“I’ll see what I can do.”
Gabriel called at eight thirty the next morning, as I was in the clothing store looking for jogging sweats.
“I’ve arranged our first appointment,” he said.
I flipped through a stack of pink T-shirts. Were they all pink?
“Who is it?”
“Jan Gunderson’s sister.”
“Anna?” Damn it. My one lead and he already had her contact information. And I was sure he hadn’t needed to break into an apartment with a dead body to get it. Figures.
He continued, “You’ll pose as my intern. Dress—”
“Businesslike. I know. Unless we’re interviewing hookers or bikers, that’ll be my default. If we do interview hookers and bikers, warn me in advance, because I have nothing to wear.” I looked around the shop. Fifty percent polyester. Fifty percent loungewear. “And I won’t find it in Cainsville.”
“Jeans and a T-shirt would suffice for such situations.”
I’d been joking. Was he? I honestly couldn’t tell.
He continued, “Business wear for this one, but dowdy.”
“Dowdy?”
“Frumpy. Plain. No makeup. Tie your hair back if you can.”
“What is she, Amish?” I found a navy and white sweat suit in my size and pulled it out.
“Just do it, Olivia. I’m in court this morning. The interview is at noon. I’ll—”
“I work at three. I’ll need to be back by then.”
A pause. “So you intend to keep playing server, even though you have something else to occupy your time?”
I gripped the phone tighter. “I’m not playing anything. It’s my job.”
“You have an Ivy League education, and you’re working in a diner.”
“That’s not your concern.”
“It is if it interferes with this investigation. I have a job, too, Ms. Jones. You cannot expect me to work around your schedule when with one call to your adoptive mother, you could solve your insolvency.”
“No.” I took the sweat suit into the change room. “You’re right about the scheduling, though. We’ll work it out.”
“We’ll see. Be ready at eleven.” Before I could argue, he said, “I can dictate to my secretary on the drive there, so it isn’t lost time. I’ll bill you a hundred dollars flat fee each way.”
Which meant it was roughly the same cost as a cab. And the cab would not be a luxury sports car.
I agreed, hung up, and went to try on the sweat suit.
I was sitting on the front steps when Gabriel pulled up to the curb. He put down the passenger window and lowered his shades to look at me. I tried to open the door. It was still locked.
“I thought we talked about your appearance,” he said.
“I have one business suit. This is it. My hair is too short to pin up.”
“Makeup?”
“Not wearing any,” I said. “I’m twenty-four. I don’t need to trowel it on.”
He nudged his shades up and opened the car door. I got in.
As he peeled from the curb, he said, “Your hair color is washing out.”
“Yes, apparently, I bought temporary dye by accident. I’ll get the proper stuff.”
“Don’t bother. It isn’t helping.”
I glanced over.
“The cut, the color, and the glasses are useless. To anyone who has seen the photographs, you are obviously Eden Larsen in hiding.” He turned onto Main Street. “Do you want to look like Eden Larsen in hiding?”
“No.”
“Then I’d suggest you don’t bother with the rest. Your features are too strong to disguise yourself with anything short of plastic surgery. And as long as you insist on playing poor, you can’t afford plastic surgery.”
I wasn’t touching that. “Is that why you insisted on the dowdy disguise today? In hopes Jan Gunderson’s sister won’t recognize me?”
“Partly. I’m hoping that the families of victims will avoid the articles.” He paused. “The exception, of course, being Niles Gunderson. I hear you’ve already encountered him.”
I tried not to react. I must have given something away, though, because he glanced over.
“Yes, I’m sure that was unpleasant. Being attacked in your home. But the man is mentally unstable. Everyone knows that, including the journalist—or more likely Internet blogger—who alerted him that night. He clearly did it hoping for exactly the kind of scene he got.”
I cleared my throat. “Maybe there’s another reason he”—I stopped myself before referring to Niles in the past tense —“is unstable. The family closed ranks after Christian killed himself. Presumably because they thought he’d been innocent. What if Niles knew he wasn’t?”
“And was driven mad by guilt?”
“Maybe. I know what it’s like to have a serial killer in your gene pool. But at least I can say I’m not responsible for what the Larsens did. If it’s your child who is the killer? Not only could it be in your genes, but you might have done something to make him commit murder.”
Gabriel murmured something that could be agreement.
I reclined my seat and closed my eyes, and he turned up the stereo—Haydn this time—and accelerated onto the highway.
Anna Gunderson lived in an older suburb of North Chicago, a once-separate town, swallowed by urban sprawl. According to Gabriel, she’d moved there with her daughter after a recent divorce. She had a small bungalow with frilly curtains in every window. On the door hung a handcrafted welcome sign adorned with red flowers. There were more flowers in every garden. Lawn cutting service truck out front, young guy unloading a mower. He stared at the Jag as Gabriel pulled in.
“Sweet ride,” he said as we got out. “What’s she got under the hood?”
“I have no idea,” Gabriel replied, his tone freezing out further comment.
“Bullshit,” I whispered as I rounded the car. “You drive like that, you know what’s under the hood.”
“No, I do not. When I hit the accelerator, it speeds up. When I turn the wheel, it corners. When I hit the brakes, it stops. If it does all that to my satisfaction, then the particulars are unimportant.”
“It’ll be a five-liter V8. At least four hundred horses. Maybe five. Which, as the boy said, is very sweet. Yes, I know cars. It was my dad’s hobby.”
“And you left yours behind when you made your vow of poverty?” he said.
“I didn’t have my own. With my dad’s garage to choose from, that would be like Hugh Hefner sticking to one girlfriend. I also like being chauffeured. Which, may I say, you do very nicely.”
He shook his head and ushered me to the door.
Chapter Thirty-one
I’d seen photos of Jan Gunderson. She had looked as if she’d time-warped from the seventies, with long blond hair, a fresh complexion, and a penchant for peasant blouses and long skirts. Had she lived, I suspected she’d now look a lot like her sister, Anna. Blond hair cut to her shoulders, pin-straight. Dark eyes behind retro glasses. Loose khaki pants and an even looser blouse.
I think Anna’s house was meant to be welcoming and cozy, but for me, it was anything but. The busy geometric wallpaper seemed at odds with the landscape art. The intermingled scents of candles and air fresheners made my temples throb as my brain tried to sort out the scents. Too many noises as well—the tick-tock of an antique grandfather clock, the tinkle of wind chimes through an open window, an NPR host chattering in the kitchen.
I actually appreciated the mental distraction, though. It kept me from feeling guilty. Anna was clearly not in mourning, which meant her father’s body hadn’t been discovered. When she found out, I bet she’d spend the rest of her life thinking of him there dead, alone and forgotten.