Betrayals
Page 6
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.”
“Are you familiar with the murder of Lucy Madole?”
Gabriel’s blank expression answered for him. At one time I’m sure he’d tracked every local murder, ready to leap and offer his services when a suspect was arrested. He no longer needed to do that. If a suspect wanted him, they knew his name.
I was familiar with the case. Lucy Madole was a doctor, only two years older than me, who had been murdered in a neighborhood where no one should be wandering around at night.
I’d paid attention because the Post’s articles had pissed me off, suggesting Madole might have been in that neighborhood selling prescription drugs to “former associates.” Not because the suburban-raised, Harvard-educated doctor had known gang ties. Rather, the insinuation seemed based solely on the dark tone of her skin.
“I know the case,” I said. “As for what it has to do with this letter …”
“Dr. Madole left behind a husband.”
“Sure. I remember that.”
“She didn’t take her husband’s name. Women nowadays don’t seem to like doing that. Madole was her birth name. Her husband was Ciro Halloran.”
The vision flashed again in my mind. Ciro Halloran carving up a young fae.
Lucy Madole had been beaten and knifed to death.
“I presume there’s a point here, Detective?” Gabriel said.
“Oh, I think you see my point, Walsh. Dr. Madole was killed in a part of town she’d never have visited on her own. A part she was obviously lured to. As a doctor, she had access to drugs. Your client sells—”
“If you are going to finish that accusation, you had better be able to support it with evidence.”
“We both know he does. His family business does anyway, and the rest is hair-splitting. Dr. Madole was no dope dealer. But she was young, with heavy college debts. And your client? There are a couple of ladies at the precinct who get all giggly when his picture’s in the paper. So apparently he’s the kinda young man who might have been able to persuade Dr. Madole to sell him a few pills. The kind who might also get pissy if she feels guilty and tries to stop selling them to him.” He turned to me. “Wasn’t your fiancé killed a few months ago? Beaten and stabbed to death?”
“Her ex-fiancé, James Morgan, was beaten and strangled,” Gabriel cut in quickly before I could react. “Which I know well, as the person accused of his murder. A charge that was dismissed when the real killer, Tristan Crouch, turned himself in. You are very clearly suggesting that my client murdered Dr. Madole. I presume you have the evidence to charge him.”
Amos said nothing.
“No? Then I believe we are done here. Please conclude your search, and if you have further questions for my client, I’ll expect them to come with an arrest warrant.”
Gabriel left when the police did, and he glanced at me, his mouth tightening when he realized I wasn’t following him. He gave a slight chin jerk, telling me to come along … and I looked away. After he was gone, I texted him, saying I’d tell Ricky about Halloran and work the case tomorrow. If he wanted to talk then, let me know.
He didn’t text back.
I told Ricky that it’d been Halloran in my vision, killing fae.
“Gabriel should be here,” he said. “We should all be discussing this.”
“He knows. He’s fine.”
“I just think—”
“He’s fine. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
Ricky shook his head and picked up a textbook as I settled in at my laptop. He drifted off to sleep shortly after that. When he woke at five, seeing me still at my laptop, he said, “You do realize there’s no point in both you and Gabriel being up all night researching the exact same things.”
“I’m sure he’s asleep by now.”
“You know he’s not. You two—”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
He took a deep breath and then met my gaze. “I’m not saying I’m worried about Amos tying me to this murder, but I’d kinda like both of you working this. Together.”
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.”
“Are you familiar with the murder of Lucy Madole?”
Gabriel’s blank expression answered for him. At one time I’m sure he’d tracked every local murder, ready to leap and offer his services when a suspect was arrested. He no longer needed to do that. If a suspect wanted him, they knew his name.
I was familiar with the case. Lucy Madole was a doctor, only two years older than me, who had been murdered in a neighborhood where no one should be wandering around at night.
I’d paid attention because the Post’s articles had pissed me off, suggesting Madole might have been in that neighborhood selling prescription drugs to “former associates.” Not because the suburban-raised, Harvard-educated doctor had known gang ties. Rather, the insinuation seemed based solely on the dark tone of her skin.
“I know the case,” I said. “As for what it has to do with this letter …”
“Dr. Madole left behind a husband.”
“Sure. I remember that.”
“She didn’t take her husband’s name. Women nowadays don’t seem to like doing that. Madole was her birth name. Her husband was Ciro Halloran.”
The vision flashed again in my mind. Ciro Halloran carving up a young fae.
Lucy Madole had been beaten and knifed to death.
“I presume there’s a point here, Detective?” Gabriel said.
“Oh, I think you see my point, Walsh. Dr. Madole was killed in a part of town she’d never have visited on her own. A part she was obviously lured to. As a doctor, she had access to drugs. Your client sells—”
“If you are going to finish that accusation, you had better be able to support it with evidence.”
“We both know he does. His family business does anyway, and the rest is hair-splitting. Dr. Madole was no dope dealer. But she was young, with heavy college debts. And your client? There are a couple of ladies at the precinct who get all giggly when his picture’s in the paper. So apparently he’s the kinda young man who might have been able to persuade Dr. Madole to sell him a few pills. The kind who might also get pissy if she feels guilty and tries to stop selling them to him.” He turned to me. “Wasn’t your fiancé killed a few months ago? Beaten and stabbed to death?”
“Her ex-fiancé, James Morgan, was beaten and strangled,” Gabriel cut in quickly before I could react. “Which I know well, as the person accused of his murder. A charge that was dismissed when the real killer, Tristan Crouch, turned himself in. You are very clearly suggesting that my client murdered Dr. Madole. I presume you have the evidence to charge him.”
Amos said nothing.
“No? Then I believe we are done here. Please conclude your search, and if you have further questions for my client, I’ll expect them to come with an arrest warrant.”
Gabriel left when the police did, and he glanced at me, his mouth tightening when he realized I wasn’t following him. He gave a slight chin jerk, telling me to come along … and I looked away. After he was gone, I texted him, saying I’d tell Ricky about Halloran and work the case tomorrow. If he wanted to talk then, let me know.
He didn’t text back.
I told Ricky that it’d been Halloran in my vision, killing fae.
“Gabriel should be here,” he said. “We should all be discussing this.”
“He knows. He’s fine.”
“I just think—”
“He’s fine. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
Ricky shook his head and picked up a textbook as I settled in at my laptop. He drifted off to sleep shortly after that. When he woke at five, seeing me still at my laptop, he said, “You do realize there’s no point in both you and Gabriel being up all night researching the exact same things.”
“I’m sure he’s asleep by now.”
“You know he’s not. You two—”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
He took a deep breath and then met my gaze. “I’m not saying I’m worried about Amos tying me to this murder, but I’d kinda like both of you working this. Together.”
