I smiled, my hand sliding to his crotch, rubbing as he accelerated—

He hit the brakes so fast I lurched, and his hand moved to my leg, steadying me and squeezing in apology. Then I saw what he had—a dark car with its lights off, almost hidden in a tree-shrouded drive.

Ricky would have noticed if it’d been here when we drove in. He was the son of a biker gang leader. He was also a member of that gang. The future leader of that gang. He did not miss anything so near his clubhouse. Sure enough, as we drew near, the car pitched forward. Then lights flashed … and Ricky relaxed.

I had to smile at that. In his world, if someone was lying in wait on an empty country road, he hoped it was the police.

He pulled to the shoulder and I hopped off the bike, removing my helmet as he did the same. He put up the kickstand and had his ID waiting before the cops even got out of the car.

They were plainclothes officers, which suggested detectives, as did the unmarked car. I reached into my pocket, fingers hitting buttons on my phone.

The senior partner took Ricky’s ID without a word. He examined it and then said, “Had anything to drink tonight, Richard?” twisting the name, suggesting he knew full well that wasn’t what Ricky went by.

“A beer at eight when we arrived at the clubhouse. Another at about eleven-thirty. I don’t think I finished that one, but you’re welcome to test me.”

Ricky was right about the drinks. His father, Don, had strict rules about drinking and driving, mainly because it gave the cops one more reason to hassle them. Ricky kept further under his limit, even if it meant resorting to tricks like exchanging a half bottle of beer for a fresh one so the guys wouldn’t rib him.

“And you?” The officer shone his flashlight full in my face.

Ricky tensed, but he only said, “She’s a passenger, so her blood alcohol doesn’t matter. Yes, she’s been drinking. Three shots of Scotch since about eleven-thirty, which puts her over the legal limit.”

“That’s dangerous, on the back of a bike.”

“She hangs on tight.”

I managed not to crack a smile at that and said, “I’m nowhere near the level for public intoxication.”

“We’ll call an officer to drive you home. We’re going to need to speak to your ‘date’ down at the station.”

“She’s my girlfriend, not my hookup,” Ricky said. “As for leaving …” He glanced at me and I stepped forward, my hand extended.

“Olivia Taylor-Jones. I work for Gabriel Walsh, legal representative for Mr. Gallagher.”

“Did you say Taylor …?”

“Yes. That Olivia Taylor-Jones. Formerly Eden Larsen. You mentioned questioning. May I ask what it is in regards to?”

The detective pulled himself up to his full height, which fell below mine. I’m only five-eight, but my boots added extra inches.

“Are you a lawyer?” he asked.

“No,” his heretofore-silent younger partner said. “She’s a private investigator who works for Walsh. She has a master’s degree from Yale. English major, I think. But she got her PI license recently.”

The lead gave him a look, and the younger one mumbled, “It was in the papers.”

“He’s correct,” I said. “Unless you have a warrant to arrest Ricky, any questioning you need to do can be done at our office … after Mr. Walsh arrives.”

“We don’t need—”

“Gabriel?” I said, lifting my phone from my pocket and hitting the speaker button. “Did you get all that?”

“Yes.” His deep voice sounded across the line, the clink of keys telling me he was on his way even before he said, “I’ll meet you there.”

CHAPTER THREE

When we arrived, Gabriel was already at the office. He hassled the senior partner—Detective Amos—about the pull-over and the middle-of-the-night questioning. Setting the tone, much as Ricky had. The biker was a reasonable guy; his lawyer was the asshole. That wasn’t an act, either.

Gabriel is one of the best defense attorneys in Chicago. One of the most infamous, too—blackmail, intimidation, and extortion were just a few tricks in his bag. A lawyer is supposed to represent his client to the best of his ability, and Gabriel really can, because he doesn’t worry about pesky obstacles like ethics and conscience.

If you put them side by side, and asked which was the biker, most people would guess Gabriel. Yes, he’s about six-four and built like a linebacker. But it’s more than that. Gabriel is that moment before a storm when everything seems preternaturally calm but you can feel the electricity in the air, and know you’ll get no exact warning when danger and destruction comes. Ricky is as warm and calm as a summer’s day, and while there can be storms, you’ll get plenty of warning, and it’ll be a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, passing quickly, the sun blazing bright again.

Only when Gabriel decided he’d suitably reprimanded Amos for his missteps did he usher us all into the meeting room.

As soon as we took our seats, Amos slapped down a photo of Ricky in a bar. Someone sat across from him—me. I recognized the sleeve of my jacket. Amos laid out three more photos. One was of Ricky getting off his bike. One was of him leaving a lecture hall. The last was of him sitting under a tree with me again, my back to the camera.

“It seems someone has my client under surveillance,” Gabriel said. “I presume this is your work?”