Even without the name, Gabriel wanted to start digging, and I was fine with that. There’s no way I could have slept. Ricky had a presentation in the morning, so he took off.

Gabriel drove and we were halfway across the city before he said, “About what the Huntsman said . . . Your parents . . .”

“Hmm?” I said.

He fell silent, shaking his head.

I looked over. “I know you said it doesn’t matter if they’re guilty or innocent, you’ll still defend Pamela. This doesn’t change anything, then? Knowing she’s guilty?”

He drove another block, streetlights flickering through the car. “Under the circumstances, you might prefer I dropped the case. I would consider it if you did. But . . .” He rubbed his thumb on the steering wheel. “I don’t know what my decision would be.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for saying you’d consider it. And thanks for being honest.”

—

We spent the next few hours at the office combing through the first two pairs of murders again, hunting for a connection and finding none. When my yawning got too loud, Gabriel promised we’d leave soon, and suggested I rest in the chaise longue in the meantime. I did . . . and woke four hours later to find him still in his office chair, laptop shoved aside, arms folded on a stack of papers, his head on them. Sound asleep. He looked adorable. I considered taking a cell phone picture for future blackmail. I may even have done it, but I’ll admit nothing.

I went out and returned a half hour later. Gabriel woke when I placed a steaming coffee beside his head. He groaned as he opened his eyes. Groaned louder, pairing it with a wince, when he lifted his head.

“Yep, that’s going to hurt,” I said. “You should have taken the longue.”

“It was occupied.” He winced again as he pushed himself into a relatively upright position. “Even if it wasn’t, I don’t fit on it.”

Which was true. It looked as if it had never been used. He was too tall to sleep on it, but I’d bet he’d never even sat there. So why buy it? Another Gabriel mystery.

“Coffee,” I said, pushing it toward him. “Extra large.”

“Thank you.”

“And this.” I fished a vial of Tylenol from my bag. “For your neck. But don’t take it until you’ve eaten. Luckily, food is also provided.” I set down a box of four still-warm muffins. “Blueberry, banana nut, lemon poppyseed, and double chocolate. Your pick.”

He took the banana nut and set the double chocolate down by my coffee cup. I smiled. “Thank you.”

He leaned back with the muffin and coffee as I settled into the other chair. He eyed the painkillers but didn’t open them. I reached over, popped the lid, and shook out two.

“Your neck is hurting from sleeping like that. It’s only going to get worse. We may have a full day ahead. Take.”

He did.

“Thank you,” I said. “Now, when you’re feeling better, Detective Pemberton got back to me with a name.”

He looked up so fast he winced, pulling his neck again.

“Relax,” I said. “Let the meds kick in. It can wait.”

“You realize, as your employer, I legally have access to your e-mail.”

“I didn’t use my office one.” I smiled and let him simmer for a minute, just for fun. Then I said, “Imogen Seale,” and he was on his laptop in five seconds flat.

I waited until he said, “All right. I have—” Then I passed over my notebook, with Imogen’s current address and a page of notes.

“Early bird gets the scoop,” I said. “Eat, drink, let those pain meds do their work, and we’ll get out of here.”

We were heading out as Lydia arrived. I left the two remaining muffins on her desk. She said, “Good morning,” and refrained from comment on the early hour or the fact I wore an oversized Iron Maiden concert shirt, grabbed from the Saints clubhouse because mine had been stained with blood.

“It’s too early to buy a shirt, isn’t it?” I said to Gabriel as we walked down the front steps.

“At this hour, if you hope for business wear, yes. There are a few options, though. Nothing fashionable, but perhaps a little less . . .”

“Like I slept with an aging roadie, and he ripped my shirt off?”

A quirk of a smile. “Yes.”

“Lead on, then. I won’t ask how you know where to buy clean clothes at eight in the morning.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The shirt came from a diner, a tee that advertised their business. Whch was better than what the other one seemed to “advertise.”

By ten, we were at Imogen’s house. Or the house where she lived, which actually belonged to her mother. At twenty-four, I’d felt too old to still live at home. Imogen was forty-three.

When we arrived, I was certain we’d made a mistake. We were looking for a house. This was a street of walk-ups and apartments. And, as it turned out, one house, wedged between two towering buildings, like a recalcitrant dwarf squatting between giants, refusing to give ground. Which is, I suspect, exactly what happened. Imogen’s family had refused to sell, so they were left there, in the shade of those apartments, with only a house and a strip of grass.

Gabriel knocked. When a stooped, elderly woman answered, he still did the “foot in the doorjamb” trick. Rightly, as it turned out. She took one look at me and tried to slam the door.

“Get your damned foot out of there,” she said. “Or I swear I’ll crush it—” She yanked feebly on the door, her face reddening. Then she peered up at Gabriel. “I’ll call the police.”