Ricky nodded vigorously. “He might be a ghost.” He patted his jeans pocket, turned it inside out, and picked some lint from the lining.

“Is Andrew dead?”

“Of course.”

Doyle looked at Larkin. Exactly one person outside law enforcement had been privy to that detail: Jessica Lopez.

“Where’s Andrew’s body?” Doyle asked next.

“He went to Madison,” Ricky answered, glancing up.

“Someone killed Andrew Gorman,” Larkin said, and Ricky was nodding his head once again. “Who.”

The corner of Ricky’s mouth rose in a contemptuous smile. “Me.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“It’s duping delight,” Larkin stated. He stood before Lieutenant Connor’s desk at Precinct 19. It was 6:07 in the evening and Ricky Goulding had been hauled away, booked for the murder of Andrew Gorman and attempted murder of Jessica Lopez—assuming she didn’t take a turn during the night.

Tungsten orange from the streetlamps filtered through the partially drawn blinds at Connor’s back. The glint of light picked out the copper in his hair. The halo glow did nothing to compliment the flush on his face.

“Larkin,” Doyle tried, his voice steady. He was seated in the second chair beside the one Larkin had shot out of. He reached a hand out, saying, “Sit down.”

“What it is,” Connor corrected, his voice overpowering Larkin’s in a way that suggested he’d spoken from his diaphragm his entire career, “is a slam dunk. One cold case ends up closing four—”

“We don’t even know who those women are. Their names were obviously—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Grim,” Connor snapped. “You arrested Gorman’s murderer in less than forty-eight hours and it won’t even need to go to court. The DA’s gonna throw you a ticker-tape parade.”

“No,” Larkin said, shaking his head. “No, no, no. Ricky didn’t do this.”

“He says he did,” Connor countered. “Video surveillance of that interview has him answering you point-blank. We can pin those women on him—”

Larkin interrupted a second time. “Duping delight is a unique expression of contempt and excitement. It’s a literal high the person gets when they think their lie has been believed. The energy they get from the experience can’t be contained, so it leaks out in tiny flashes of emotion.”

“I’m not letting that shitbag go because he gave you a goddamn crooked smile.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Larkin agreed. “He shot Jessica Lopez. But none of those women in the Polaroids were shot, and neither was Andrew.”

“He had photographs of the victims,” Connor argued. “Photographs you found.”