"Am I on the right path?"
"Yes, but it's a long road, and no one in Cainsville will help you. Safety through ignorance. That has always been their religion. They hide and they lie and they deceive. We do not. You know what I am, and I do not deny it. I offer you answers. You need only to ask."
"And the cost?"
"Consideration. I would earn the right to show you what we offer."
"What else?"
A flicker of surprise, as if he had expected me to buy the goods as offered. "Nothing more. Except that, naturally, if we are wooing you, you cannot continue to align yourself with them. You leave Cainsville. You renounce your association with Gabriel Walsh. You divorce yourself from their influence so you may fairly consider our offer."
"You do realize I have no fucking idea what you're talking about, right? You act like I'm a high school quarterback being wooed by two NFL teams, and I should know exactly what I am and what I'm worth and why the hell you both want me. I don't."
"That is what I'm offering. Answers."
"While I appreciate the shortcut, I think I'll take the long road. It looks a lot less treacherous."
He only smiled. "As I expected. You can't blame me for trying, though. Enjoy the trip. I'll give some free advice, then. There are two things you'd best keep close, for protection: the boar's tusk and the boy there. They'll look after you. You can't trust anything or anyone else. You know that."
His gaze met mine, and I knew what he meant. Who he meant. Gabriel. Would he push me away again? Lie to me? Betray me? Ricky wouldn't. Trusting Gabriel was like pitching camp on a fault line; Ricky was solid ground.
"Exactly," the man said.
I glared.
"Would you prefer I didn't admit I know what you're thinking? Don't worry. It's too draining to maintain for long. But I'll use what tools I have to understand the situation. You can't blame me for that. I'll bid you good night, then." After two steps, he glanced back to see me settling on the ground beside Ricky. "How's your back, Olivia? I'll presume it doesn't give you any trouble?"
"My back? It's fine."
"Good." He turned to walk away, then glanced at me again. "You're welcome," he said, and vanished into the forest.
SHARK TANK
The Morgan residence was patrolled by a security guard. At what level of wealth did one require a home security guard? Actually, Gabriel knew the answer to that, having dug deep into Morgan's finances while looking for ammunition to use against him.
Morgan was rich. A juvenile term. At Gabriel's age, he should be more specific with his terminology. But he'd been young when he set his sights on his future goals, and that was the wording he used, at least to himself.
He could not achieve "rich"--it was for those who came from money, though it allowed for the occasional entrepreneur. Gabriel's goal was "successful." Wealthy and very successful.
Morgan's wealth came from both family money and his business, and it far exceeded anything Gabriel could hope for. It did not, however, warrant a roving security guard.
One problem with the rich was that they lacked basic survival skills. Morgan considered himself a shark, devouring anything that got in his way, but he was a shark in a tank, relying on others to keep him safe. The rich bought their fancy locks and security systems and, it seemed, even security guards. Yet it was like wearing a breastplate into battle--it still took only one good stroke to lop off your head.
And so it was here. The guard was useless. Stationed a hundred feet away from the house, at the gate. Patrolling the grounds every twenty minutes. Once Gabriel determined the schedule, he waited until the guard returned to his post and then scaled the back fence. Two minutes later, he was knocking on the front door.
Morgan answered. He stopped short, and his gaze shot to the guard post.
Gabriel waved at the manicured spruce behind him. "While I'm loath to criticize gardening choices, may I suggest that's a very poor place for a shrub?"
Morgan cursed under his breath as he realized that the tree blocked Gabriel from the guard's view. Then Morgan's hand slid up the wall.
"You can certainly summon the guard," Gabriel said. "I'll understand if you'd like him to be privy to our conversation. While my size is no fault of my own, some men find it intimidating."
Morgan's lips tightened, and his hand moved away from the intercom. Such a fool. There was nothing wrong with being a shark in a tank--Gabriel supposed it was a fine and comfortable life--but one should have the good sense to see the glass walls and realize one's limitations.
"May I come in?" Gabriel asked.
Morgan nodded and moved back. As Gabriel entered, he heard a noise on the steps and looked up to see an older woman eyeing him with suspicion. It didn't matter how fine his manners or impeccable his dress, when women like this saw him, they backed up clutching their purses. Which was not an unwarranted reaction, all things considered. Ten years ago, he'd have salivated walking into a house like this, mentally running through all the most likely hiding places for valuables and mapping out the most efficient route for snatching them. He didn't miss those days, but admittedly there were still times when he looked at a woman's necklace or a man's watch and his brain threw out a dollar figure--not the cost but how much he could fence it for.
"It's Olivia's lawyer," Morgan called up to her. "On business."
"At this hour?"
"It's barely eleven. Everything's fine, Mom. Go back to bed."
She retreated, but slowly, still eyeing Gabriel, her expression less fear than warning now. Gabriel turned his back on her.
"May we speak in another room?" he asked Morgan.
Morgan waved him into a parlor or some such room designed for sitting, which neither of them did. They walked to the middle and faced each other.
"If you're here to intimidate me . . ." Morgan began.
"In your own home? With your mother and your security guard at hand? That would seem unwise."
Gabriel kept his voice soft, free of emphasis, but Morgan still tensed at the mention of his mother and his guard.
"I would like you to stop contacting Olivia," Gabriel said.
"I'm sure you would. The answer, as I said, is no."
"Let me rephrase, then. I insist you stop contacting her or I will obtain a restraining order, which I will publicize."
"If you do, I'll tell my side of the story, and it will be clear who is the victim here. I will also send a copy of that file to every reporter in my contact list."
Gabriel took out his phone. "In that case, I'll e-mail you my list of journalist contacts. Please send copies to all of them. Some would be very put out if they were excluded."
Morgan studied him, squint-eyed. He probably thought it made him seem tougher, but he only looked as if his contact lens had slipped.
"Don't bluff, Walsh," he said. "I'll call you on it."
"Go ahead. What you'll discover is that most reporters have heard every allegation in that file. While I'm sure most suspect there are kernels of truth, rooting them out has proven too much trouble. It is established fact that I have been persecuted and maligned by false accusations since I passed the bar exam. Unless you have a video of me bludgeoning prostitutes to death--and expert witnesses to guarantee the veracity of the recording--no one's going to touch it. But I'm sure you know that. So let's discuss your backup plan."
"Backup plan?"
Gabriel lowered himself onto the sofa. "Don't play coy with me. If you are an expert at this game, as you claimed, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. The file is the decoy; as was my threat about McNeil. Naturally, you have more, as do I."
Morgan's squint deepened. "You're saying that if I send out the file, you'll retaliate with some other blackmail."
"Certainly not. I gave you permission to send the file. The difficulty comes if you refuse to leave Olivia alone. Then I will be forced to reveal what other intelligence I've gathered on you."
"I will not leave Olivia--"
Gabriel sprang
to his feet and had Morgan against the wall before the man could blink. He pinned him there, feet barely touching the ground, his shirtfront gathered in Gabriel's fist, pressing into his windpipe.
"You will leave her alone. If you harm her, in any way, you will wish to God for blackmail, because you can recover from that."
"Is that a death threat?"
"I would never be so unimaginative."
Gabriel dropped Morgan but stayed where he was, effectively keeping him pinned there, unable to move more than an inch.
"You tell me you love her, but this isn't love," Gabriel said. "It's anger and it's wounded pride. Your history is open to anyone with a laptop, Morgan. You had another woman you planned to marry, but she was dull and insipid. Olivia is neither. You dumped the old girlfriend. You pursued Olivia. You won Olivia. Now you've lost her. And that looks bad."
"You think this is about politics? Her biological parents--"
"--are convicted serial killers. Now about to undergo an appeal, which may set them free. And you stuck by Olivia the whole time. You believed in her. Except . . . she wasn't grateful. Now she's run off with a biker. A biker. How humiliating. You should walk away. But you can't. You want her to grovel. You want her to pay."
"I would never--"
"No? Look me in the eye and tell me this is about love."
Morgan's jaw worked, and Gabriel eased back to watch him squirm. He noticed the movement a split second too late. His own fault, really, the smug satisfaction that he'd intimidated Morgan into impotence. Then the blow to his jaw that sent him reeling.
Gabriel recovered and slammed his fist into Morgan's gut. He caught Morgan's expression when he saw the blow coming. Shock, as if he couldn't believe Gabriel would pull such an ungentlemanly move. Again proving the man was an idiot. On the streets, there's no place for fairness. You put your opponent down fast, by any means possible.
Morgan crumpled to the floor, doubled over, his eyes bulging as he gasped for breath.
"You might want to see a doctor about that," Gabriel said. "I believe Olivia was telling me just the other day that Harry Houdini died from an untreated blow to the stomach."
He walked into the hall. As he did, he heard the pounding of Mrs. Morgan's footsteps on the stairs.
Gabriel looked up at her. "May I suggest you teach your son not to strike a man significantly larger than him. It rarely ends well."
She started shrieking threats. Creative threats, actually, making Gabriel suspect she would have been a far more worthy adversary than her son. He continued to the door as she hurried down to tend to her wounded boy.
Gabriel pulled open the door--and nearly yanked the security guard in with it. Behind the guard were two uniformed police officers.
"Gabriel Walsh, you're under arrest for trespass, breaking and entering, issuing threats . . ."
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
After the Huntsman left, I fell asleep. I'm sure there was something preternatural in that--there was no way I'd drift off with everything pinging through my head.
When my phone rang, Ricky woke first, and by the time I surfaced, he'd already pulled my cell from my discarded slacks.
He swore and turned the phone toward me. It was James. The call went to voice mail.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Two in the morning. Has he been doing this?"
"No. It's because . . . he sent a package this morning."
His look of concern sharpened to alarm, and I laughed softly.
"It wasn't a bomb or a dead rat," I said. "Just a file on Gabriel. Rumors and allegations. There was one on you, too. He didn't dig up anything more than a couple of dismissed traffic violations, but I should have mentioned it. I planned to, and then last night . . ."
"You had trouble with Gabriel, followed by motorcycle rides, which aren't conducive to conversation. We should talk, though. If James is--"
The phone rang again. Still James.
"Okay," Ricky said. "Three ways to handle this. One, you answer, though I'd rather you didn't, because it seems to only give him an excuse to keep calling. Two, you turn the phone off. Three, I answer."
"Go for it."
His eyes glinted. "Seriously?"
"I was hoping for a mature breakup, but he's not letting me have it."
Ricky answered. There was a pause, as James presumably processed the fact that a man was answering my phone at this hour. Then Ricky said, "It's Rick Gallagher. We haven't met."
A murmur on the other end of the line.
"It's the middle of the night. Can I pass on a message?"
Another murmur.
"If it's important, I'll wake her, but she's been working double shifts. I'd like to let her sleep."
He could have insinuated some other reason why I was exhausted, but he was taking the high road. Which was more than I could say for the guy calling me at 2 A.M.
Ricky listened for another minute, and I could see confusion and then surprise in his eyes. "Sure. I'll tell her. Oh, but I'm going to ask you not to call her in the middle of the night anymore, okay?"
I heard James start to respond, but Ricky cut him off. "Also, I heard you sent her some information on me yesterday. If you're interested in getting to know me better, just ask. In fact, if you'd like to get together for coffee, I could stop by your office tomorrow--"
Ricky stopped. He looked at me. "He hung up."
"And you were being so polite."
"I was." He handed me the phone. "He called about Gabriel." Ricky reached for our clothing and tossed me my slacks as he sorted through it. "It seems your boss paid your ex a visit tonight, in response to that package. He's been arrested."
I had my shirt half on. I stopped. "Gabriel?"
"Yeah. James made it sound like Gabriel tore over there, broke in, and beat the shit out of him, which I know isn't the real story. Whatever happened, though, Gabriel's in jail. I'm going to go bail him out."
"I'll do it."
"Bailing guys out is actually one of my jobs for the club. But you're welcome to come along. Unless you're so pissed off that you'd like to see him stew in a cell overnight."
"Mmm, tempting. But no. I'll come. I should learn how to do this for clients."
--
I don't think this particular station was accustomed to seeing bikers. Considering the median property value of the area it serviced, that's probably a given. I was the one the desk clerk recognized first. Ricky introduced himself and told the clerk why we were there, and suddenly I swear every officer in the place found an excuse to come up front as we waited.
It was like the setup to a joke: the gang leader's son and the serial killers' daughter walk into a police station and . . . Well, hilarious shenanigans ensue, I'm sure.
The reality, I fear, was not nearly as entertaining. Ricky and I waited, talking in low voices, causing two officers to creep ever closer until they overheard Ricky discussing a marketing project. One walked away in disgust. The other hovered, as if convinced it was really code for some nefarious scheme.
Finally, someone came to process our bail request. In Chicago, you pay the police, not a bondsman. Bail had been set at under two thousand dollars, which is why Gabriel hadn't called anyone to spring him--he'd be able to cover it himself with a call to the bank in the morning. The police knew that, so they were holding him in the drunk tank rather than shipping him to the Cook County jail. They could have let him stop at an ATM on the way, but this was Gabriel Walsh. The cops weren't doing him any favors.
The desk sergeant was a middle-aged woman who seemed to know exactly who we were and, quite frankly, didn't give a damn. We were being polite, so she was polite back.
According to her, James hadn't called the police. His mother--Maura--had. Maura claimed Gabriel had broken in, drunk, and proceeded to beat the crap out of James, while issuing death and blackmail threats. When the police actually arrived, they'd discovered a few flaws in Maura's story. One, no sign of break-in. Two, Gabriel was obviously sober. Three, n
o matter what they might think of him, they knew he wasn't going to suddenly go raging bull on anyone. That wasn't his rep.
The charges were simple assault and trespass, which were both misdemeanors. Serious enough, though, when you were an attorney. Yes, according to the desk sergeant, James had been taken to the hospital for possible internal injuries, but Gabriel would never have gut-punched him without provocation. James was being something I never would have thought possible. He was being an asshole.
Ricky and I were left in a room while the officer went to get Gabriel. When that door opened, I started forward, but Ricky stopped me. As Gabriel saw us, humiliation flickered over his face. It vanished in a blink, helped by the fact that I didn't rush to him. We played it cool, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. The officer who'd escorted Gabriel gruffly told us to see ourselves out and then retreated.
Once the door closed, Ricky said, "Aren't I supposed to be on that side of the room, and you over here?"
Gabriel only grunted, then seemed to realize Ricky was trying to lighten the mood and said, "I hope it never is reversed. I trust you know better than to get on this side. I'm presuming the police notified you, because I certainly didn't ask them to call."
"You should have," I said. "And no, it was James, actually."
"Liv was going to come bail you out," Ricky said. "But I'm the one with the experience. So now that that's done, I'm going to guess you're okay handling car retrieval? I should grab some sleep before morning classes."
He gave me a sidelong look, in case I was thinking of reminding him he didn't have any morning classes. He was trying to make an awkward situation easier by extricating himself. I glanced at Gabriel. He looked like hell--exhausted and disheveled, with a bruise on his jaw and blood spatter on his shirt. There was a vaguely disoriented look in his eyes, too, as if he'd lost his footing and still hadn't found it. I wasn't letting him go anywhere on his own.
"I'll go with Gabriel to fetch his car," I said, passing Ricky my helmet. "Thank you."
"Call me?"
I nodded. He made it halfway out the door before Gabriel seemed to snap out of it.
"Thank you," he said to Ricky. "I won't forget this."
Ricky grinned. "That would be the idea. And I'd hope I don't need to say it, but I'll keep this between us. I'm sure you'll get it resolved."