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"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?"
The owl ruffled its feathers and continued staring at me.
"Owls in daytime. Creepy and unnatural," Ricky said. "Which, as I mentioned, I believe applies to owls in general."
He'd said that when we'd spotted one in the woods near the abandoned psych hospital. He didn't like the birds--too many stories from his youth. I'd thought it was cute, my biker boyfriend casting nervous glances at an owl.
I thought of the cabin, and when we'd seen the hounds and horses. The Cwn Annwn--I was certain of it. Ricky had brushed it off as a regular hunt, but I'd seen the way his eyes glittered when he heard it. I remembered what he'd told me, about going out at night searching for something in those woods.
"I'd wake up, and I couldn't sleep. I'd go out and spend the whole night out here, looking."
"Looking for what?"
