That afternoon, he had enough messages to keep him busy until I pulled into the lane beside his office. Even then, I was almost out of the car before I realized he was still in his seat, cell phone in hand, his gaze distant.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

He started. “Yes. Of course.” He climbed from the car. “Pamela called.”

“She’s still not offering to answer my questions, I’m presuming.”

“No, but she’s becoming increasingly frantic at not seeing you. I’m wondering if we ought to take advantage of that. She’s the best place to get our answers.” He paused. “Or the second-best.”

“Second-best?”

He took the keys and headed toward the front door. “In the last message, she asked if you’ve been to see Todd yet. While she was initially eager for you to see him, it seems she’s changed her mind.”

“Because whatever she knows, he’ll know, and she suspects he’ll part with it more easily. Would she be right? I mean, I know you’ve never met him . . .”

“Given what I know of the case, he would be more likely to talk, particularly if the request came from you.”

He ushered me past Lydia, a raised finger saying he’d be back to speak to her. Once we were in his office, he closed the door.

“You may not wish to hear this, but I believe, in the current context, it’s important. Pamela has said, after you were lost in the adoption system, they hired private investigators to search for you. She stopped paying when it seemed apparent there was nothing to find. Todd did not. He didn’t tell her, because he didn’t wish to upset her, but I know from his lawyer that he never stopped looking for you.”

When I didn’t answer, his gaze bored into me.

“As I suspected, it’s not something you wished to know.”

“No, you’re right. It helps to understand the situation if we’re going to do an end run around Pamela. Anytime you can get me in to see him, I’ll go. I’m guessing Lydia hasn’t managed it yet?”

“No. It should be a simple matter of paperwork, but she is having inordinate trouble cutting through it. Calls aren’t returned. Paperwork goes missing . . .”

“Do you think that’s intentional?”

“I’m trying not to draw that conclusion, because it smacks of paranoia. I’ve asked Lydia to pursue the matter more aggressively, using the network of contacts from her CIA days. I don’t like to impose on that, but this appears to require it, and she’s happy to do so.”

“Thanks. To both of you.”

—

It was six thirty when Gabriel popped his head into the meeting room where I was working. Lydia was long gone and I’d lost track of time.

“Sorry,” I said, grabbing my laptop. “You want to lock up.”

“I was going to ask if you had dinner plans. There are things we could discuss.”

Things we could discuss. Not a specific case. Not even things we should discuss. In other words, he was asking if I wanted to join him for dinner. God forbid he should just say that.

“Sure,” I said. “Give me five minutes.”

—

Gabriel took me to the restaurant that was quickly becoming “our place.” We sat in a quiet corner and shared a good meal and wine and conversation, and when dessert ended, I had to struggle not to find some excuse for lingering. Gabriel seemed to want to, too, and when the server started eyeing us and the late-dinner line at the door, I said, “We should probably give up our table.” Gabriel shot a cold stare across the restaurant, and I’m sure he would have said, “Screw them”—in some far less vulgar language—but I insisted.

When we got outside, he said, “Would you like to come to my apartment?” He cleared his throat. “I mean for a drink. Clients give me bottles, and my building isn’t far. I’ll drive you back to your car after. Or home, if need be.”

“Depending on how much I drink?” I smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, but yes, if it’s nearby, and it’s not an inconvenience . . .”

“It’s not.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

I was going to Gabriel’s apartment. He’d offered so casually that I wondered if I’d been mistaken about his reluctance to have guests. Still, I played it cool, making general conversation, with no comments on the neighborhood or even the building. I certainly could have commented on both.

When Gabriel first took me to his office, I’d expected a modern skyscraper suite in a high-rent neighborhood. Wrong for his office; dead-on for his residence. He lived in the near-north district of Chicago, just over the Loop. It was an impressive building, and I craned to look up at the top floors as I imagined the amazing view. I was so engrossed in my surroundings that I didn’t notice Gabriel had gone quiet. He parked without a word, got out of the Jag, and led me to the elevator in continued silence.

He’d spent most of the trip here talking, that slightly animated chatter that came after his standard half glass of wine. And I could say that had worn off and he’d retreated into a more typical thoughtful silence. But it didn’t feel that way.

As we waited for the elevator, I could feel anxiety strumming off him as his fingers drummed his leg. My gut dropped, any lingering buzz from the wine evaporating.

Gabriel didn’t want to bring me here. He’d had an impulse, and now it had passed, and he desperately wanted to rescind the invitation.

“Is this all right?” I asked.

He glanced over. “Hmm?”

“We can grab a drink someplace else.” I forced a smile. “You look like you’re wondering if the cleaning lady came by today. I know what that’s like. You get busy, and I swear the clutter starts reproducing itself. We can go someplace else . . .”

I was giving him an escape route. Yes, actually, the place is a mess. Let’s go down the street instead. But he stared as if I was speaking Swahili. Finally, he seemed to process enough to understand.

“No, of course not,” he said, ushering me into the elevator. “The apartment’s fine.”

He pressed a button. As the doors closed, I leaned over to see which floor he’d selected.

“Fifty-five? Damn. That’s got to have an amazing view. North or south?”

“South.”