I called exactly five minutes after sending the text, holding the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I kept setting tables.

“You need to be more conscientious about checking your messages, Olivia,” Gabriel said in greeting.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A pause, as if he’d expected me to argue that it was a Saturday. After a moment, he said, “I was calling for a reason.”

“I figured that. Again, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Another pause. Then, “Ciara Conway’s body has gone missing.”

I stopped, fork in hand. “What?”

“Her body disappeared at some point during transfer or handoff. I haven’t yet been able to obtain details. I only found out last night.”

“Her body?” I said carefully. “So they still have—”

“No, her head was taken, too. The entire corpse.”

“Does that happen? Is it just misplaced? Someone was getting their kicks scaring me with it, but I can’t imagine they’d steal it back to continue the fun.”

“I don’t know, but I wanted you to hear about it as soon as possible, given the circumstances. You’re at the diner, correct?”

“I am,” I said as I resumed setting the tables. “I was supposed to be off, but I switched a shift.”

“All right. The detective handling the Conway case would like you to come into the station and answer questions. Normally, I would insist it be done at your home, to avoid inconvenience, but I suspect you wouldn’t want that, so I’ve agreed to bring you to the station later. I presume you’re free tonight?”

“Uh . . .” I’d agreed to meet up with Ricky later for drinks. “What time?”

“Meet me at the office at five, and I’ll drive us over to the station. We’ll have dinner afterward. We have a few matters to discuss.”

When I hesitated, he said, “Olivia?” a little sharply, as if my agreement was merely a formality and any delay in giving it kept him from more pressing matters.

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll see you at five.”

—

As it turned out, I didn’t need to feel bad about canceling with Ricky. He bailed first, with a text message saying he had urgent “club stuff” to deal with. A few days ago, I’d have thought nothing of him changing plans, but let’s face it, sleeping together changes things. Of course, I worried this was an “Oh, shit” morning-after brush-off. I said it was fine and I’d just had something come up, too . . . which then got him worried.

A flurry of texts followed. Ricky made it clear that he wanted to see me after our separate engagements and would like to spend the night with me. At a hotel if that’s what I was comfortable with, but he’d prefer his place or mine. Just tell him what I wanted. I did, in detail, which led to a break-time flurry of a whole other kind of texts. The upshot was that when I headed to the city, I’d bring an overnight bag.

—

“The detective who’ll be interviewing you is Ruben Fuentes,” Gabriel said as he drove us to the station. “You may notice that he doesn’t like me, but that is no reflection on his handling of this case, so don’t be alarmed.”

“I think I’d be more alarmed if he did like you.”

Gabriel slanted a look my way.

“What?” I said. “Are there cops who do?”

“The degree of antagonism varies, but that’s a given, under the professional circumstances. A detective’s job is to find the killer. A defense attorney’s job is to prove his incompetence in doing so. Fortunately, with many, that’s not difficult. The law enforcement profession seems to attract an inordinate number of idiots.”

“I’m sure they love to hear you say that. Just like I’m sure you do say it. In front of them.”

“Not often.” He cut off a car to make a right turn. “My goal is to keep my clients out of jail. Not to make friends.”

“Then don’t take offense when I point that out.”

“I don’t. I merely take offense at the glee with which you point it out. Back to the subject at hand. Fuentes is competent. I’ve never personally embarrassed him. He dislikes me because, when he was in Vice, I had his partner investigated for bribery.”

“Was he actually accepting bribes?”

“Irrelevant,” he said. “He was investigated and moved to a different department to avoid the temptation that Vice offers. Fuentes has not forgiven me. However, I trust he will deal with you fairly, and if he does not, I’ll handle it. Given his antagonism, you may wish to cool our interplay.”

“Pretend you’re a necessary evil?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Oh, I can manage that performance. Minimal acting required.”

He glanced over to see if I was joking. I gave him an enigmatic smile and changed the subject.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Gabriel has a habit of steering me, with a hand at my back, as we walk. In the beginning, that guiding hand rarely even brushed the folds of my shirt. Gabriel doesn’t do physical contact. But as we got to know each other, it became an actual tap on the arm or his hand lightly on my back. It sounds very intimate and personal. It wasn’t. More like a sheepdog herding a wayward lamb.

Now, as he guided me through the station door, I jumped at his touch. A couple of departing officers noticed. Gabriel did not—he was too intent on his destination. As we walked, I kept about a foot farther away than usual. Again, he was distracted, not realizing I wasn’t in my normal place until he reached to steer me toward the front desk . . . and discovered I wasn’t within reach. His lips tightened in annoyance, and he caught my gaze. I dropped it as soon as our eyes met.

A middle-aged detective who’d been watching the exchange came forward.

“Gabriel,” he said.

Professionally, I’m guessing police officers don’t call lawyers by their first name, any more than lawyers would use an officer’s. They stick to the proper titles, unless they’re friends. Gabriel was not, I was certain, friends with any law enforcement officer, and this man’s tone was pure condescension, as if Gabriel did not deserve the respect of Mr. Walsh.

“Detective Fuentes,” Gabriel said. “This is Ms. Taylor-Jones.”