When we reached the room, he asked us to “Please hurry,” and then shut the door behind us.

We walked in and…saw blood. Droplets dappled the hall. In the bedroom, an arc drenched the wall like a red rainbow.

Arterial spray.

I glanced at Gabriel. He processed the spray, no expression on his face. Then he stepped into the bedroom, where a blond woman in her late thirties looked up from her phone.

“Where’s the manager?” she asked.

“Left us and fled,” I replied, and walked in, my hand extended. “Liv Jones.”

She ignored my hand, her gaze fixed on Gabriel. She had a gleam in her eye, like she was watching an enemy run a gauntlet of spears, praying one of them sliced through him.

While I’d understood Gabriel’s reasoning for not feeling any remorse over “inadvertently” costing Detective Fahy a promotion, I’d sympathized with her. It would be tough enough to rise through the ranks as a female detective. You sure as hell didn’t need an arrogant defense attorney shredding your credibility. Seeing that look on her face, though, I decided I didn’t feel bad for her after all. She’d brought Gabriel to a blood-drenched scene, telling him only that it involved his mother. That went beyond petty personal retaliation.

“May I ask what this is about, Detective Fahy?” Gabriel said. “You mentioned my mother, but I fail to see the connection.”

“This is her hotel room.”

His brow furrowed. “Are you quite certain? It seems beyond her budget.”

She paused, as if unsure where to go with that. “I think the question of how she afforded it should be the least of your concerns, Walsh. Your mother is missing, and her hotel room is covered in blood.”

“Missing?” More furrowing. “If this is your idea of a joke, Detective, it is in very poor taste. I thought you meant she’d once rented this room. My mother has been dead for fifteen years.”

Another pause. “If someone told you that, they’re mistaken. She’s—”

“Dead. Very much so, according to the Chicago Police Department. She died of a drug overdose and was discovered in an abandoned building fifteen years ago. She’d been buried as a Jane Doe because the CPD failed to do the most basic investigation and discover she had both a name and a teenaged son. That’s not surprising. A drug addict—particularly a woman—is never worth the department’s notice, a fact which I am still considering bringing to the attention of the taxpayers by way of a lawsuit. However, that aside, it was my investigator here, Ms. Taylor-Jones, who discovered the autopsy photos. I confirmed six months ago that the deceased was indeed my mother. The case is closed.”

Fahy stared at him. Then she lifted her phone and looked down at it.

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “Please check on that. I’ll wait.”