“No, it’s his.”

The detective laid down another photo. I took one look at the man in the photo and inhaled involuntarily, catching a sharp look from Gabriel and a confused one from Ricky.

“You know this man, Miss Larsen?” Amos asked.

“It’s Taylor-Jones,” Gabriel rumbled. “And Ms. is preferred. Olivia is not the subject of this interview, so please do not question her.”

“But …” I began. “That’s Matt, isn’t it? The barista down the road?”

Another glimmer of confusion from Ricky. Gabriel, though, understood in a heartbeat. Yes, there was a barista named Matt at our regular coffee shop. Yes, like this guy, he was around thirty, light-haired, and bearded. But I’d only made the comment to cover my initial reaction. Gabriel smoothly went on to say that yes, this man resembled our barista but he didn’t think it was. Perhaps Detective Amos could confirm that?

As Amos answered, I had to fight to keep from staring at the picture. Because I did indeed recognize the subject. He was the killer in my vision earlier that evening.

“… name is Ciro Halloran,” Amos was saying when I forced my attention back on track.

“And this was the man taking photos of Mr. Gallagher?” Gabriel said.

“That’s right. Halloran disappeared three days ago. A friend suspected foul play, saying Halloran had been investigating someone dangerous. When we went to Halloran’s apartment, we found these.” He waved at the photos. “It became clear who Halloran’s target was.”

“And in what capacity was Mr. Halloran ‘investigating’ my client?” Gabriel asked.

Amos said nothing, which meant he didn’t know.

“You identified Ricky as the person Mr. Halloran feared based solely on the fact you found these photos in his apartment. Is that correct?”

“If you expect me to answer your questions, your client had better be ready to answer mine.”

“So I’ll assume Mr. Halloran’s friend did not identify Mr. Gallagher as the man Halloran was worried about. You arrived at that conclusion based solely on finding these photos.” Gabriel’s expression said that was flimsy grounds for stopping Ricky and that he was being generous when he finally said, “All right, ask your questions.”

The questions were exactly what one might anticipate. Did Ricky know Ciro Halloran? Did he know why Halloran would be taking photos of him? As I’m sure Amos expected: the answers were no, no, and no. Gabriel had asked him to wrap up the interview when Amos’s phone rang. When the detective got off the call, he said, “That was the judge. The search warrant’s signed. Let’s move this chat to your apartment, Richard.”

Gabriel argued against the search, but not strenuously. Ricky knew better than to keep anything incriminating in his apartment. If he needed prescription medicine, he’d have a copy of the script on file. He didn’t own a gun, legal or otherwise. As for alcohol or cash, the police wouldn’t find more than a six-pack of beer in his fridge and a hundred bucks in his sock drawer.

As we left the office, I murmured to Gabriel, “Can I ride with you?”

“Should we both?” Ricky asked, too low for the detectives to hear.

Gabriel shook his head. “Don wouldn’t want you leaving your bike here. We’ll meet you at the apartment.”

We climbed into Gabriel’s Jag. The moment he’d reversed onto the road, he said, “Who is Ciro Halloran?” and I told him.

“So you had a vision tonight?” he said when I finished.

I winced. I’d been telling myself Gabriel wouldn’t expect me to call him at midnight to report a vision. I’d been wrong. I knew I’d been wrong. I just …

“I didn’t want to bother you,” I said. “It was late. I figured it could wait until morning.”

Gabriel said nothing for the rest of the drive.

The detectives had called in officers to help with the search. Too many officers, given that Ricky’s student apartment was maybe four hundred square feet. They were being assholes, making a scene where he lived. Except he didn’t really live there. He spent more time at my apartment or his dad’s house. This was just his legal address. We didn’t tell the cops that. We simply waited in the living room while they searched.

They’d been at it nearly an hour when Amos slapped down a pile of unopened mail in front of Ricky.

“Care to explain this?” he said.

“I hate paying bills?” Ricky said. “Nah, I have a busy schedule and that’s my triage system. I tackle the stuff I recognize right away—like bills. I toss out the obvious junk mail. If I’m not sure what it is, I pile it up until I can go through it.”

“Go through it now.”

“No,” Gabriel said. “That’s an invasion of privacy. If you saw something in there you’d like to discuss—”

Amos plucked out an envelope and slapped it on top of the pile. It was a personal letter, hand-addressed to “Rick Gallagher.” The return address was illegible, the envelope having gotten wet, the ink badly smeared.

“You don’t open personal letters?” Amos said.

“People think they can make contact with the club through me. I’ve also been in the papers lately, with Liv, which means even more unwanted mail.”

“That return address isn’t water damaged,” Amos said. “It’s just an ink smear, deliberately done. That’s suspicious, which is grounds for me to ask you to open it.”