“Agent Love,” he greets me.
“The Ghost,” I say. “I know who the assassin is, Kane.”
“Then you know you don’t just contact him. It takes time.”
“If you can’t, maybe Romano can? I’m pretty sure he’d be happy to help your ex just because I’m your ex.”
“Lilah,” he breathes out, his tone biting.
“This time, Kane, you really do have twenty-four hours.”
I hang up. He calls back. I ignore the call and open my Cheetos.
He sends me a text message: You WILL NOT go to Romano.
I stuff a Cheeto in my mouth and open my computer, powering it up and then thinking about what the old man said, and type “she bleeds because you bleed” into the search engine. The first search item is a movie called Take Me to Church, and it stars Jensen Michaels. I sit back in my chair, feeling punched in the gut. Jensen Michaels is the movie star Alexandra had left the bar with that night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“You’ll be too dead to kill anyone.”
Did Alexandra help set me up to be killed? I think back to the parking lot. At one point I’d believed I’d heard her voice, but I’d also thought I’d heard Kane’s, which clearly wasn’t the case. I’m not sure what connection to me Jensen Michaels might have, but he’s clearly involved in this in some way. Or being set up like Woods, which could be the case for Alexandra as well, and pathetic as I am, I do not want to believe my ex–best friend was never my friend at all.
I shove that purely emotional thought aside. Emotions have no place in this. Facts do.
Junior is my next consideration. I’d thought Junior stumbled onto what happened that night, but now I think differently. Now, I wonder if rather than stumbling onto what happened that night, as I’d assumed, if Junior wasn’t there to ensure I died that night. Someone wanted me gone, and while events turned my way, the result was the same. I left. And while the threat now might be that my secret could be exposed, if it doesn’t work, it’s pretty clear that burying me for real this time could be on the table.
The problem for Junior is that I’m not really afraid of dying. Not since that night, and I have no explanation for that. It made me a different person. A different profiler. It made death less of a mystery and more acceptable. Death should never be acceptable to someone in law enforcement, but it’s not expected as it is with someone like, say, a drug cartel leader, and thus no one expects this of me. Whatever the case, though, I’m clearly up against someone very powerful, and my choices—Romano, Pocher, even Kane—are certainly that and more. And someone in this mix wanted me gone in the past and still wants me gone now. The question is why? I get that I’m obviously stirring up trouble now, but then?
I sit down at my computer, pulling up the list I keep of all my cases, and find the active cases on that night. Nothing stands out and nothing seems to link to anything going on now. But I’ll need hours to do this research, which I can’t give to anyone else. Just like I need hours to watch that damn movie.
I sit there for several minutes, though, contemplating whether this is the time to tell Kane about Junior. He does, after all, have something to lose if we’re exposed. He does have resources to find out who Junior is, if he doesn’t already know. I pull the notes out of my bag, lay them on the desk, and stare down at them:
A is for the Apple a day that keeps the doctor away. But a doctor couldn’t help him, could he?
I KNOW.
T is for TRUST.
You TRUSTED him.
F is for FOOL.
That’s YOU.
The tone of both seems to be meant to make me distrust Kane. Too bad he’s doing a good job of that himself, too, or it might not be working. And what is it about his behavior that I don’t feel good about right now? I grab a pen and note card:
—HE DIDN’T CALL ME FOR TWO YEARS. THAT MEANS HE WASN’T REALLY EAGER FOR ME TO RETURN.
—HE WAS ADAMANT I NOT ASK AROUND ABOUT THE TATTOO.
—HE, WHO KNOWS ALL, CAN’T TELL ME MUCH OF ANYTHING ABOUT THAT NIGHT.
—HIS REACTION TO THE TATTOO PHOTO MAKES ME BELIEVE HE KNOWS MORE ABOUT IT THAN HE SAYS HE DOES.
I stare at the list and find myself looking for reasons to downplay each item. I rolled around naked with the man last night and enjoyed it. Am I really objective about his motivations right now? It doesn’t seem smart to make this decision when I still smell like the man, which isn’t a bad thing to smell like, and that very thought says I’m right. I’m not in a good place to make Kane-related decisions. I’m not rushing to tell him anything. I’ll reassess after I’m over the sated, orgasmic high I feel right now, and based on how he handles the Ghost as well as what I find in my old caseload files, if anything. Moving on. Next question.
Should I go to Alexandra’s house and shake her until she tells me what I want to know?
Answer: I want to isn’t a good reason to do it. At least, not yet.
And …
Should I go to movie-star-now-A-lister Jensen Michaels’s mansion and shake him until he tells me what I want to know?
Answer: I want to isn’t a good reason. At least, not yet.
I grab the bag of Cheetos and begin stuffing my face while pacing, which has to be better than stuffing my face while sitting still. I manage to eat half the bag and pace a marathon by the time I’m focused on Kane’s comments about driving the assassin underground. If I do that, then I also drive the person or persons that hired the assassin underground. It’s time to make everyone involved feel less threatened and more secure, and hopefully give myself room to investigate without being shut out. That’s going to take making my brother feel like a king. To do that, with Eddie yakking in his ear and my father pressuring him to close this case, is going to mean I need Murphy backing me.
I grab my phone and start to dial Murphy, then hesitate. My secret and my family are too easily exposed here. I open my bag of Cheetos and start stuffing my face again, trying to find any way I can to keep him out of this and still make the locals feel secure. I’m nearly done with the bag and feeling sick to my stomach when a strategy hits me. I shove the Cheetos in a drawer and call Murphy.
“Agent Love,” he answers. “New developments already?”
“I need you to back me up.”
“I thought I already was?”
“I’d like to tell the locals that we’ve had new developments in LA and we’re leaning toward their cases being unrelated. I’d then offer them the support to catch Woods that we’re already quietly giving them.”
“And this does what for us?”
I recap all my thoughts. “We catch Woods and prove his innocence before he ends up dead and screws up our cases. We convince whoever hired the assassin that they aren’t on our radar, and hopefully that equates to mistakes we expose right along with that person, or persons. And finally, it keeps our assassin from going underground.”
“Which means he or she might kill again.”
“From what you told me, if the Ghost goes underground, another kill is inevitable. Maybe not related to this case, but otherwise.”
“Point well made,” he concedes. “Should I ask why you feel the need to keep your family out of the loop?”
“They trust the local team they employ,” I say. “I do not, which is why I’ve chosen not to share any details on our cases.”
“Including the tattoo?”
“Including the tattoo.”
“How are you chasing that lead without asking the locals?”
“Selectively and with care.”
“As has been our strategy here locally,” he says, which I read as an endorsement of sorts to my investigation. He moves on. “All right. This is your show. You have my backing.”
We end the call and I exhale. I’ve spared my family suspicion for now, but I don’t know what I’m going to do if I find out my family is dirty.
Sometimes you get further with sugar than salt, even if the sugar has a few slips of the tongue that
start with the letter F. If I want to empower my brother, I need to fade to the center of the Hamptons crowd. I need to be Laura Love’s daughter, not the outsider with a badge. Setting that tone is really as easy as adding a little flash. I dress to impress, which means brand, brand, brand. My jeans are expensive. My boots, purse, blazer, and coat, all classic Louis Vuitton. Even the briefcase I fill with all my notes and documents to keep sticky-fingers Junior from reading them is Louis Vuitton.
I’m just heading to the kitchen to make my way to the garage when Tic Tac calls, and I know what he’s going to say. “Woods is now on the Emerson client list,” I supply, grabbing a bottle of water for the road.
“He is. I’m baffled as to how anyone thinks we wouldn’t have the original records.”
“Sometimes people throw a web so wide they get caught themselves,” I say, leaning on the kitchen island. “It’s going to be interesting to see if I’m suddenly told Woods killed Emerson as well today. Even more so if that net is wide enough to include the LA cases.”
“I’m rechecking every Woods connection to those victims to see if they, too, have a sudden link that didn’t exist before.”
“Text me if you get a hit.”
We disconnect and I pull up my e-mail on my phone, and sure enough. Now that Detective Moser has doctored the records, he’s sent me the Emerson file I’ll read before the party tonight. Right now, I deal with my brother. I take a step for the garage again and pause with a thought that sends me back to the living room, where I grab the camera and remove the tape inside. Sorry, Junior. The only person watching my skin flick is me. My debut on Pornhub hopefully avoided, I finally make my way to the garage, open the door, and stare at the empty space. My rental is still at the train station. Apparently I can be trusted to solve murders but not to keep track of a giant steel box on wheels. I dial a driver, and while I wait for the car, I pull up the security footage on my computer and delete the footage of Kane and me without looking at it. I have the original if I get lonely.
Thirty minutes later, a driver drops me at my rental, and just when I was thinking Junior was sleeping late for the weekend, I find a note on my car. The impact is not dread but a deep sigh of not again, and I wonder if Junior knows the impact is diluted at this point. I don’t even bother with gloves. I snatch the damn thing up and read:
B is for Body.
B is for Buried.
And I know where.
Do you?
Junior followed Kane and therefore knows more than me. This irritates me rather than scares me. I’m going to make my brother feel like a king, but Junior is another story. Certain I’m being watched, I crumple the note in my hand, open the car, and toss the paper onto the back seat. I hope my message is clear. I’m not going to cower.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Turns out my brother isn’t at the police station but rather at Goldberg’s Famous Bagels, a hopping weekend breakfast spot not far from the station. And because what’s a sister for if not to show up unannounced, I decide to surprise him and drive that way. Since a white, generic rental doesn’t exactly scream Laura Love’s daughter, I park at the side of the building, and it’s still packed with cars. I head inside, and as much as I don’t want to lug my briefcase with me, I don’t dare leave it behind with all my case notes, and, of course, the sex tape. It goes with me.
With it and my purse in tow, I enter the weekend hustle and bustle of the restaurant, most of the wooden tables filled, a selection of famous faces in the crowd to include DiCaprio and two of the Real Housewives of someplace. I know the Botoxed faces but not the places. The hostess greets me and I spy my brother, and the company he’s keeping tells me why I didn’t get an invite. Samantha is on his left, while Alexandra is in front of her and Eddie across from Andrew. At least I’ve told Alexandra we won’t be playing nice; therefore, my hostility won’t be suspicious. She’ll never know I now have reason to believe she could have been a part of a plot to rape and kill me.
I motion to their table, and the hostess nods. I start walking that direction, silently cheering myself on as I do. You will not hit anyone, punch anyone, kick anyone, and most definitely, you will not armbar Alexandra and demand she spill her secrets, secrets she might not even have. That would be very un-FBI-agent-worthy behavior. And no matter what my sins—or fetish for an off-limits man—are, I love the honor of the badge. I will be good, I vow one last time as I pull up a chair and sit down at the table between Eddie and Andrew.
“Damn, Andrew,” I declare, setting my bags on the back of my seat. “I’m your sister. I can’t get an invite for a bagel?”
Andrew, in uniform, as is Eddie, fixes me with a mock-stunned look, his lips barely containing a smile. “She eats. She talks. She can be social. Are you my real sister?”
“I thought you knew me,” I chide, shrugging out of my coat. “I do those things on Saturdays. On Sundays, however, it’s all about sleeping late, cursing at strangers, drinking booze, and smoking cigarettes, in case you want to join me.”
“You always curse at strangers,” Samantha offers, flipping her long, blonde hair. “And everyone else.”
“She likes the F-word,” Alexandra says. “It’s really all she ever says, and that’s not even cussing in New York City.”
In moments like this, when Alexandra manages to look and sound every bit the brunette schoolgirl next door, it shows that she didn’t make assistant DA for no reason. She uses her sweet persona against people. Maybe even to convince people they’re her friends before she helps get them murdered.
I tune her and Samantha out and focus on my brother. “How bad was the press spin on what I said yesterday?”
“We answered more calls in person and on the phone about it than any real work,” Eddie says, his blue eyes locked on me.
“Sounds more interesting than the standard keys-locked-in-cars calls you get here,” I say dryly, and watching the table carefully, I add, “Thankfully M is not for Murder often in this town.”
Eddie bristles under the nerve I’ve hit. “Protecting the security of the high-profile residents of this town does not equate to keys locked in cars,” he states, while no one else blinks at my murder note reference.
“Though,” Alexandra offers, “Riley Aster did lock her keys in her car last night.”
Eddie looks at her. “What the hell, Alexandra?”
And I swear, I almost give Alexandra the satisfaction of laughing, but then she pats his cheek and does this baby-talk voice and says, “You were so good to help her,” and those Cheetos start churning in my stomach.
“M,” Andrew says, “is for mac n’ cheese. Mrs. Smith called and offered to bring you mac n’ cheese after you accused me of depriving you of that necessity on camera.”
Laughing, I say, “Score for me. There’s a reason her show competes with Martha Stewart. I’ll stay an extra day just to take her up on that.”
“Well, get it fast,” Eddie says. “Turns out we’ve connected Woods to the case you were looking into in New York as well. Detective Moser called this morning with compelling evidence.”
I cut him an irritated look and then eye Samantha and Alexandra. “I wasn’t aware that we decided who was privy to our casework based on who gets naked with who.”
“She’s right,” Andrew says. “This is internal business.” He leans over to Samantha and whispers in her ear, his head low to hers, intimate, and I swear, seeing my brother with this woman, I think day and night could be switched at any moment. It’s just unnatural.
Andrew leans back into his seat fully, and Samantha, like a good little soldier who wants something from her target, does his obvious bidding. She stands and announces, “I’m going to grab some bakery items to go.”
“I need to go to the office and catch up on some work,” Alexandra says, kissing Eddie’s cheek and standing, her pleading gaze touching mine and asking for forgiveness, and there is guilt in her eyes. Guilt that wouldn’t exist if I was the one who shut her out for no reason.
&
nbsp; “I’ll walk you out,” Eddie says, and the way she looks at him at that offer, all doe eyes and sweetness, it’s clear his fifty shades of assholery makes him her version of tall, dark, and good-looking.
Alexandra and Eddie depart, and I refocus on my brother. “Quickly, while we’re alone. My team in LA has had a few developments that lend some doubt to the cases all connecting.”
“And I’m sure you told them you think otherwise.”
“I shared my concerns. If I’m right, though, you’re wrong and so are they, and that doesn’t please the powers that be that want these cases closed.”
“I understand that dilemma.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah. This kind of trouble is bad for his political aspirations.”
“How do you feel about him running for New York governor?”
“It’s flipping killing me. Everything is about that to him, but you know. Politics is all he has since Mom died. I’m not sure how we fault him for finding something to live for.”
“You’re right, but I’m concerned about his involvement with Pocher.”
“Pocher is a rich asshole. He’s not a gangster.”
“There are opinions otherwise,” I point out.
“I’ve been around the guy. He believes in Dad and wants the best for our country. He’s not a bad person. In fact, there’s a big charity event tonight. Come. He’ll be there and maybe he’ll win you over.”
I’m shocked at the invite I was certain wasn’t intended, suddenly questioning my worries about Andrew and even my father. Which is a good thing.
“I’ll e-mail you a ticket, though I’m going to have my hands full with security.”
“You do have your hands full,” I say, not feeling overly motivated to mention Lucas or anything that distracts from the case right now. “Let me lend you FBI resources to get Woods.”
Murder Notes (Lilah Love Book 1) Page 21
