Kane had stepped away to take a call, leaving me at the bar momentarily, and that was where my father, and his disdain for Kane, had found me. “Kane Mendez, Lilah? I sure as hell hope the plan is to use your assets to put him in jail. I’m exploring career options that cannot tolerate you making poor decisions.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d sensed a darker, harder version of my father. It was the first time that I felt it directed at me, not my mother. Anger had boiled in the pit of my belly. I’d stopped a waiter and offered my father an oyster. “I hear you can slurp them right down right along with your judgment. He’s not his father,” I added. “In fact, right now, I think you might resemble his father more than Kane. Did you know him?”
He’d bristled. “Of course, I knew him. He was a kingpin in my territory.”
“How well?” I pressed.
“Well enough to know Kane Mendez is the devil’s spawn.”
In that moment, Kane had joined us and I’d linked my arm with his. “I wonder what that makes me, father?”
“Lilah?”
At Kane’s prodding, I snap back to the present. “I remember that night,” I confirm. “What I don’t know is what it has to do with that woman in our house.”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” he says. The devil’s spawn is always my devil’s advocate.
“Or maybe it does,” I counter. “My father and Pocher were both there. Chef Roswell was there. I’d like to know if Naomi was there.”
“Interesting,” Kane comments. “She wasn’t supposed to be here. Chef Roswell arrived with her instead of the sous chef he’d scheduled, who called in sick. Naomi was a last-minute add-in.”
“She lives in the city,” Andrew announces, joining us. “I put out an APB to have her brought in for questioning. I’ve got patrol on the highway, train station, and airport and I called the East Hampton police department. I’ll call the NYPD unless you prefer to make the call. “
“I’ll make the call,” I say, phone in hand, punching my auto-dial for Chief Houston who until recently, I distrusted. Now, I just mostly trust him, which is about all anyone gets from me.
“Lilah fucking Love,” he answers. “I didn’t expect a Happy Thanksgiving call from you of all people. A hell of a good surprise. Now, what do you really want?”
“We had a murder in East Hampton last night. Long story short, we need to bring the sister-in-law of the deceased in for questioning now, and we have reason to believe she’s on the run.”
“And she lives here.”
“She does. She’s here now, but we suspect she may return to the city.”
“And you’re calling me personally, why?”
“This may tie back to the Umbrella Man case.”
“Holy hell. Tell me we didn’t get the wrong guy?”
“More like an admirer of his work,” I say, quite certain Roger is deader than dead.
“Copycat?”
“Maybe.” I don’t offer more. I’m only a more person when I’m the one getting the extra serving of whatever I want. Instead, I say, “I’ll text you the pertinent details,” and hang up, eyeing Andrew. “I need her address and—just text me her driver’s license photo.”
He’s already on his phone, forwarding me the photo. The message dings and I pull it up to stare down at the image of Naomi Wells’ license. I scowl at my brother, the police chief, who should be the almighty investigator around these parts. “Did you look at the woman who was serving us, Andrew? I mean, she was pretty and you’re still single.”
“I was slightly distracted by other things, Lilah. Why?”
I show the photo to Kane and his gaze lifts to mine. “That’s not the woman that was just in our house.”
“Exactly,” I say, already dialing Chief Houston again.
“I’m fast,” he says when he answers, “but not that fast.”
“The woman we thought was Naomi Wells was an imposter. Do a safety check on the real Naomi. I need to know if she’s alive.” I disconnect.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“I need to talk to Chef Roswell,” I say, walking past Kane and going inside the house.
I find him in the kitchen, still busy at work. “Dinner will go on,” he declares. “I don’t know what the hell Naomi just pulled, but I do apologize.”
I find it odd that he stayed in the kitchen, rather than attending to whatever issue his employee created. Kane apparently does as well. He steps to my side and says, “Chef Roswell,” his words heavily accented which I know to be by intent. I’ve learned that when Kane means business, he lays it on thick. And he knows very well that’s when they think of him being his father’s son. “Let’s put dinner on hold and have a conversation.”
Chef Roswell looks between me and Kane, turning off a burner beneath a pot as he does. “Oh, holy hell. Did she steal something?” He grabs a towel. “And I apologize. I was trying to save your dinner.”
“How well do you know her?” Kane presses.
“As I mentioned when I arrived,” he replies, “she was a last-minute replacement of my scheduled sous chef. I’ve never worked with her before. Did she steal something?” he presses again.
“Did the service send her?” I ask.
“That’s what Naomi told me,” he says. “She called right as I arrived in the Hamptons and told me she was here to replace Michael, the scheduled chef. He wanted to be with his family today, so I’d told him if he decided not to come, just make sure I have a backup. I assumed that’s what happened. What is going on?”
“I sensed tension between the two of you,” I say. “What was that?”
He clears his throat. “She was immediately hands-on, and by hands-on, I mean on me. I quickly figured out that she was distracting me from her lack of experience. She didn’t understand basic prep. I’d have called the service, but it was a little late for changes. Obviously, I should have.”
Something about his explanation doesn’t sit right. Kane’s cellphone rings and he motions toward the living room. I nod and walk to the opposite side of the island across from the chef, and meet his stare. “Are you aware that I’m with the FBI?”
Surprise slides over his face. “No. No, I had no idea.”
“Naomi is now a person of interest in a murder investigation,” I inform him.
He pales. “Murder?”
“Yes,” I say. “Murder. Call the sous chef that was supposed to be here. I need to know he’s okay.”
“Right. Of course. I wish I understood what was going on, but yes. Now I do as well.” He yanks off his gloves and tosses them in the trash before he grabs his phone from his pocket to dial.
“On speaker,” I instruct. “No need to freak him out right now. Just check in with him. I’ll contact him again if it’s needed. What’s his name?”
“Michael Young,” he says, and then he does as instructed, hitting a contact icon and then the speaker button. The caller ID tells me they know each other fairly well and I’m a bit surprised the service would get in between their communication.
The line rings three times before I hear, “Chef Roswell.”
At Michael’s voice, the chef’s shoulders relax with an obvious punch of relief. I believe the chef truly was worried.
“I was going to call you,” Michael continues. “Thank you for letting me take today off. My mother is overjoyed.”
“I wish I could take credit,” Chef Roswell replies. “I was told you cancelled.”
“Cancelled?” Michael asks, sounding genuinely confused. “I wouldn’t do that to you. What’s going on over there at the service?”
“Do you know who called you?” the chef asks.
“I can’t remember her name,” he says. “It wasn’t the normal person I talk with. I’m sorry I deserted you. I’d never do that. Are you screwed right now? I mean, damn, man. I can’t get there in time to make a difference.”
“I’ve got things under control,” he says. “I just wanted to check
on you and tell you Happy Thanksgiving. I need you at that wedding next weekend, though.”
The mention of yet another wedding has my attention.
“I’ll be there,” Michael adds. “And if the service cancels me, I’ll call you personally to confirm. I should have done that anyway. I normally do.”
The chef eyes me for instructions.
I wave off any further contact. He nods and says, “Have a good evening, Michael. I’ll talk to you soon.” With Michael’s returned reply, they disconnect.
“What wedding?” I ask immediately.
“A socialite here in East Hampton,” he says. “Why is that relevant?”
“I need a name.”
“Maria Carbella of the Carbella family. I’m confused. Who is dead and why does it feel as if you think this is connected to me?”
I think it’s connected to me, but so is he, now and in the past. And the question now is what connection does he have to Emma Wells? A chef would certainly be comfortable butchering animals, such as a pig. And so, I ask the question. “Were you contracted for the Emma Wells’ wedding?”
He grabs the counter. “Yes. Why? And why do I know that’s bad?”
“Because she’s dead,” I say, and wait for his reaction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The color drains from Chef Roswell’s face and before I can stop him, he’s leaning over the trash, throwing up, and effectively contaminating the kitchen where evidence of a murder may well now hide. If there is anything I dislike outside large quantities of blood, it’s large quantiles of barf. I decide right then, he’s a hot man, in a hot man’s body, with a wuss, not a killer, buried inside. He’d never stomach butchering and draining a pig. He’s not our guy, but he’s also been targeted. The question is, why?
He grabs a paper towel and wipes his mouth. I gag a little, I can’t help it. “I only met her once, but she was a sweet lady,” he says. “I can’t believe she’s dead. How did she die?”
“Die?” I ask. “You mean, how was she murdered?” Andrew enters the room and I glance over at him. “Do you have officers on the scene?”
“I do,” he confirms.
“Can Chef Roswell sit in a vehicle while I search the kitchen? Preferably with the window down since he just lost his lunch in the trashcan.”
“Wonderful,” Andrew mutters, motioning to the chef. “This way.”
“I need to finish your dinner,” the chef argues. “I’ll clean up and get it done.” His gaze falls to me. “You hired me for a great meal.”
“We can’t eat the food, chef,” Andrew states. “Not this time.”
“I don’t understand,” he argues. “Do you think we tried to poison you?”
I give him a deadpan stare. He swallows hard. “Mary, mother of Jesus.”
Now that he finally gets the point, I step to the bar where I’d been sitting, grab a notecard, scribble down my number and slide it in front of the chef. “I’ll need you to come to the station for questioning. Text me at noon tomorrow on the dot. If you don’t, we’ll hunt you down. I’ll hunt you down. It’s not ever a fun reunion when I hunt someone down. And now, you may go.” I flick Andrew a look. “If Police Chief Love agrees.”
The chef pales all over. “Police Chief Love?”
“Yes,” Andrew confirms. “Police Chief Love. And I’d like you to go to the station and get fingerprinted.”
Chef Roswell inhales and nods, removing his apron. “Whatever is needed.”
A timer goes off and he forgets all else, tossing the apron on a barstool and grabbing a potholder before rushing to the stove. A few moments later, he places a dish of mac ‘n’ cheese, bubbling with delicious cheese, on top of the stove. Oh, how painful killing this meal is to my growling stomach.
“It’s not poisoned,” he assures me. “No one touched it but me and my reputation is exceptional. And my mac ‘n’ cheese is the best on planet Earth.”
The man might know how to tempt a woman, even more so than Kane, outside that moment where he used the trashcan for a belly dumpster.
And yeah. It’s probably safe to eat the food, despite said dumpster location. However, using “probably” as a judgment call is about as stupid as assuming you know what you can’t validate. “Considering Emma Wells’ condition when I saw her last night,” I say trying, “I’ll pass.”
“Oh,” he says flatly. “I see. I ah, I see.”
I doubt it, I think. The man has thrown up in a trashcan, turned ten shades of white several times, and he’s still offering me food. Andrew motions to Chef Roswell to get moving and fortunately, he moves in Andrew’s direction. I walk to the hallway, grab my field bag, slide it across my chest, and glove up.
Once I’m back inside the kitchen, I walk straight to the refrigerator, open the door, and look for a jar of blood. There isn’t one. Of course not. That would make one of the people visiting our house tonight more obviously involved. It just never ends up that easy for me. I start walking the area, bagging samples of food, our salt and pepper shakers, and other random items, as I decide everything edible needs to go. I’m not sure how Emma died, but she was in the kitchen, water was in her hand, and that means she ate something that killed her, or she took medication.
Not poison my ass, Ms. DD Fashion Model.
Emma Wells was poisoned. And logically, the fake Naomi Wells was here to poison us as well. Except—no. I love logic as much as anyone, but what is logical to me is only logical because of my limited view of a picture not yet drawn. I’ve already said that the killer doesn’t want me dead, at least not yet. That’s my instinct. I’m sticking with it.
He or she–my gut says “he” despite Naomi’s presence tonight—he tested me tonight to find out how easily I could be manipulated, and how easily he could get close to me. And maybe Kane.
That means he used Naomi. She’s his weakness. She could talk. We need to find her.
And tonight’s events drive home the idea that the killer wants me to play a game with him.
Obviously, he has no idea that I’m not somebody you want to play with. In fact, I’m the one who no one will even play monopoly with. Apparently, I’m intolerable. I like to win. I hate to lose. That hasn’t changed. He won’t like how I play.
For now, I make my way to the bathroom, bag our Advil and Excedrin, and hand over all the samples I’ve take to one of Andrew’s men. Andrew is nowhere to be found. I re-enter the kitchen to make sure I didn’t miss anything. That’s when Kane appears at the side of the bar, where I’d been working earlier, and motions for me to join him in the other room. I yank off my gloves, toss them, and follow him to the living room. We end up in the living room by the tree, which had been our effort to be normal. We are obviously not normal and can’t even pretend otherwise.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that mac ‘n’ cheese looks fantastic. I might have to kill that bitch Naomi or whatever her real name is, when I find her for denying me my favorite food.”
“Unless she saved us.”
“Hmm. I don’t know how I feel about that statement, but not very on target.” My cellphone rings and I drag it from my pocket to eye the caller ID. “It’s Chief Houston,” I say before answering without the pretense of niceties. I’m not a unicorn or a nun. “Well?”
“Naomi Wells is alive and well. We scared the shit out of her.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A family that fights crime together, stays together and alive. It’s a bonding experience. Some might say it’s special. Forget that we also committed a crime together. We’re fighting the bad guys. That’s what matters. Unless one of us ends up dead. That’s what I’m worried about with Lucas, that I pulled him into the wrong story, that he searched for the wrong person.
I’m eager to find him and wring his neck.
Kane and I make it as far as the foyer when Andrew corners us. “No word on the fake Naomi yet, but my team needs to come in and take fingerpri
nts that we can try to match to the database.” He eyes Kane. “We’ll need to look at your security cameras.”
Bonding is over, I think, even before Kane says, “You can fingerprint. We’ll handle the cameras.”
I can predict the rabbit hole of accusation that is flooding my brother’s brain even before he replies with a disdainful, “Of course you will. I’m sure you have plenty of things on the feed you don’t want me to see.”
“Such as us naked in the very kitchen your dinner was being made in?” I challenge.
His lashes lower and he scowls. “Lilah.”
Beside me, Kane doesn’t so much as bristle. I suspect he’s enjoying Andrew’s discomfort. This might bother another sister, but to me, embracing your brother’s discomfort is a mandatory part of sibling love.
“I’m just keeping it real, Andrew,” I continue. “Kane and I like to mix things up, keep things from getting boring. I’m sure you know what I mean. In other words, the East Hampton police department doesn’t get to make us your Saturday night high.” I change the topic. “How long will your team be here to take prints?”
“At least half an hour,” Andrew replies, sliding into the change of topic with what I read as relief.
Kane replies to a text message on his phone and then says, “One of my men, Jay, is coming to supervise. He’ll lock up when you’re done.”
“You trust him but you don’t trust me,” Andrew says dryly.
“And?” Kane challenges with good reason. It wasn’t that long ago that Andrew vowed to destroy Kane, to get him away from me.
Of course, that was before the dead body, but Kane doesn’t trust easily, even with ammunition on someone. A well-known fact that I suspect keeps the Society on their toes and hating him.
“Don’t hassle Jay,” I add. “He’s the guy who stepped between me and the Umbrella Man and took a bullet for it.” I leave out the part where that was a stupid move, considering the Umbrella Man didn’t want me dead, but Jay, as my bodyguard at the time, was another story. The asshole could have gotten himself killed. He almost did. Bottom line, Jay was brave. He’s a man’s man, one who wouldn’t be throwing up in a trashcan because he heard about a murder.
Bloody Vows Page 8
