AT AROUND EIGHT the next morning, we found Ricky Malcolm jiggling his key into the front door of a shabby apartment house on Mission Street. He made us as cops and tried to take off, so we scuffled with him on the sidewalk and convinced him to come to the Hall.

  “You’re not under arrest,” I’d said, escorting him to our car. “We just want to hear your side of the story.”

  Ricky was in “the box” now, glaring at me with his weird, wide-spaced green eyes, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his face blanched with the nocturnal pallor of a man who hadn’t seen broad daylight in years.

  Within the forest of tattoos on Malcolm’s right arm was a red heart with the initials R.M. The heart was impaled on the hook of a crescent moon. Malcolm looked predatory and violent, and now I was wondering if Junie’s story of Michael Campion’s death was true.

  Had Campion really died of natural causes?

  Or had this freak walked in on Michael and Junie - and killed him?

  Malcolm’s sheet showed three arrests, one conviction, all for possession. I slapped the folder closed.

  “What can you tell us about Michael Campion?” I asked him.

  “What I read in the papers,” he said.

  The interview went on in this vein for a couple of hours, and since Conklin’s charms had no effect on Ricky Malcolm, I took the lead. I was trying to get him to say anything, even lies that we could use to trip him up later, but Ricky was stubborn or cagey or both. He denied any knowledge of Michael Campion, alive or dead.

  I blinked first.

  “I think I understand what happened, Ricky,” I said. “Your girlfriend was in big trouble, and so you had to help her out. Pretty understandable, I guess.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The body, Ricky. You remember. When Michael Campio............