Deceptions
Page 43

I nodded.
He swung off his bike, leaving it in the middle of the road. “You don’t look okay, Liv.”
“I—I am. I mean, I wasn’t hurt. It’s—”
“I’ll tell him,” Gabriel said.
“Tell me what?” Fresh panic lit Ricky’s eyes.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I can—”
“No.”
Gabriel waved Ricky away from me with a look that forbade argument. As he talked, Ricky stiffened and looked toward me, but Gabriel moved in front of him.
Ricky didn’t need a full rundown—not with the police climbing out of their cars—but Gabriel seemed determined to give one. Finally, Ricky turned away, his hands going up, fending off further commentary. Gabriel stepped into his path again and said something, and Ricky nodded, and I heard him say, “Okay, thanks, right, I get it,” obviously intent on escape. Gabriel finally let him go and headed for the police.
Ricky ran his hand through his hair; he looked stunned and a little sick. Then he saw me watching. He caught me in a hug, pulling me tight against him as he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
I buried my face against him. I didn’t cry. That was done for now. I just rested against him and—
Someone cleared his throat beside us. Ricky caught my hand and entwined his fingers with mine. Then he turned to face three uniformed officers. Behind them, Gabriel was talking intently to two detectives.
Two of the officers weren’t much older than me, the third maybe forty. All three looked from me to Ricky—or, rather, to Ricky’s jacket. From their expressions, you’d think they’d just stumbled on an Uzi-toting, cigar-chomping Colombian drug lord. Their reaction to me wasn’t much better, though clearly to them I was more Hannibal Lecter than drug lord.
“You’re the Larsen kid,” the youngest said.
“No,” Ricky said, his voice iron-firm. “She is Olivia Taylor-Jones. Preferably Ms. Jones, but Olivia is fine.”
They gaped at him, as if an ape had spoken English with a Harvard accent.
“And you’re . . . ?” the oldest said.
Ricky passed over his driver’s license. As the cop read it, the youngest officer stepped behind Ricky, who reacted like the guy had pulled a knife on him. Obviously, the kid didn’t have a lot of experience dealing with bikers. You don’t walk up behind them. You just don’t.
Ricky let go of my hand long enough to take off his jacket. He held it out with the patch toward the officer.
“Is that what you wanted to see?”
“Satan’s Saints?” the young cop said. “That’s a stupid name.”
“True, but changing it would be a bitch. You’d need to buy all new jackets, and then hold a media awareness campaign to let everyone know. Plus there’s the issue of tattoo reconstruction.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed.
Ricky sighed, tossed his jacket into Gabriel’s car, and took my hand again. “I know you’ll need to speak to Olivia, but—”
“We need to talk to you, too,” the oldest one said. “Seeing as how you’re obviously involved in this.”
“He just got here,” I said. “You couldn’t have missed him, whipping past you on the road.”
“Right,” the youngest said. “Which means he was speeding.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Ricky muttered under his breath.
Gabriel came over. “These are my clients, officers. If you wish to speak to them, I have to ask that you include me.”
“They’re both your clients?”
“I represent Ms. Jones, as well as her birth mother, Pamela Larsen. I also represent Mr. Gallagher and his father, Donald Gallagher, president of the Saints motorcycle club. Now, I suggest you allow me to lead you and the detectives to the body”—he checked himself—“to Mr. Morgan.”
“You know the dead guy?”
Gabriel’s voice chilled. “The deceased is James Mills Morgan. Ms. Jones was formerly engaged to him.”
The confusion on the young man’s face looked painful. “I don’t get it.”
“I’m relaying facts which may or may not become important to your investigation. I hope you’re taking notes. The house—Villa Tuscana—was owned by Nathaniel Mills, a distant relative of Mr. Morgan.”
“His maternal great-grandfather’s cousin,” I said.
Gabriel nodded. “Ms. Jones’s family has been close to Mr. Morgan’s for several generations. Connected through the joint enterprise of the Mills and Jones department store, as I’m sure you already figured out.”
From the cops’ expressions, they were a million miles from figuring it out. In short, Gabriel was screwing with them. By the time he led them toward the Villa, they followed him as docilely as lobotomized lambs.
Ricky boosted me onto the hood of Gabriel’s car. When I stiffened in horror, he chuckled and held me there.
“One, it’s a rental. Two, there’s nothing metal on your butt to scratch the paint. Three, even if there was, Gabriel wouldn’t give a shit and you know it.”
As I eased onto the hood, I spotted an owl perched in an elm tree. Ricky followed my gaze to the bird.
“An owl? In daytime? Didn’t you say . . .”
“It’s bad luck. An omen of a shitty day, which means it’s several hours late.” I raised my voice. “Did you hear that?”