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."
Ricky glanced at Gabriel, who gave a reluctant nod. Ricky opened the envelope and took out a single page, also handwritten, unaddressed and unsigned. He read it aloud:
I know what you did. I've been watching you. You're going to screw up, and when you do, I'll be there to make sure you pay.
Ricky snorted a laugh.
"You find that amusing, Richard?"
"It's like a bad movie script." Ricky put the letter down. "I'm sure you're going to say this is from Halloran. With the part about watching me, it might very well be. So go ahead and do your handwriting analysis or whatever. Even if it's him, I have no idea what he's talking about. I've never met the guy. Never heard of him."
"Are you sure?"
Gabriel cut in. "It would not be the first time my client has been harassed by a stranger for his membership in the Saints motorcycle club. Citizens looking to exercise a tendency toward violence often focus their attention on perceived lawbreakers, in hopes of provoking a confrontation. Such individuals are almost always in need of psychiatric care. The fact Mr. Halloran has disappeared suggests he is one of them."
"Or that your client is responsible for his disappearance."
Gabriel's voice dropped, dangerously. "Perhaps you should clarify, Detective. If you are accusing Mr. Gallagher of a crime, I would like that stated, so I know where we stand."