Their first alleged victims were Amanda Mays and her fiancé, Ken Perkins. Next came a married couple, Marty and Lisa Tyson. Then Stacey Pasolini and Eddie Hilton. Finally, Jan and Peter—the two we’d proven they hadn’t killed.

Jan and Peter had fit the pattern, though. Twenty-something couple, Chicagoans, white, middle-class. Beyond that, the profile varied. Dating, married, engaged. Blond, brunette. College educated and not. Employed and not. All that suggested the victims hadn’t been selected with any great care.

I compiled everything I could find on the six remaining victims. Minimal analysis for now. Then I moved to Ciara Conway. I read every scrap of Internet “news” on her disappearance—from snippets in the papers to blog posts to Facebook updates. I use the term “news” loosely, because there really wasn’t anything, save wild conjecture. The obvious investigative path here would be to speak to Ciara’s family and friends, but I couldn’t listen to them hoping and praying she’d return when I knew she wouldn’t. So I sat on my ass and surfed.

I dug up enough details to fill in a better picture of her life. It had been a good one, by any standards. She grew up in the suburb of Oak Park. Affluent, but not outrageously so. They’d lived in the same house since she was born. Dad was an architect; mom was a biologist. Her older brother was studying for his PhD in medical research. Ciara herself was no slouch, winning an athletic scholarship to Northwestern, where she’d been studying neurobiology. There her grades had fluctuated, suggesting that’s when the addiction issues kicked in.

I was still doing online searching when my cell rang. A Chicago number. It wasn’t one I recognized, but my brain was preoccupied and I answered on autopilot.

“It’s Lydia.” A pause. “Gabriel’s secretary.”

As I struggled for a polite response, she continued, “I’m sorry for using my home number. I wasn’t sure you’d answer otherwise. This isn’t about Gabriel.”

“Okay…”

“Richard Gallagher would like you to call him.”

“Rich…? Oh. Ricky.”

I relaxed. Lydia seemed to do the same, laughing softly.

“Yes, Ricky. I’m not sure he likes being introduced that way, so I don’t take the chance. I understand you met him last week.”

“I did.”

“Apparently you made an impression. He’s called twice for your number. While I’m very good at telling clients no, that boy could charm the habit off a nun. I finally agreed to pass along a message to call him. Do you have his number?”

“I do.”

“Can I tell him you’ll call? He’s coming into the office Monday, and as much as I am determined not to give out your number, he’s even harder to resist in person.”

I chuckled. “I can imagine. Yes, I’ll call him.”

“Thank you.” A pause, then, “How are you, Olivia?”

I stiffened. “Fine.”

“I don’t know what happened between you and Gabriel, but…” She exhaled. “No, I’ll mind my own business and only say that I’m glad he’ll still be representing Pamela. He really is her best possible chance.”

“I know.”

“Have a good weekend, and if you ever need anything and would prefer not to contact Gabriel, you can call me at the office or here, at my personal number.”

“Thank you.”

It wasn’t until I hung up that I realized what I’d done. Promised to call Ricky Gallagher. Shit.

The bigger shit was that I wanted to call him. Which was a problem when I was supposed to be attempting a reconciliation with my ex.

Ricky was Don Gallagher’s son. Yes, Don “leader of the Satan’s Saints” Gallagher. Ricky was taking his MBA part-time at the University of Chicago. Which sounds as if he’s trying to break out of the family business. He’s not. He just figures an MBA might help him run it.

A biker MBA student. The “biker” part should have had me running. Except I liked Ricky, and it wasn’t because he was charming and, yes, very easy on the eyes. There’d been something between us, that click that says, “This is someone I want to know better.”

When Gabriel had noticed that spark, he’d stomped on it. Clearly a case of a good girl looking for a little bad in her life and exercising very poor judgment. At the time, part of me had wondered if he’d had a more personal reason. Now I knew he’d done it for James.

I had to call Ricky, meaning I had to tell him personally that I didn’t want to go out with him. In other words, I had to lie.

SOFT SELL

Ricky finished proofing his term paper for management strategy. As he added his name to the first page, he paused before typing Richard. No one called him that. Outside of school, no one even called him Rick.

He had gone through a stage in high school where he’d insisted on Rick. It was the same stage where he’d cut his hair short, worn preppy clothes, garaged his bike, and bought a used car. When you grew up in a gang, that was teenaged rebellion. It lasted less than a school term before he realized that he was only rebelling for the sake of rebelling. He liked being Ricky Gallagher, with everything that entailed.

Someone rapped on the clubhouse office door.

“Come in.”

It was Wallace, his father’s sergeant-at-arms. Wallace did not go by Wally. A new recruit tried calling him that once. The result had required plastic surgery.

Wallace looked around for Don. Not long ago, that look would have been followed by, “Boss in?” But now it was just a visual check before he turned to Ricky.

“Got a lead on Tucker,” Wallace said. “Bastard’s holed up across the border in Wisconsin. Gonna go pay him a visit. You wanna ride along?”

“Sure. Give me five. Just finishing a term paper.”

Wallace’s gaze flicked to the laptop screen. No sign of derision crossed his face. This, too, meant Ricky was making headway. He’d grown up like the favorite nephew in a huge clan of uncles. Growing out of that role proved difficult. Going to college hadn’t helped. His father fully approved, but to the gang it was a sign that maybe their boy was a little too intellectual, too mainstream … too soft. Dropping out wouldn’t earn their respect, though. No more than insisting on being called Rick. He would earn his place, and he would do it as Ricky Gallagher, MBA.

After Wallace left, Ricky’s cell phone rang. Call display showed a number he didn’t recognize. He hesitated before answering.

“It’s Olivia,” a contralto voice said. “Olivia Jones. Lydia said you were trying to get in touch with me.”

“I was.”

The tightness in her voice told him this wasn’t a call she’d wanted to make. She might have flirted with him at the clubhouse, but after that business at Desiree Barbosa’s apartment, she’d clearly decided he was not someone she cared to know better. Damn Gabriel.

He made small talk for a few minutes, but her voice stayed tight, wary, and finally there was nothing more he could do but take his shot, on the very slim chance he was mistaken.

“Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“No, I’m sorry. I—”

“Tomorrow night? The night after that?”

A sudden laugh, as if in spite of herself.

“Yep, I am persistent,” he said. “And flexible. Name the time. Name the place. French cuisine next Saturday night or a hot dog stand for lunch tomorrow.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. Where are you right now? I’ll bring a picnic.”

She laughed again. A good sign.

“See? It’s easier to say yes.” He shifted the phone to his other hand. “Go out with me, Olivia. Just once. I’m sorry about what happened with Desiree. If I’d had any idea that Gabriel didn’t warn you what he planned—”

“That’s not it.”

“No?”

“I’m having dinner tonight with my, um, former fiancé.”

“James Morgan?”

“Uh, yes.”

She seemed surprised he knew her ex’s name. He didn’t tell her that he’d come home after their first meeting and looked up everything he could find on Olivia Taylor-Jones. Prep work. Like being interested in a business and learning everything you could before initiating a takeover. Which was an analogy no woman would appreciate, and he’d never make it. But he wanted to get to know her better, and when Ricky went after something, he used every tool at his disposal. He’d learned that from Gabriel, a lesson taught by example from the moment Gabriel decided he wanted to be the Saints’ lawyer.