I push off the door and head down the hallway toward the office. Once I’m up the stairs and back in the heart of Purgatory, I reposition Cujo on the desk and face the wall where I’ve pinned the cards, hands settling on my hips again. My gaze lands on the card that reads SAMANTHA YOUNG. My attention then shifts to the card that says KANE. Then to the one that says ANDREW LOVE. Brow furrowing, I walk to the steps, climb up, and reposition the cards to have Samantha in the center of Andrew’s and Kane’s. I then place my card under Samantha’s.
I’m the common dominator that binds the two men in her life.
I frown, a thought occurring, and I hurry down the step stool and back to the desk, where I sit down and reach for my case file. Opening it, I grab head shots of each victim and several note cards, shoving a pen into my pocket. Walking to the bulletin board again, I pull the step stool with me, and move to the far right to get plenty of naked board space. Climbing the stool, I pin the photos on the board, one row for the LA murders and one row for New York. I climb back down and stare at the problem brewing in my mind and now on my board. Andrew and Kane have Samantha in common. The murders have the assassin in common. But that’s not what is on my mind right now. I am.
I am the only common denominator to every single thing on that board.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I’m not the common denominator, I tell myself, pacing the space in front of the bulletin board. I mean, yes, I’m certainly a common denominator between my idiot, horny brother and my arrogant, dirty-in-every-way ex. But Samantha is a common denominator as well. And yes, the murders connect to Los Angeles and New York, and I could be the link, but so could any one of dozens, or even hundreds, of Hamptons residents with dual residences or business connections to both places. Myself. Samantha. Kane. My father. We all have some dual link. And officially, I’ve now reasoned away my personal involvement in the murders beyond coincidence, something my cranky-ass ex-mentor would say doesn’t exist. Roger would say chance doesn’t happen except in fairy tales. I don’t agree with him. I mean, tell Emma Riley, the college student who just happened to pick the bar where a serial killer was on the hunt, that chance doesn’t become a calculated factor in life and death. And yet there is a nagging voice in my head that says I’m missing something obvious.
I stop pacing and face the board, staring at the words without fully seeing them, arms folded in front of me, and I’m not thinking about Samantha and her man-candy sex triangle. I’m thinking of the killer I’m hunting. Once again, I think that maybe my killer is Junior. Maybe they are the same person, but no. No. That’s ridiculous. The killer is calculated. Clean. Someone who gets the job done and leaves nothing of himself behind. I have a note and fake blood. The killer would not leave those things behind.
I walk to the desk and sit down, grabbing my phone and noting the 1:00 a.m. hour. I need four hours of sleep to function as an effective human being, let alone an investigator. It sucks, but God ordained it, thus it’s unchangeable. I’ll seal myself in Purgatory once I’ve put some interviews and investigations behind me. Once I’ve data-collected. But I can’t rest quite yet. I grab a pen and paper and start forming a strategy to work the case, not just the suspects. Because the devil is always in the details.
An hour later, my morning to-do list is complete and includes finding out how the victims connect to each other and to the Hamptons, even if they were killed in Los Angeles. I’ll also need a list of everyone who has property, business activity, or family in both places as well. It’s a lot of work, and fortunately I’ve brought a lot of jelly doughnuts to one of our tech experts in LA for just this reason. The devil is in the details, and the favors needed to find them come a whole lot easier once you’ve fattened up your target helper. Plan in place, I stick my phone in my pocket and then slip my bag over my shoulder before reaching for Cujo, the only bed partner I plan to have while I’m here.
Armed for bed, quite literally, I walk down the stairs, and while I fully intend to head to the bedroom, I find myself pausing in the hallway again, a chill racing down my spine. Unease is heavy in my belly, and I don’t know whether it’s the past or the present haunting me in this moment, but I’m not taking a chance. I cut right toward the living room and do a quick sweep of every room, closet, and door in the house, and even a check on the security panel. Once I’m done, I’m less on edge, but that uneasy feeling isn’t gone. I don’t like you being there alone, Kane had said. Neither do I, which is why I was often at his house and we both know it.
I snag a bottle of water from the otherwise barren fridge and make my way to the bedroom. I stand in the doorway, lights on from my security check, listening to that ticktock of the grandfather clock for several moments. My gaze sweeps the comfy, oversize steel-colored chairs framing the arched window, which is covered with heavy gray curtains. This is my sanctuary, where I never take any of my cases, a luxury I didn’t have in my tiny LA apartment. It’s a place I don’t let the blood flow. But it did. Once, it did. And that changed everything. It changed me.
Inhaling, I walk to the king-size bed to my left that is draped in the angel white that has always represented my mother to me, and I set Cujo on top of the coverlet, my bag following. I don’t linger, walking to the bathroom to my right, where I flip on the light. Entering the room, I take in the white-and-gray-checkered path between a sunken tub and a wall lined with countertops. I stop next to the shower and in front of the closet, again flipping on a light. I walk inside and step into a room so large there are two long benches side by side in the center, rows of my expensive clothes hanging in the rectangular shelving units surrounding me now.
Unbidden, I’m remembering that night on the beach and the minutes after Kane had left me with a command to change clothes and shower. I’d run to the closet, naked and covered in blood, my clothes in my hands. I’d tossed them to the closet floor, yanked a pair of jeans and a tank top off their hangers, and pulled them on. When I’d been done dressing, I’d stuffed my clothes in a trash bag, and freaked out when blood remained on the carpeted closet floor. I blink now and look at the tiles beneath my feet I’d replaced that carpet with, and to this day, years later, my perspective on the right or wrong of that night changes several times a week.
Shaking off the memory, I walk to the dresser at the back of the closet and open a drawer, ignoring my many silky gowns, and snap up a black two-piece flannel PJ set, setting it on top of the dresser. I reach for my gun, and the idea of taking anything off tonight doesn’t sit well. In fact, I’m not changing clothes at all. Which probably confirms that I’m a crazy person, but crazy is way better than stupid. Shutting the drawer, I walk back into the bathroom, pausing as my eyes land on the tub. I’d sat down in that tub fully clothed that night, the details of which I refuse to think about. Bottom line: I’d lost my damn mind that night. I hate who I was then. How unprepared I was for what came at me. I’m so glad I am not that person anymore.
Inhaling sharply, I walk on through the bathroom and into the bedroom, my feet sinking into the cushy, cream-colored carpet. Everything about this room is cushy for a reason. My mother. She designed it. She decorated it. She loved it. It’s all about her and that hasn’t changed. I made sure of it. I stop at the foot of the bed and stare up at the massive painting of her in her iconic, Oscar-winning role as Marilyn Monroe, her brown hair dyed blonde. Her dress iconic white and her jewels expensive. She’s stunning, and the most amazing thing about my mother is that while she became her characters so completely, she always knew who she was as a person. She didn’t lose herself to her roles. I can’t say the same.
I sit down on the bed, and my phone beeps in my pocket. Rich for sure this time, I think, grabbing it. I glance at the text message to find Kane’s number, and his message reads: A pretty lawn ornament?
Despite myself, I find my lips quirking, because the truth is, Kane’s the only person on this planet who ever really gets my offhand little remarks. I think he knows this, though. I think he’s reminding me how much he g
ets me and I get him. What he doesn’t understand is that I already know this, and I don’t like it. I type a reply: A pretty lawn ornament is better than an ugly lawn ornament. I told you you’re a person of interest and this is what worries you?
Kane: I don’t worry.
I lie back on the mattress and reply with: Maybe you should.
My phone rings, and, of course, it’s him. I don’t answer and after several rings, his next text is: What are you afraid of?
Me. Him. I type: Good night, Kane.
He replies with: Good night, Lilah, and I swear I can almost hear him say my name in that deep, sultry baritone that always makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the world. But then, he’s a master of making you feel like you are the center of the world. I wonder if that is what Samantha makes my brother feel? I wonder if that is what Jack the Ripper made his victims feel?
I set my phone alarm for four hours exactly, and because eleven is my lucky number, I add eleven minutes. Who doesn’t need an extra eleven minutes of sleep? That will put me right at sunup, the perfect time to clean the patio door. I then set my phone on my stomach and settle my hand on Cujo before shutting my eyes. Sleep begins to take hold surprisingly fast, but my mind is working, even as slumber holds me captive.
I’m sitting on the couch, my body trembling, which really fucking pisses me off. Trembling is for soft, pampered girls who started planning their path to marrying rich and well from the moment they could walk and talk. The girls I went to school with. The girls my father wanted me to befriend and become. I don’t know why I’m trembling, anyway. I’m not afraid. I feel nothing. Nothing. I reach deep inside myself and I try to find emotion, but there is just a black hole of darkness I think means something, but I can’t seem to care what.
The sound of footsteps rockets my attention to the open sliding glass door, and I spring to my feet. A moment later, Kane enters the room, his tie loose, his white shirt streaked with red, with blood, and my throat goes dry, a knot forming in my chest where those emotions I don’t feel are supposed to exist. Kane is, of course, free of any signs that his soaked clothing, or the events that led to that dilemma, have affected him; he’s still as cool and composed as ever, but then, aren’t I cool and composed? I’m not crying. I’m not screaming. I’m just—oh yeah—trembling to the point my knees seem to be knocking.
Kane seems to notice as well, his gaze lowering sharply to my legs, lingering for several beats before traveling my body, then returning to my knees, where he lingers once more. While his expression does not change, there is a slight tensing of his jaw, a perceptible hardening of his features in unison with a sharpening of his energy. And since I am a master of stirring this reaction in him, I know how to name it: anger. Hard, biting anger that is always controlled, always contained, but never without a brutal, calculated impact. I get it. I invite it too often, and I think he likes it, because, well, because we are just two fucked-up people getting more fucked up by the moment.
But I don’t like it now. I don’t understand it. Or maybe I do. Or don’t. God. I don’t know what I know other than my skin is hot from his stare. Reactively, my gaze lowers, and while I still do not know why he’s angry, I do know why I’m trembling. I am naked and covered in blood.
Suddenly I am back on the beach, watching as the water turns to blood, and for reasons I can’t explain, I am no longer trembling.
I jerk awake and sit up, gasping for air, my heart racing, only to realize the alarm on my phone is going off. Reaching for it, I find it on the mattress next to me and turn it off, noting the nearly 6:00 a.m. hour. I’ve been asleep and I don’t even remember dozing off. But damn it. The nightmares are back and in full swing, every damn night, after being gone for months. I run my fingers through my hair and pat my cheeks, my stomach growling fiercely as my last meal was Tuesday sometime.
Pushing to my feet, I give my cheeks another pat, and, noting the light beginning to peek around the edges of the curtain, I make a quick run to the bathroom and then go on a hunt for a sponge and bucket. Supplies found in the kitchen, I head for the sliding glass door and lift the curtain, scouting out the patio area to find it all clear. I disarm the security system, open the sliding glass door, and step into the chilly morning beach air. I stop as I did last night, scanning the area, letting my Spidey senses do their job, and I’m far less uneasy now than I was last night.
Shoulders relaxing, I turn to the glass to prepare to clean up and go cold all over. There is no blood. The glass has been cleaned by someone else.
CHAPTER NINE
I don’t hang around to appreciate the fact that Junior has the good manners to clean up after himself or—considering my thoughts on Samantha, I’m going to go out on a limb and say—herself. Nor do I let myself linger on the fact that this person is already my stalker. And maybe the cleanup job was just Junior messing with my head as part of her stalker duties, but maybe, just maybe, I’ve outsmarted Junior, and she’s worried that she left a print behind. It’s a thought that carries me back inside the house, where I secure the property and rush to the bathroom.
On my way, I dial the security company and request camera installation, but it’s apparently too early for them to actually help me. And whatever the case, I’m doubtful I’ll end up with cameras in place before I leave town, but I want them installed no matter what. I’m living across the country. I should have already ensured I had a bird’s-eye view from afar. It’s a thought that stops me in my tracks, my brow furrowing. Why wasn’t Junior worried that I had cameras? Perhaps she simply covered up with a scarf or hoodie in case I did, but what if Junior already knew I had no cameras? Samantha, being close to Andrew, could have found out in even a casual conversation that Andrew didn’t know was plotted to extract information. Bottom line, I think, rushing down the hallway again: I need those damn cameras in place, and really, truly, Junior might think she’s driving me out of town, but she’s wrong. She’s ensured that I’m here to stay until I can deal with her. Whatever the fuck that has to mean. I hit the bathroom and start stripping, contemplating exactly what that means, with no good answer.
By the time I’ve showered, I’m rather delighted with the prospect that while Junior is trying to fuck with my head, I’m already fucking with hers or I wouldn’t be getting so much attention. She doesn’t want to expose my secret. She wants to keep me from exposing hers. And what is that secret? I’m intrigued at the idea of finding out. A thought that has me hurrying to dry my hair, a color that this town would call mousy brown now that I’ve let my highlights grow out, but I call it just the way God made me. And if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. That said, I still like my girly makeup, and I dare to use what I have left in my bathroom drawer, which I hope like hell hasn’t expired and leaves me in hives or some shit like that. Whatever the case, I use it, and I do so without the benefits of coffee, which probably means once I get into the sunlight, I’ll look like the seven-year-old niece I don’t have did my face for me. Lord help me, I shudder to imagine Andrew and Samantha having kids. I mean, would she get a babysitter to go fuck Kane?
Irritated with that thought, I toss down the pale-pink lipstick, smooth down my hair, and head to the closet, where I ignore the expensive pantsuits and dresses hanging here and there, ones I’d adored when I belonged in this town. I don’t belong now, and I don’t want to belong here anymore. Exactly why I toss on a robe, grab my suitcase from the car, and drop it in the center of the closet. Opening it up, I pull out my Express-brand black jeans, and an “LA Rocks” black T-shirt, which declares me an outsider. Once I’m dressed, I reach for my UGG sneakers in my bag and pause before tossing them in the corner. Damn it. Outsiders don’t get squat from these arrogant, self-absorbed assholes. I resist giving up my Express jeans, but I instead pull a black T-shirt from a local charity event I’d taken part in way back when off a hanger and put it on. From there, I choose knee-high expensive-ass Chanel boots and a black Chanel purse to match, along with, you guessed it, a Chan
el blazer, bypassing the full trench coat in the corner. My best accessory by far is the one that cannot be seen: my ankle holster, where my service weapon is hidden beneath my jeans. My second best is the badge clipped to my waist that tells everyone in this town to skip all questions and let me do the judging, not them.
On the way to the garage, I dial my doughnut-loving tech expert we all call “Tic Tac,” because, well, we do. I really have no answer other than that. “Holy hell, Lilah,” he answers as I slide into my rental. “Do you know what time it is in LA?”
“Party time?”
“Bedtime, Lilah,” he bites out. “It’s time for me to go back to sleep.”
“I need stuff.”
“I have nightmares where you are on autorepeat, saying, ‘I need stuff. I need stuff.’ And you know what I say?”
“Anything you want, my queen?”
“I say, ‘Fuck you, Lilah.’”
I purse my lips. “Hmmm. Well. Someone needs coffee. I’ll e-mail you details on the reports I need, but I’m also express-mailing you fingerprints to analyze. And this is the important part. Run them, but keep them off the books.”
“You know the risk I take—”
“You know you owe me.”
“I’m way too tired to have you holding me hostage.”
“There was another murder waiting on me when I got here.”
“There’s always a murder where you are, Lilah.”
“Same MO as those two murders I’ve been working there, and the one in Manhattan, too.”
“Like I said. Murder follows you. E-mail me what you need.” He hangs up.
It’s a thing for me now, I guess. Men hang up on me. I shrug and start the car, my destination a little mail joint I know has a drop box. From there, I’ll down coffee, and maybe, just maybe, I might head to the police station, where my brother and father will make me wish for whiskey that I can’t handle. It’s a good plan, except for one thing: the mail joint doesn’t have a drop box anymore and doesn’t open for an hour and a half.
Murder Notes Page 8
