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“Talon is set up at the front of the building. He could have missed whoever did this when he was getting into position.”

“And you didn’t catch it with your drone?” I ask.

“Other people live here, Oz. It’s not like the killer had a bright red X painted on them.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, forcing myself to think through the anger. The Collector would never reveal himself like this. An associate, on the other hand, is more likely.

“Where’s his phone?” Alex asks before returning to Ricky’s cooling body. “Help me check his pockets.”

I kneel beside him, careful to avoid the pool of blood. I pat down Ricky's jacket pockets–empty. Front pants pockets yield nothing but a crumpled receipt and some loose change. Back pockets–also clear.

“Nothing. Not even a wallet.”

Alex carefully turns the body, checking for anything we might have missed. “Whoever killed him probably took his phone. They didn't want us finding whatever information he was going to share.”

“Can you track it?” I ask, wiping blood from my gloves onto a clean section of Ricky's shirt. “With his number, I mean.”

Alex shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “Unlikely, but I can try. Ricky doesn't strike me as the type to pay for a proper phone. Probably uses a burner.”

“Worth a shot,” I say, standing up and surveying the apartment again.

Alex snaps his fingers suddenly. “Call his phone.”

“What?”

“Call Ricky's phone. Maybe he stashed it somewhere before he got jumped.”

I nod, seeing the logic. Removing my bloodied gloves, I carefully tuck them in my back pocket before retrieving my own phone. I scroll through my contacts, finding Ricky's number.

I hit dial, and we both freeze, listening intently.

Three seconds pass. Four. Five.

Then I hear it—a distinct vibration, muffled but unmistakable, coming from somewhere in the apartment.

“There,” Alex declares, tilting his head toward the sound.

The vibration continues as we follow the noise to the kitchen. It's coming from inside a cabinet beneath the sink. Alex pulls it open, revealing a trash can with a false bottom. He reaches in, carefully extracting the phone.

“Clever bastard.”

Alex passes me the device. The screen is locked, but the notification of my call is visible. I end the call and examine the phone—a cheap burner for sure.

“Can you crack it?”

“Yeah, but not here. I’ll have to take it with us.”

Alex pockets Ricky’s phone into his back pocket and reaches into his jacket. I watch as he pulls out another pair of latex gloves. Always prepared, that's Alex. He snaps them on with practiced efficiency.

“I’m going to roll him onto his back. I need you to take a couple of pictures.”

My eyebrow arches. “Why?” The last thing I need is a picture of a dead man’s face and hands on my phone. “Please tell me you haven’t gone down that serial killer path again and you want to add this to your collection.”

“Facial and fingerprint recognition, asshole. You don’t even know if Ricky is his real name.”

“You think he was using an alias?” I ask, pocketing my phone.

“In our line of work, everyone's using something,” Alex mutters, rising to his feet. “Talon, status?”