what do I do?" I slid off the lounge. "No, sorry. I won't ask you that. My mess, my decision."
"Your decision. Not your mess. It's everyone's mess, including mine. Like you, I presumed that if the Cwn Annwn saw guilt, then their quarry was guilty. That they bore the most elusive of judicial devices: a foolproof lie detector."
I looked at him. "Maybe they do. They're supposed to, and I have no proof that they don't. Yes, Heather is the one who pulled the trigger, but there was another party involved. Someone who put the pieces in motion. And if Johnson did that with malicious intent, and the result was that an innocent woman now has to deal with having murdered her husband? Then I'm not going to split hairs over the quality of justice. The Cwn Annwn say they know Johnson is responsible. There is no evidence to the contrary. Therefore, I--"
A rap at the door.
"Yes?" Gabriel said.
Our office administrator, Lydia, walked in.
"Let me guess," I said and motioned toward the meeting room and the abandoned politician.
Lydia shook her head and shut the door. "I just received a phone call. Heather Nansen has been charged with murder."
An hour later, we were in a police station, sitting across from Heather Nansen.
"I did not kill my husband," she said.
Gabriel didn't reply. He just sat there, his gaze on her, his face expressionless. Under that stare, she squirmed at first. Then her cheeks blossomed red, in humiliation and anger as her dark eyes blazed her thoughts.
You asshole. You cold-blooded son-of-a-bitch.
I wanted to jump in and play good cop, and I don't know whether that was to make her feel better or to defend Gabriel, but I did neither.
Finally, she said, slowly, "I did not intentionally kill my husband."
Gabriel nodded. "Good."
She found a humorless smile. "Because it's easier to represent the innocent, I'm guessing?"
"No, actually, it is not. The stakes are much higher with an innocent client, which makes such cases more difficult. When I said 'good,' I was referring to your change in phrasing. Obviously, you don't need to be reminded that you did pull the trigger, and it seems cruel to do so, but that is exactly the trap you will find yourself in, whether it is with the media or the prosecution. Language matters, and they will be quick to jump on improper wording, and thereby get exactly the reaction I just did, one that does not make you look like an innocent woman."
She flushed. "Okay. I'm sorry."
"No need to be. I was demonstrating a point."
"So, look in the mirror and repeat 'I did kill my husband' fifty times?"
"I think it would be more useful to repeat 'I did accidentally shoot my husband.'"
"I was joking."
"I'm not. You must allow yourself to react to the reality of what has happened without allowing yourself a defensive position. The law is not your enemy here. It is the ally that will permit you to hold your head up and say that a jury of your peers agreed you committed only a tragic error."
She nodded.
"Now, you have already given me one account of that night's events. In light of this new evidence, perhaps you should rethink that account."
Her cheeks flamed again. "I told you the truth."
"Excellent. Then you will get up on the stand, and when presented with evidence that you summoned your husband home, you will simply say, 'I did not.' Ask for a stack of Bibles, too, so that you might swear on it. That helps."
"I know you're mocking me, Mr. Walsh, but that is all I can say. I didn't send those texts the police found on Alan's account."
"Then we need to prove it. Otherwise, swearing on a stack of Bibles is your best hope, and I'll warn you, I've never seen that actually sway a jury. Now, you told me that you had no idea why Alan returned home early that night or burst into the room without warning."
"Yes."
Gabriel lifted a sheet. "11:09 p.m. You text Alan 'Someone's outside the house.'"
She opened her mouth to respond, but he raised a finger and continued. "He replies to you, telling you to call the police. You say that you already did, but they don't have a car in the area, and you think they're ignoring you. You beg him to come home. He agrees. Then, at 11:40, as he's pulling into the drive, you text again, 'Someone's in the house!' He says he's on his way in. One final text 'He's coming into the bedroom!' Which is presumably when your husband threw caution to the wind and raced in to save you and..."
"I never sent those texts."
"Then your cell phone number isn't--"
"It's my number," she said. "But I didn't change it after my purse was stolen with my cell phone in it. Whoever stole it m
ust have sent those texts."
"You believe someone sent those texts from your old phone and they appeared on your new one? That isn't how technology works, Ms. Nansen."
"Then I was hacked."
"Conceivably."
She relaxed in her chair. "Thank you."
"And these messages never appeared on your phone?"
She shook her head.
"Nor on your husband's?"
"I wouldn't know--"
Gabriel cut her off by pulling another page from his folder. "At the time of his death, Alan wasn't carrying his cell phone. The police asked for it, and you said if it wasn't in his pocket, then he must have put it down. According to the police, a brief search did not reveal the whereabouts of the phone, and you were too distraught to assist. You located the phone the next day and asked whether they still wanted to see it."
"Yes, they said they would send someone by for it, but they never did. Presumably, they didn't see the point. If you're implying that I would have read those messages on his phone, I don't have the passcode."
"No?"
"No."
"So if I ask to see his phone, you will produce it, and I will confirm that it has not been accessed since his death? Good. I will suggest that you present it when the state's attorney is also present, so that we might both confirm--"
"Yes."
His brows shot up. "Is that yes, you will do this? Or yes, you are admitting that you saw these texts?"
Her cheek twitched. "I did not send Alan those texts, Mr. Walsh."
"As you have said. The current question, however, regards seeing them, not sending them. The police are at your house now, where they will either find your husband's phone or wonder why they cannot. They have yours already. Even if you have erased the messages--"
"His phone was still in his hand when he...when I..." She took a deep breath. "It was in his hand. He dropped it. I grabbed it to call 911, and I saw the last text, supposedly from me. I panicked. I had no idea what was going on, but in that moment, I knew I was in trouble. So I hid his phone, and I called 911 on mine. I checked my texts, and they were there somehow. I deleted them on my phone and on Alan's, and then I hid his until I had time to confirm they were gone."
Fourteen
Olivia
"It's the perfect recipe for murder," I said as Gabriel drove back to the office.
"Is it?"
"Hell, yeah. Stage a breakin where the only thing grabbed is your purse, conveniently containing your phone. Stage two more attempted breakins. Convince hubby that you don't need him to stay home--you just need a gun. Then, text him in a panic, luring him home. Shoot him. Delete the texts, and if they're discovered, well, they obviously came from your missing phone."
"Hmm."
I glanced over at him. "You disagree."
"I take issue with the descriptor 'perfect,' which I know you meant as hyperbole, but as murders go, it's far from perfect."
I considered and then thumped back in my seat. "Agreed. There are too many ways this could have gone wrong. All it would have taken was for Alan to call the police himself. Or send someone else to check on her. It's clumsy. The type of murder that seems clever only because it worked out as planned."
"Which describes ninety-five percent of murders committed by amateurs...and far too many committed by professionals. It's only when the plot fails that we see the flaws."
"And then we say 'well, that was a stupid idea.' Okay, so if Heather did this, she's no mastermind. She's just lucky."
"Yes." Gabriel turned a corner. "However, I don't believe our prime objective is to prove she did it, not as her defense team...or Ioan's prosecution team."
"Right. We know the Cwn Annwn think Keith Johnson is responsible. That gives us a head start on an alternate suspect. Which would be a lot more useful if I could find any possible motive for him killing Alan Nansen."
"Hmm."
I glanced at him. "That noise means you're avoiding stating the obvious. That motivation isn't the starting point. Not even the ending point. I need means and opportunity. Could Johnson have done it, rather than why he would."
"Not him specifically. Step back to the general."
"Could anyone else have done it? Pulling the trigger, no. Heather admits she did that. If anyone else is responsible, it's the person who set this in motion. The one who staged the breakins. The one who presumably sent the texts."
"Yes."
"I know texts--like phone calls--can be spoofed to look like they came from another number. I don't know whether that would explain the delay in showing up on Heather's phone... Wait. We need access to all her past messages. I can analyze her texting patterns. That won't prove conclusively that she didn't send them but--"
Gabriel handed me the folder. I opened it to find transcripts from Alan's cell phone, specifically the thread of his regular text conversations with his wife. I only had to skim through a few elements--word choice, abbreviations, emojis--to let out a curse.
"Yes, they match," he said.
"But this might be the real reason her cell phone was taken. To imitate her texting patterns, to convince Alan that it was her."
"That is more likely."
I returned the pages to his folder. "Three scenarios. First, no one ever tried breaking in, and Heather staged it all. Second, someone did try breaking in, and Heather took advantage of the setup. Third, everything was staged by an external party, who either knew she had a gun or..."
I considered. "No, I don't see any other explanation. The only reason that the third party would summon Alan home with those increasingly frantic texts is if he knew Heather was armed. It's still far from foolproof. Like, a hundred miles from foolproof."
"Just because you see that doesn't mean a third party would. It's tunnel vision. He has set up his pieces, and he sees only the play that he intends."
"Or he's just not vitally invested in success. He's taking a chance. How to commit murder without being tied to it in any way. That's some trick."
"One that must come with the risk of failure. Significant risk."
"And it did pay off. Alan is dead."
"With Heather charged in his murder."
I glanced over at Gabriel. "Which isn't an incidental outcome, is it? This was staged so Heather would pull the trigger. So she would accidentally murder her husband. But she wasn't about to be charged, and the police weren't looking for any other suspects. Case closed. Yet someone didn't want it closed. The police got a tip on the texts, didn't they?"
Gabriel nodded. "An anonymous call from a person who claimed to work at the restaurant and knew text messages had summoned Alan home."
My theory was that Keith Johnson made that call. I had to dig deeper into the man himself.
My preliminary work revealed no obvious link between Johnson and the Nansens. Johnson was ten years older and hadn't gone to school with either of them. He was actually from New Jersey, and had moved to Chicago five years ago when he married. After his wife had died two years ago, he'd stayed, having settled into a job and a home.
As for his job, I'd shamed my profession by jumping to a conclusion based on circumstantial evidence. Johnson was a middle-aged guy wearing a good suit and driving an expensive car. Ergo, he must be a successful professional, maybe a doctor or lawyer or stockbroker. But there was at least one career that would explain the suit and car without necessitating a six-figure salary. Car salesman.
Johnson worked for a local Audi dealership. The car belonged to them--one of his perks. The suit exceeded his budget, but he wore it for the same reason Gabriel had begun wearing tailor-made suits before he could afford them: they made him look successful.
I'd thought maybe that was the link--that Johnson had sold the Nansens a car, which established a connection, maybe an infatuation with Heather. But the Nansens drove a Land Rover because Alan Nansen's brother-in-law owned a Rover dealership. Even that tenuous link didn't mean anything--the two dealerships were at opposite ends of the city, in no competi
tion.
Research wasn't getting me anywhere. I needed to talk to Johnson...and pray Ioan was right, that Johnson remembered nothing of the night he'd been hunted by giant hounds and hooded horsemen.
Fifteen
Olivia
I swanned into the dealership where Johnson worked and tugged off my Versace sunglasses.
"Hello?" I trilled. "Can someone help me? I need to buy a car."
A few heads turned, just bemused glances at first, no one exactly rushing from their offices...until they saw me. Then a tsunami of salesmen rolled into the showroom.
I wasn't exactly a supermodel, but when you're twenty-five and blond, sometimes that's all you need. In this case, that was only half the package. The rest was the outfit. Start with the sunglasses I'd snagged from my parents' place where I'd left them. Great specs, but they really did scream "spoiled socialite," and that wasn't the image I liked to project...unless I really wanted to project it. Take the sunglasses, add knee-high boots, leggings and a flowing scarf, and I was screaming spoiled socialite at the top of my lungs. To reduce the chance of being recognized, I'd covered my ash-blond hair with a platinum-blond wig and added two extra layers to my makeup.
"Thank you," I said with an exaggerated sigh as I put the oversized sunglasses back on. "I need a new car, and I'd like to trade in that."
A dismissive wave at the front window, outside of which sat a Shelby 427 Cobra. I swore I heard jaws drop.
One of the younger salesmen sputtered, "Is that...is that a... It's a replica, right?"
"Certainly not."
"So that's actually a...?"
"An old car," I said. "Yes, yes, I know, it's some kind of collector's piece, but it's old, and I want a new one."
"That's...yours?" an older salesman asked carefully.
"It is now. My granddaddy left it to me. It's very pretty, but"--I scrunched up my nose--"old. It doesn't handle well, and it has no airbags. My parents want me driving something with airbags. So I'm supposed to find a new car. Daddy was going to come with me, but he was called away to Munich last night, and I need something new by the weekend. I have plans."
One of the salesmen stepped forward. The alpha dog, I presumed.
"I can help you, Miss..."
"It's Ms.," I said. "And I'll choose myself, thank you." The mob surged forward, and I let out a throaty laugh. "Down, boys. I need someone experienced and capable. Someone who doesn't think they can treat me like a silly little girl just because I don't know much about cars."