I pull out my trusty camera from my bag, the one I use on the clusterfuck crime scenes like this one; aside from preserving the evidence these idiots might destroy, shooting pictures keeps me from shooting said idiots. And while the latter would be far more satisfying, as is the case with eating a half gallon of ice cream, indulging the inner demon that says “do it” has consequences. Which takes me back to pictures. My brow furrows, my mind trying to grab onto something I can’t quite reach. My mind flashes back to one of the first cases that I’d worked with Roger. We were in Brooklyn, and the murder scene was painted black. Roger had known the paint hid a secret. He’d known there was a message somewhere in that paint, and he’d been right.
I glance down at my camera. It’s creating a story I can visually read later, the way our killer created a story in this room for me to read right now. What if the blood splatter isn’t a mess to sensationalize the crime scene? What if it’s a well-crafted story?
Shoving the drawer shut, I lift the camera and shoot a good fifty shots of the walls, circling and shooting, circling and shooting. “Are you done in here?”
At the sound of Detective Williams’ voice, my gaze jerks to the doorway where she stands, still too damn prissy to put on a jumpsuit. “I need to bring in the team to bag the evidence,” she adds.
“They can wait,” I say, as my attention lands on the wall in front of me, and I notice what I should have noticed before now. The splatter pattern stops in a perfect line a few inches from the corner. That line isn’t an accident. I look up and then down, where I spy something lodged between the carpet and the wall.
“Agent Love,” the bitch in charge snaps, but I ignore her. I do that with bitches. It works for me.
I close the space between me and that wall and kneel, trading my camera for a pair of tweezers and a baggie. Leaning in, I inspect the item I’ve discovered and pluck a used cigarette stuffed in the hole where the wall doesn’t quite meet the carpet. A Marlboro. The same kind my mentor smokes. There are no coincidences. This is not an accident. This is a message. This is a warning.
CHAPTER FOUR
I want to stand up, drop the cigarette, and grind it under my foot, a little fuck you for whoever left it for me. Of course, I won’t do that, not at a crime scene, but a girl can fantasize. Instead, I’ll wait this out and stick the cigarette up whoever’s ass is trying to mess with me right now. Considering the Society just staged a series of murders to cover up their wrong doings, and I just vowed to stay out of their shit in exchange for my life, this is starting to look dirty. This is starting to look like them daring me to come at them again, like them telling me they will hurt people I know—Roger, Beth, who knows who else—if I don’t look away from this. Well, fuck them. I’m not looking away from shit.
“What the hell is it?”
At Detective Williams’ demand, I bag the cigarette and stand up. She’s hovering in the doorway as if she can’t enter the bedroom in her street clothes, as if this is the only part of the apartment that’s a crime scene. The entire building is a fucking crime scene in my book, but apparently my standards are too high for this woman. “Agent Love,” she bites out.
I close the space between me and her, simply because getting closer to Detective Williams is the only way to get the hell away from her. Or punch her. Showing rare restraint, I stop in front of her, rather than barrel over her, a strong hint for her to move, when I don’t give a lot of hints, before I push past her. She doesn’t move, but considering the really nasty vein bubbling up in her forehead that might be smart. It would suck to have to save her life while fantasizing about killing her. “What is it?” she demands, when I know she saw me studying the damn cigarette.
“A message,” I say, shoving the bag at her, forcing her to grab it. “To me,” I add. “It’s a message that was meant for me, which is why I’m here.”
“What?” She frowns, her forehead crinkling with deep lines as she does. “What message?” she demands. “In the cigarette?”
She’s genuinely confused. I believe she spends a lot of time genuinely confused, but in this case, it helps me rule her out as a part of the Society. She’s just too damn stupid to be one of those assholes. “I told you,” I say. “The message is for me. Now step aside.”
“Agent Love,” she snaps. “This crime scene is mine and—”
“It is yours,” I say. “Which is a good reason for me to leave.”
Her lips purse. “I need a profile. If this murder is personal to you in some way—”
“They’re all personal to me. Get me the data collected from the crime scene. Then we’ll talk about a profile.”
“You don’t even know her name.”
“Mia Moore. Twenty-eight. A former model turned advertising executive. I need the files on the other two victims as well.” I reach in my bag and hand her my business card. “Email me all the relevant facts and details.”
“There are no other victims.”
What the fuck is this woman talking about? “I was told there was a serial killer and that there were three victims.”
“Obviously, you weren’t listening well,” she bites out.
More like she doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. My boss doesn’t make mistakes. Roger doesn’t make mistakes. They both said there were three dead women. That means there are three dead women. The question is, why doesn’t the detective in charge know? Oh right. She’s stupid. “Get me everything you have on Mia Moore,” I say, done with her for now and always, if I get my way, and I’m going to get my way.
She snatches the card. “Obviously you’re going to read the same crime data I will and tell me what I already know.”
“I’m wearing an orange jumpsuit, and you aren’t. I’m Frosted Flakes. You’re Fiber Bran. I’m tequila. You’re Kool-Aid. We didn’t see this crime scene the same way from inception. We’ll never see anything the same.”
“Jesus help me,” she growls, but she doesn’t move.
“A religious person, are you?”
“Yes,” she says. “I am. Is that a problem for you, Agent Love?”
“Do you know that story about the man who stayed in his house despite a vicious flood because he knew Jesus would protect him?”
“No, I don’t.” She folds her arms in front of her. “And please don’t tell me.”
“Well, the flood came, and it was bad. A fireman stopped by to help. The man turned him away. Jesus would save him. Later, a boat came by, and the man onboard offered to help. Again, this man turned down the help. Jesus would save him. The water swallowed his house, and he was on the roof about to drown. He looked skyward and asked, ‘Jesus—why didn’t you save me?’ Jesus answered him. You know what he said? He said, ‘Holy Mother of mine. I sent you a fireman and a boat. You ignored the help.’ The man drowned.” I narrow my eyes on her. “Do you know the moral of this story?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Yes. I am. This is Jesus helping you right now. Move or be moved.”
She glares at me, but thank fuck, she backs up and allows me to pass. And so, I do—quickly. I head down the hallway toward the only door in this place. “Was that long ass story necessary?” she calls after me.
It kept you from talking, which kept me out of jail, I think, so yes, yes it was. I step into the living room, and the forensic team is gone. Of course, they are. Why would anyone do the right thing for Mia Moore? Clearly, she was on the bad side of the Society. I exit to the hallway, and there’s still no one guarding the door. I strip out my orange gear and then head down the stairs, right as a familiar cop in uniform is headed up my way.
“Lilah fucking Love,” he greets.
“Nick fucking on my nerves,” I say, because yes, he’s tall, dark, inked, and good looking, but he also hits on anything that moves, including me. “Got a wife and kids now?” I ask, passing him by without stopping.
“Not yet,” he calls after me, and I can feel the way he’s turn
ed to watch me as he adds, “Want to try out for the job?”
I pause at the bottom of the steps and give him a once over. “Nope. Still not my type. I don’t like guys who like themselves as much as you do. They’re assholes. You’re an asshole, but you’re a good cop. Or you were when I left. Why aren’t you a detective yet?” A perfectly self-serving question. I’m in town now. I’d rather deal with common sense. The last I remember, Nick qualified, and Detective Williams certainly doesn’t.
“I failed the test.”
“Try keeping it in your pants the night before. That was a serious remark. Get focused on the right things.”
“Why don’t you study with me? Come on over and get me focused.”
I sigh at his incessant flirting. “Whatever. You could matter. Obviously, you don’t want to.”
“You think I don’t matter now?” His tone is sharp, a whip that was a feather.
“I think you’re below your pay grade. As far as I’m concerned, you’re holding a spot some new fresh talent should hold.” I turn to exit.
“Do you have an umbrella? You’ll need it. It’s still raining cats and dogs out there.”
I freeze and whirl on him. “Do I have a fucking umbrella? Are you serious right now?”
“Yeah, Murder Girl,” he says, using a nickname that started in LA when my team got creeped out by how comfortable I am with the dead; a name I didn’t think he’d know. “It’s supposed to rain for like two weeks solid,” he says. “Some kind of monsoon overflow.”
I stare at him, and suddenly, I don’t like what I see in this man. He’s in his late thirties, a player, who couldn’t pass the detective test. He’s smart enough. He just doesn’t want to pass. Why? What’s he hiding from? He winks, a fucking wink that makes me want to poke his damn eye out before he turns and starts walking up the stairs. It hits me then that he didn’t even ask me why I’m here. He didn’t act surprised that I’m here at all. I’ve lived in California for years. There’s no way Nick thought my presence was to be expected. He wanted my attention. He has it. I am, after all, looking for a location to shove that cigarette left for me upstairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
I step outside to a downpour, rivers of water running along the curbs, a shower for a dirty city, and a disaster for a sensitive crime scene. “How bad was it?” Carl asks, still holding his spot by the door.
“Lots of blood and assholes, Carl,” I say, eyeing an item on the ground by the door that I’d missed earlier, of course, so did everyone else. And why wouldn’t they? To this crew, this isn’t part of the crime scene. I reach in my field bag and snag a small baggie. Sticking my hand inside it, I squat down and pick up another damn cigarette, this one unused, and flip the bag the opposite direction to secure it.
“Whatcha got there?” Carl asks.
Pushing to my feet, I close the small space between me and him, shoving the baggie at him, the way I had the one earlier with Detective Williams. “Log it into evidence.”
“That’s probably from the crew.”
“It’s not,” I say, and I don’t explain my reasoning, nor do I bother to lecture him on proper crime scene procedures this go around. No one seems to care, and if I wallow in their crap much longer, I’ll be the one with a vein bursting in my head.
Carl looks like he wants to fight me on this, but his lips press together, and he gives a nod. “I’ll log it.” I keep looking at him, and he adds, “Right away.”
That’s what I was looking for. I don’t wait for him to do what he’s agreed to do. Carl’s reliable. He follows orders. His pal Reggie is a different story, and for all of Reggie’s attitude, he has just disappeared. Another curious thing among too many tonight.
I grab my rain jacket that’s still by the door, slip it on, pull my hood back up, and eye the twenty-four hour diner across the street and to the right. It’s a perfect spot for a killer to have coffee and watch the mess unfolding near the crime scene. Works for me. The downpour does not. I eye an open umbrella next to the wall, grab it, and start a jog across the closed off street. Once I’m under an overhang in front of the diner, I drop the umbrella. Whoever it belongs to can come and get it.
Pulling open the door, bells chime, and I scan the rows of red booths. I’m the only person here. I’m the only killer here. It’s a little disappointing. “Sit anywhere!” A plump black woman from behind the counter shouts at me.
I choose a seat by a window that allows me to see the fuck-up of a mess across the street, and shrug out of my dripping rain jacket. Once “Donna,” per her name tag, joins me at the table, I ask for strawberry pie. “We’ve got pumpkin and pecan.”
“It’s October,” I remind her.
“Fall flavors,” she replies.
“I don’t do fall flavors,” I say. “I’ll take coffee.”
“Pumpkin, hazelnut, or plain?”
I grimace. “If you had to bet your life on my answer, what would you say?”
She smirks, a really good, Lilah Love quality smirk, and asks, “Pumpkin?”
“Don’t be a bitch. I’m not in a good mood.”
“Neither am I,” she replies. “You cops closed off the street. No one is here to tip tonight.”
“I’m not a cop.”
She motions to the badge hanging around my neck. “Close enough. You have to order something other than coffee if you want to take up space.”
I glance around the diner and then at her. “Because you’re so damn busy?”
“You ordering or not?” Donna snaps back.
I pull out a twenty and slap it on the table. “That’s my order.”
“That’ll get you a nice Pumpkin latte.” She turns and walks away.
“Bitch!” I yell.
She lifts her hand and waggles her fingers at me. Damn, I think I like this woman. I chuckle to myself and then scan the street, but I can’t see shit for the rain. I grab my phone and dial Director Murphy. He answers on the first ring. “Agent Love, how did you do on your first New York City case under my new task force?”
My. He’s so self-focused and of course, the boss, so whatever. I guess it is his task force. “I came,” I say. “I saw, I investigated one dead woman. Where are the other two?”
“I assumed you’d have extracted that information from those in charge of the scene.”
“They said you were mistaken. There’s one woman. That’s all.”
“Agent Love,” he drawls, “what do you know about me?”
Besides his prickly bitch attitude, I think. He was with my mother while she was with my asshole of a father. He loved my mother. He believes she was murdered by Pocher and his Society, the same Society launching my father’s political career. Oh, and he doesn’t make mistakes. “Roger told you three women and a serial killer.”
“Yes, and it’s interesting that he would tell you otherwise. Perhaps Roger was willing to give up control to the FBI but Detective Williams was trying to keep your role as a consultant only.”
“Perhaps, but I can tell you right now that Detective Williams is a f—joke.” I leave out the word fucking because he’s my boss. I also skip over my extreme desire to bitch slap a bitch, because he’s also a director. I can be professional like that, if forced. “That crime scene was a mess,” I add instead. “I wanted to claim jurisdiction, but, of course, we have no grounds to do so. And for the record, Roger Griffin doesn’t call in help. He is the help. This smells bad.”
“I’m certain you’re resourceful enough to call Roger Griffin and take this where it leads.”
I grimace at this suggestion that may or may not be innocent, but I wonder if he knows I’m avoiding Roger. Murphy’s smart. He’s observant. This man seems to know things about me that he shouldn’t know, and he pushes my buttons. He pushes me to prove myself for reasons I don’t even understand, and this has me thinking back to just last week when I’d agreed to join this task force.
“I want what you want,” he says.
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“Which is what?” I ask.
“The wrong people who are presently in power, out of power. You’ll work for me, but live in Manhattan. You’ll be part of a task force that I’m being assigned to head up. Together, we’ll solve cold cases around the country, but you’ll be assigned to the New York state region since it’s your home turf. You’ll consult locally and still travel to aid other regions if your skills are needed.”
“And this does what for me and you?”
“In time, that will be clear. For now, you keep your badge and my protection, but you’ll reside and work in New York state.”
“Agent Love.”
I blink back to the present. “What aren’t you telling me about this case?” I ask.
“What haven’t you told me, Agent Love?” he counters.
There’s a part of me that doesn’t trust this man, perhaps the part that doesn’t like how much he seems to know about me and my family, even more, it seems, at times, than I do. “There might be a situation we need to discuss. Right now, I can’t say. I’m working the case. That means I know very little.”
“Very little,” he says. “That’s not very impressive.”
“Yet,” I add.
“Then it seems you need to make a phone call. Get your answers and then communicate, Agent Love. You’re deficient in that area as this call proves once again.” He disconnects.
Donna sets a cup of coffee in front of me with whipped cream on top. I grab a spoon and scoop up some of the sweet cream. I might not like the pumpkin that I’m certain is beneath it, but sugar, sugar is good to me. Of course, I’m putting off the inevitable in the call that Murphy expects me to make. He really does seem to be testing me, trying to see if I can really handle taking on the Society. They had me raped. I could kill them all and be happy, but maybe that’s the point. If I want to keep this job, I have to be better at pretending I’m like everyone else.
“Damn you, Murphy,” I mumble as I pick up the ridiculous pumpkin coffee. My lips find the lip of the white mug, and I take a swig, grimacing with the odd spicy taste of pumpkin. I set said ridiculous pumpkin coffee back down and pluck another twenty out of my pocket and slap it onto the table.
Love Me Dead Page 3
