Now he had a story.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

As we walked to the car, Gabriel gave me research assignments.

“Summarize your findings and e-mail them to me. I’m in court most of tomorrow, but if you have it to me tonight, I can give it a read and suggest new research directions.”

“I can’t do it tonight. I work until eleven and the library closes at six.”

“Library? Why . . . ?” He sighed. Deeply.

“Yes, I need a computer. I’m saving up for one.”

He waved for me to cut through a parking lot. “I imagine that’s a new experience for you.”

“It is. I’m catching up on everything I missed not being raised by the Larsens. Counting my pennies. Saving up for a new bike, a Ouija board, a hunting knife to teach a lesson to all the mean girls . . .” I put my notebook away. “Speaking of which, how’s the gun situation coming along?”

“I’m reconsidering the wisdom of that right now.” He waved me to the left. “It’s coming. As for the computer . . .”

“I need better Internet access, I know. Larry has a computer at the diner. He’d probably let me use it—”

“Mr. Walsh!” a man’s voice called behind us.

As Gabriel turned, he pulled me behind him, the move so smooth I didn’t even realize what he was doing until I was confronted by the wall of his back.

“Yes?” Gabriel said.

The patter of jogging footsteps. “Colin Hale. Chicago Post. I—”

“Turn around, Mr. Hale, and go back the way you came.”

“I just want—”

“I don’t speak to reporters, Mr. Hale. Turn around now.”

“It’s actually your client I’d like to talk to.” A nervous laugh. “Or maybe client is the wrong word. I imagine Miss Larsen is looking for information on her mother. Right? Family history, so to speak.”

Hale tried to sidestep, but Gabriel blocked him. I stayed where I was. As much as I might like to stand up for myself, I didn’t need another “serial-killer junior” photo in the paper. And Gabriel did make a very good wall.

“I’m going to ask you one more time, Mr. Hale. Turn around now.”

Hale tried to dodge around him again and Gabriel’s arm swung. I heard the crack of fist hitting bone. I saw Hale fly off his feet, blood spraying from his mouth.

Hale hit the pavement, and Gabriel strode over. He reached down and patted the man’s jacket pockets. When Hale’s hands flew up to ward him off, Gabriel just swatted them away, his face expressionless. He found what he was looking for—the reporter’s cell phone—and took it, then walked back and nudged me to resume our journey to the car.

Gabriel stayed behind me. When I glanced back, he was doing something on the phone, nonchalantly, as if unconcerned about turning his back on a man he’d just decked. At the scrabble of gravel, he tensed. He didn’t look back or even stop walking, but he was clearly listening.

He glanced up from the phone and gave me a “keep going” wave. A moment later, he murmured, “Good.”

I looked back to see him pitch the phone in Hale’s direction.

“No photos?” I said.

“Just a poor one of us in the diner. I erased it and checked his e-mail in case he’d sent it. He hadn’t.”

We continued to the car. I waited until we were on the road, then said, “You aren’t worried you’ll get in trouble for hitting him?”

“No, I do it all the time.”

He was joking. I think.

Gabriel turned onto the road leading to the highway. “He can’t write about it without witnesses, which he doesn’t have. He could report the assault, but he wouldn’t get far. A reporter tried that back when I started my practice. He approached me for an interview. When he wouldn’t leave, I responded in what could be called a threatening manner. He reported that I assaulted him. I had not. That was proven beyond any doubt. Shortly after that a photographer tried something similar with the same results. Clearly I was being stereotyped by my size and my choice of clientele and being persecuted by the media for my refusal to grant them unrestricted access to my clients.”

“So now, if you do hit a reporter and he wants you charged with assault, the cops ignore it. Lucky break for you, then, getting two false accusations right off the bat.”

“There’s no such thing as luck, Olivia.”

I laughed. When I did, he glanced over and studied my expression before turning back to the road.

I suppose if he was saying that he’d engineered the false accusations, I should be appalled. I thought of what happened in the parking lot. The way he’d hit Hale. The casualness of it. Punching the man hard enough to knock him off his feet. Maybe even hard enough to loosen teeth.

I remembered Gabriel’s expression. No anger. Not even annoyance. He’d warned Hale. When the man tried to get past, he hit him. A reasonable response to a threat.

I glanced over at him.

“Yes?” he said, gaze still on the road.

“You have blood on your cuff.”

He stretched his arm out over the steering wheel, suit jacket sleeve shooting back, his right cuff speckled with Hale’s blood. A murmured curse of annoyance, and he adjusted the cuff so it wouldn’t show.

“I think what happened proves my earlier point, Olivia. You are recognizable in that ‘disguise.’ While Hale didn’t get a photograph, he may still write a piece saying he saw you with me. He may include a description of your attempts to disguise yourself. You need to give this some serious thought.”

“How? He’ll print that or he won’t. I . . .” I paused. “Shit. I need to warn my mother.” I took out my cell. The battery was dead. I swore again.

“Can I use yours?” I said. “I’ll block the number. It’s a local call. I’m just passing a message through the family lawyer.”

“For your mother?” Gabriel glanced over. “She’s not speaking to you?”

“She’s in Europe avoiding the media mess. Which doesn’t mean she won’t hear of this if it’s printed, unfortunately.”

“Europe?” His brows lifted. He said nothing, but his expression spoke for him. Part of me wanted to make excuses for her. And part of me saw his reaction and felt relief, vindication even. If someone as objective as Gabriel Walsh found my mother’s behavior odd, I wasn’t wrong to be annoyed with her.