“You were about to. Yes, I’m having identity issues. Can’t blame me really. Wake up the daughter of respected pillars of Chicago and go to bed as the child of its most notorious serial killers. Maybe I’m making some choices that you think are silly and immature, like insisting on living in a smelly apartment and working at a small-town diner. But if I was single, would I have flirted with a cute biker before all this happened? Absolutely. Would I have done more than flirt? Probably not. Too many complications. Would I do it now? Maybe. Not for a walk on the wild side, but as a conscious decision to try something different. My choice. One that has nothing to do with you.”
“Yes, it does, because you are my client and Ricky—”
“God, it’s like talking to a cyborg sometimes. You pretend to listen, but really, you’ve just gone on pause, waiting for me to stop so you can reiterate your original point.”
Gabriel’s phone rang, saving him from an answer. It was Ricky. Gray’s girlfriend was ready for us.
• • •
When Gabriel knocked on Josh Gray’s door, Ricky answered. He came out and pulled it almost shut behind him.
“Her name’s Desiree Barbosa. She should talk, but if she tries to stonewall you, just remind her I’ll be back.” He walked past with a smile for me and a whispered, “See you later.”
As Gabriel pushed open the door, I glanced at him. I’d been sure they weren’t resorting to physical violence to persuade Gray’s girlfriend. Was I being naive? Telling her that Ricky would come back if she refused to talk sure as hell sounded like a threat.
We found Desiree in the tiny living room. She was on the couch, her legs pulled up. When we walked in, she didn’t even tense, just said, “Hey,” and waited for us to sit.
As soon as I stepped into that room, I could feel the difference in her. Earlier, it’d been like walking across a carpet in a dry room, her anxiety, her fear, condensing into nervous static-like energy. Now it felt like an island breeze wafting through the room, gentle and warm, telling me to just sit down, relax.
As soon as I felt that, I stiffened, because I’d felt this sensation before, at the shelter. I didn’t need omens or signs to understand what it meant.
As we crossed the room, I studied Desiree. Her pupils were dilated, her jaw slack, her eyelids listing, as if struggling to stay awake.
Ricky hadn’t threatened her. He’d given her drugs.
My gut tightened, and I glanced at Gabriel. His gaze flitted across Desiree and the look he gave was satisfaction mixed with contempt. He knew. Of course he did. He’d set it up.
We’d known Desiree was a recovering addict. After Gray ran and we showed up, she’d been scared and anxious and alone. Vulnerable. When Gabriel saw that, he’d known exactly how to get her to talk. That’s what Ricky meant about telling her he’d come back—he’d given her a hit and promised another if she cooperated.
We’d given drugs to a recovering addict.
I’d just given Gabriel shit for suggesting I was enjoying this walk on the wild side, like a drunken college girl stumbling into a filthy tattoo parlor and letting dirty needles decorate her body with the Chinese symbol for whore. The truth was that I’d been riding a roller coaster of anxiety and adrenaline since Dr. Escoda’s call that morning.
And now this.
I sat there, feeling sick and shocked and angry, most of all furious with myself for being such a fool, such a damned fool.
This wasn’t a game. It was serious and ugly and I wanted nothing to do with it. And yet, in wanting nothing to do with it, I was a hypocrite. I’d followed Gabriel this far because he got me what I wanted. Now he was, once again, delivering. Was I going to sail out on a wave of righteous indignation?
What would I do to prove that my parents—yes, my parents—did not kill anyone?
How far would I go?
Everything in me screamed against this. Yet the deeds had been done, the body hidden, the drugs given, the witness ready to talk. Leaving smacked of hypocrisy and empty self-righteousness. So I stayed.
“That guy says you aren’t one of them,” Desiree began. “He said you can help if they come for me.”
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “But I can’t help until I understand what’s happening.”
She snorted. “I don’t even understand. It’s crazy shit Josh used to tell me when he got high, and I always figured it was just the dope talking. Then he gets a call, and he says it’s about that and I was, like, holy fuck, so he wasn’t making it up.”
“Making what up?” I asked.
“The stuff.” She waved her hands. “The crazy shit.”
As she gestured, I thought I saw a spot of red on her sleeve. A stain the size of a dime. But when I tried to find it again, I couldn’t see it.
“Let’s step back,” Gabriel said. “You were worried I was someone else. One of ‘them.’ Who?”
“The spooks.”
We both paused.
“Do you mean ghosts?” I said.
She gave me an “Are you high, chick?” look. “Spooks. You know. The men in black. The alphabet goons.”
I glanced at Gabriel.
“Federal agents,” he said. “DEA? FBI? CIA?”
“Spooks.”
“CIA?”
“That’s what I said.”
“So Joshua knows something he thinks might make the CIA come after him. Something someone else told him.”
“Right. His friend from back when they were kids. The one that got carved up. Supposedly by that couple.”
“The Larsens.”
She leaned forward. “Only it wasn’t really them. They were framed by the spooks.”
“The Larsens were framed by the CIA?” I said.
“You’re just a baby,” she said with a dismissive wave my way. “I was still a little girl, but I remember my parents talking about those murders, and I’d sneak the papers to read about them. I always knew the Larsens couldn’t have done it. They weren’t more than kids themselves, and anyone could tell they weren’t murderers. Then I met Josh, and he told me what really happened. I didn’t believe him because he’d only talk about it when he was high. I should have believed him.”
“Why did Josh think the CIA had killed Peter Evans?”
“Is that his friend’s name? I always forget.”
“Yes, it does, because you are my client and Ricky—”
“God, it’s like talking to a cyborg sometimes. You pretend to listen, but really, you’ve just gone on pause, waiting for me to stop so you can reiterate your original point.”
Gabriel’s phone rang, saving him from an answer. It was Ricky. Gray’s girlfriend was ready for us.
• • •
When Gabriel knocked on Josh Gray’s door, Ricky answered. He came out and pulled it almost shut behind him.
“Her name’s Desiree Barbosa. She should talk, but if she tries to stonewall you, just remind her I’ll be back.” He walked past with a smile for me and a whispered, “See you later.”
As Gabriel pushed open the door, I glanced at him. I’d been sure they weren’t resorting to physical violence to persuade Gray’s girlfriend. Was I being naive? Telling her that Ricky would come back if she refused to talk sure as hell sounded like a threat.
We found Desiree in the tiny living room. She was on the couch, her legs pulled up. When we walked in, she didn’t even tense, just said, “Hey,” and waited for us to sit.
As soon as I stepped into that room, I could feel the difference in her. Earlier, it’d been like walking across a carpet in a dry room, her anxiety, her fear, condensing into nervous static-like energy. Now it felt like an island breeze wafting through the room, gentle and warm, telling me to just sit down, relax.
As soon as I felt that, I stiffened, because I’d felt this sensation before, at the shelter. I didn’t need omens or signs to understand what it meant.
As we crossed the room, I studied Desiree. Her pupils were dilated, her jaw slack, her eyelids listing, as if struggling to stay awake.
Ricky hadn’t threatened her. He’d given her drugs.
My gut tightened, and I glanced at Gabriel. His gaze flitted across Desiree and the look he gave was satisfaction mixed with contempt. He knew. Of course he did. He’d set it up.
We’d known Desiree was a recovering addict. After Gray ran and we showed up, she’d been scared and anxious and alone. Vulnerable. When Gabriel saw that, he’d known exactly how to get her to talk. That’s what Ricky meant about telling her he’d come back—he’d given her a hit and promised another if she cooperated.
We’d given drugs to a recovering addict.
I’d just given Gabriel shit for suggesting I was enjoying this walk on the wild side, like a drunken college girl stumbling into a filthy tattoo parlor and letting dirty needles decorate her body with the Chinese symbol for whore. The truth was that I’d been riding a roller coaster of anxiety and adrenaline since Dr. Escoda’s call that morning.
And now this.
I sat there, feeling sick and shocked and angry, most of all furious with myself for being such a fool, such a damned fool.
This wasn’t a game. It was serious and ugly and I wanted nothing to do with it. And yet, in wanting nothing to do with it, I was a hypocrite. I’d followed Gabriel this far because he got me what I wanted. Now he was, once again, delivering. Was I going to sail out on a wave of righteous indignation?
What would I do to prove that my parents—yes, my parents—did not kill anyone?
How far would I go?
Everything in me screamed against this. Yet the deeds had been done, the body hidden, the drugs given, the witness ready to talk. Leaving smacked of hypocrisy and empty self-righteousness. So I stayed.
“That guy says you aren’t one of them,” Desiree began. “He said you can help if they come for me.”
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “But I can’t help until I understand what’s happening.”
She snorted. “I don’t even understand. It’s crazy shit Josh used to tell me when he got high, and I always figured it was just the dope talking. Then he gets a call, and he says it’s about that and I was, like, holy fuck, so he wasn’t making it up.”
“Making what up?” I asked.
“The stuff.” She waved her hands. “The crazy shit.”
As she gestured, I thought I saw a spot of red on her sleeve. A stain the size of a dime. But when I tried to find it again, I couldn’t see it.
“Let’s step back,” Gabriel said. “You were worried I was someone else. One of ‘them.’ Who?”
“The spooks.”
We both paused.
“Do you mean ghosts?” I said.
She gave me an “Are you high, chick?” look. “Spooks. You know. The men in black. The alphabet goons.”
I glanced at Gabriel.
“Federal agents,” he said. “DEA? FBI? CIA?”
“Spooks.”
“CIA?”
“That’s what I said.”
“So Joshua knows something he thinks might make the CIA come after him. Something someone else told him.”
“Right. His friend from back when they were kids. The one that got carved up. Supposedly by that couple.”
“The Larsens.”
She leaned forward. “Only it wasn’t really them. They were framed by the spooks.”
“The Larsens were framed by the CIA?” I said.
“You’re just a baby,” she said with a dismissive wave my way. “I was still a little girl, but I remember my parents talking about those murders, and I’d sneak the papers to read about them. I always knew the Larsens couldn’t have done it. They weren’t more than kids themselves, and anyone could tell they weren’t murderers. Then I met Josh, and he told me what really happened. I didn’t believe him because he’d only talk about it when he was high. I should have believed him.”
“Why did Josh think the CIA had killed Peter Evans?”
“Is that his friend’s name? I always forget.”
