Murder Girl

by Lisa Renee Jones

  His phone beeps. “I have to take this,” he says. “Hold tight.”

  And just like that the line is silent, and I’m flashing back to the night I arrived and my call to him.

  “What do you have to report, Agent Love?”

  “Same MO, different state.” I don’t give him time to ask for details. “How did you know I needed to be here tonight? How did you predict a murder?”

  “That was a surprise.”

  “But you wanted me here tonight, earlier rather than later.”

  “Coincidental politics. Nothing more. Nothing I’m going to involve you in.”

  “But I am involved. I’m the one who’s here.”

  “And well equipped to do a quick, thorough investigation.”

  “I have a history with Kane Mendez.”

  “Which makes you the perfect candidate to get into his head.”

  “Why do I need to be in Kane’s head?”

  “He’s connected to this. Tonight makes that clear.”

  “I didn’t tell you that. How do you know he’s connected?”

  “I looked up the crime scene address. I know he owns the property.”

  “But that doesn’t make him responsible for the murder.”

  “That’s true, but anyone else working this case would assume he is because of who he is, and I don’t like the obvious as an answer to anything.”

  “Are you protecting Kane Mendez? Is he a part of the politics you keep mentioning?”

  “There’s always pressure to close cases and calm the public, and that doesn’t always mean solving the case.”

  “You mean creating a fall guy.”

  “That’s right. And I don’t do fall guys.”

  “But Kane Mendez isn’t anyone’s easy fall guy.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “He’s not, but when you appear invincible, you become a challenge.”

  My brow furrows. “I really don’t understand what’s going on here.”

  “Just go catch me a killer, Agent Love.”

  I return to the present, acutely aware of the fact that I wouldn’t be in the Hamptons right now if he hadn’t pushed me to come here. And he did so despite my many potential conflicts of interest. And that reference to politics and Kane leads me to one question: Is Murphy dirty?

  CHAPTER THREE

  I can’t say that Murphy is dirty. Maybe he’s just secretive, but I have to consider the possibility that he’s a problem. And since I like dirty, two-faced people about as much as I like flip-flops, which is not at all, that’s a problem for me. I don’t like things between my toes or up my ass. It’s just who I am. And two-faced assholes in law enforcement are no better than Bible bangers who praise God, sneer at my liberal use of the word fuck, and then turn around and fuck someone else’s spouse.

  And I’m really tired of finding out that everyone in my life wants to be a damn gangsta. Up until now, I’ve respected and trusted Murphy the way I should—after all, he’s my boss at the fucking FBI. The idea that those things might be misplaced pisses me off. Which is probably why, when he returns to the line and says, “Back to Woods and his acting skills,” I’m not exactly feeling as warm and fuzzy as usual.

  “You can’t seriously,” I say, “with all your years of experience, believe that Woods planned the way things went down. That would mean that he had to orchestrate being caught with another man’s wife and holding a gun to the furious husband’s head. And he had to do so to hide the fact that he was a skilled assassin to complete a hit list. A list with no obvious connection to him, outside of the woman he slept with.”

  “It made you doubt him.”

  “Because it’s absolutely stupid to put yourself on law enforcement’s radar before completing a hit list,” I argue.

  “Serial killers taunt law enforcement all the damn time.”

  “Woods wasn’t a serial killer.”

  “You know what I think?” he asks, but he doesn’t give me time to reply. “His emotional outburst convinced you that he’s not capable of calculated killing. Return to Profiling 101, Agent Love. Serial killers start small, often with animals, and then graduate to humans as they improve their technique.”

  I clamp down on about ten smart-ass remarks, of which at least one would likely get me fired, before I settle on, “Hit list. Skilled assassin.”

  “You’re the only one who believes this.”

  I hold out the phone and silently yell at it before I calmly place it back at my ear and reply. “Why am I here if everyone is a better profiler than I am?” This time, I don’t wait for his reply. “I know you asked Jeff Landers for our investigation material. Woods has no direct link to anyone but the woman he slept with. And if we’re going to start convicting dead people just to close cases, I do hope there is going to be an agency announcement. I’m pretty sure we can clear at least some of the cold cases, since they can’t defend themselves. Heck, why don’t we look for homeless dead people? Then they probably won’t even have family to defend them, which by the way makes Woods a perfect fall guy. He might as well be homeless. He had no one in his life.”

  “Cautious there now, Special Agent Love,” he says, and I’m fairly certain the use of my formal title indicates his agitation. “I have to put my neck on the line when we end this call,” he continues, “and I have to do so based on your investigative conclusions. I’m simply testing you to be sure you’re certain you won’t change your mind.”

  Whatever, I think, but I say, “If we call this done and another body lands on our doorstep, or even here in the Hamptons, or anywhere for that matter, you look incompetent.”

  He’s silent for several beats. “You’re right,” he ultimately concludes. “We will indeed look incompetent, and yet I return to my original point: both the East Hampton and New York City officials are in agreement that all cases should be closed.”

  “And I’m back on repeat: Woods can’t protect himself, and aside from that, we know the typical law enforcement motivation in these situations. A killer on the loose scares people. They want this to go away.”

  “But as you’ve voiced, another murder would come with public backlash and expose incompetence,” he says. “Law enforcement is also smart enough to know that.”

  “The odds of another murder in the Hamptons is low, and thus closing out the case is an educated gamble. As for another murder in New York City, I’ve worked there. It’s easier to bury another case there, especially when it’s singular because the prior cases are closed and supposedly solved.”

  “And the murmurs of a serial killer are shut down,” he says.

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re hanging your family out to dry here.”

  “I’m protecting them from their own stupidity. They need to slow down. Woods isn’t going anywhere but into the ground.”

  “You have a bad attitude, Agent Love.”

  “That’s what every criminal I ever took down said to me.”

  He laughs. “Indeed. You also make valid points.”

  “That you’ve made me repeat about ten times.”

  “And you stayed the course, which wins me over, but before I jump onto your ship and sail away, let’s be clear. There is no middle ground any longer if you can’t convince the locals to keep the cases open and allow us to assist. And if that’s how this plays out, we have two options: We follow suit, close the cases. We claim jurisdiction. Which is it? And before you answer, be very sure about this decision. There will be heat from a hell of a lot of directions.”

  “No one is more aware of that heat than me.”

  “They have reason to fear a press leak and murmurs of a nationwide serial killer, and so do we.”

  “And if that happens, we have a rebuttal with a hit list, which calms the masses.”

  He pauses again, and this time it’s so damn long I’m about to climb through the line and shake him. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he finally says. “I’m going to take some of that heat off you, at least momentarily
.”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “I’ll contact the officials in both cities and request proof that connects all the dots to Woods. If they can’t give me more than the confession, we’ll reconvene one last time before we claim jurisdiction. In the meantime, continue your investigation.”

  “What’s your timeline on this?”

  “Today. I want to know where we’re headed by tomorrow.”

  “I need a full two days to try to talk sense into everyone,” I say, aware that this day is going to be about Kane and that man tied to a chair. “Make that three. I have to travel between East Hampton and New York City to do this right.”

  “You’ll have it after I set the stage for you by asking for evidence that I trust they don’t have, as I trust you. And that phone call I took was from Rich. He’s staying with you.”

  “What? No. Rich is a tech guy.”

  “Rich is a damn good agent.”

  “Who I’ve fucked,” I say, forgetting decorum and not mincing words.

  “Well now, since we’re pulling down the curtains and speaking frankly, I’m pretty damn sure you’ve fucked Kane Mendez as well.”

  “Which is why Rich can’t handle this. He’s too personally involved. That’s dangerous.”

  “You’re personally involved, which gives you advantages and disadvantages,” he says. “And like it or not, you’re human. If you claim jurisdiction, the wrath of your family will affect you, no matter how you try to pretend it won’t. You need someone who knows you there. And aside from that, it’s logical. He’s there. You need extra eyes. He stays.”

  “Director Murphy—”

  “End of conversation,” he snaps. “We’ll talk tonight.”

  He hangs up.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My first thought in the seconds after Murphy hangs up is that I have to get to Kane before Rich does and Rich ends up tied to a chair. I dial Rich. His line rings. And rings. And then goes to voice mail. I dial Rich again. He still doesn’t answer, when he always answers. I leave him a voice mail. “Call me, asshole,” I say, and then I text him the same. I then immediately punch in the number to Kane’s office that I unfortunately know by heart, refusing to analyze why I still remember it. I just fucking do, and since I don’t want to talk to him just yet, I fact-gather. The line rings and I run a hand through my tangled hair, pacing a few steps before I hear, “Mendez Enterprises.”

  “Is Kane Mendez in the building?” I demand.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Is he in the fucking building or not?” I snap.

  “Lilah,” the woman says, and I can almost hear her self-satisfied grin, as if she’s just figured out a puzzle and she’s anticipating the cookie she’ll be awarded. “Mr. Mendez said you’d be calling,” she adds as my stomach growls and I wish I had a damn cookie or ten.

  “Is he in the building?” I ask.

  “Yes, but—”

  I hang up and grab my boots, pulling them on before walking to the bathroom, where I look in the mirror and cringe. “Holy mother of Jesus.”

  Raccoon circles have settled under my eyes, which is appropriate, since my mousy, tangled brown hair looks like something crawled around in it and created a nest. I desperately need a shower before I face off with Kane, and this damn taste in my mouth has to go.

  No sooner than I set my phone on the sink, it rings with Rich’s number on the display. I put my toothbrush down and answer the call, with one strategy in mind: controlling where he is at all times, especially this morning. “Asshole?” he demands.

  He hates when I call him an asshole, since he prides himself on being a gentleman. “Yes. Asshole. We need to meet.”

  “Yes. We do. I’ll come to you. Are you at your place?”

  Me letting him come here, knowing Kane would find out, would be about as smart as the guy last year in Santa Monica who put a firecracker on his head and set it on fire. A bunch of the agency guys had then challenged me to profile his behavior. I had a one-word answer: stupid. And I’m not stupid. “Meet me for lunch,” I say, because if I have to fight with him, my brother, and Kane in the same day, I deserve another strawberry pie. I give him the location of the diner that I’ve already frequented twice this trip before adding, “At noon.”

  “Noon,” he confirms. “Look, Lilah. I know you called me an asshole because you’re pissed, but—”

  I hang up, and not because I’m trying to be the same asshole he’s being by acting like a jealous shit with Kane. I simply can’t risk getting into a conversation with him that sets him off and makes him do something stupid like the firecracker guy.

  I set the phone down again and sway with a head rush, forced to grab the counter. Damn it to hell. I didn’t eat last night but I was drugged, which translates to weak, and, with a glance back in the mirror, I add, just plain gross. I need that shower and some form of food in my stomach, or I am going to pass out or punch someone who isn’t Kane. And Kane is the only one I know who can take the punch and not start crying, my damn brother included. Ironically, Kane is the only one of the three I want to make cry.

  Thirty minutes later, I’ve showered, and with a robe around me, I walk into the kitchen, make a cup of coffee, and since I did go to the grocery store, I survey the cabinets and fridge for food. Apparently I suck at shopping, since within arm’s reach I seem to have only strawberries and more strawberries. So strawberries it is. I grab a plastic container and my cup and trek back to the bedroom. Another fifteen minutes later, my coffee cup is empty, and my hair is not only dry but flat ironed. Makeup is next, as is my unskilled attempt to correct the vampirishly pale look I’m sporting today. I’m nearly done with the whole beautify-myself routine, and halfway done with my strawberries, when I feel human enough to answer one of three calls in ten minutes from Tic Tac.

  “Dead or bleeding?” I say when I answer, referencing his voice mail.

  “Holy hell, Lilah. I didn’t really mean that.”

  “That really was coldhearted. Make it up to me. I need stuff.”

  “And here I thought a knock on your head would slow down the demands. I called you, remember?”

  “And it was excellent timing. I need everything you can get me on Old Man Romano,” I say. “Apparently he’s the patriarch, not the other guy we’ve been chasing for years.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I flash back to the old man tied to a chair in Kane’s garage and decide Kane as a source doesn’t work. I settle on, “Call it a theory I need you to prove.” I switch gears then to my father’s main campaign backer, Mr. Moneybags and the patriarch, aka CEO, of Pocher Enterprises. “Every instinct I own says Pocher has a Romano connection,” I say.

  “I’ve looked—”

  “Look harder. He’s one of the richest men on the planet. It’s buried deep, but it’s there.”

  “Aren’t we trying to find a killer?”

  “Yes,” I say. “We are. And there are three powerful players in this territory: Kane Mendez. The Romano family. And Pocher. And since I’m convinced someone is trying to make Kane the fall guy, that leaves two.” And because I don’t want to answer questions, I throw him a bone he’ll choke on. “Moving on.” And because I know he’s on his cell phone, not the agency phone, I say, “I need you to do something for me from home, away from the office. I’ll owe you another big favor.”

  “I don’t like how that sounds. No. The answer is no. So just don’t—”

  “I need everything you can find on Murphy.”

  “What?” he hisses, his voice lowering. “What are you doing, Lilah?”

  “Just do it, Tic Tac. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “I said I’ll owe you,” I say, my voice low, terse. “This is a big deal. I need you to do this and keep it between us.”

  “Holy hell, Lilah. You’re going to be the death of me. You owe me big on this one.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all t
hat comes out of this,” I say before we disconnect.

  I grab the sink and think of Murphy’s words: We both know that you understand double lives and good actors. Everyone isn’t what they seem.

  He’s right. They aren’t. I’m not. But until today, I never read him as anything beyond appearance. And missing a snake in the grass at my feet is dangerous, not just to me but potentially to the other agents who work beneath him. Which, remarkably, brings me back to Kane and the one good thing I can say about the man at the moment: I know who and what he is. I’m not sure there’s one other person in my life I can say that about right now.

  That’s not true.

  Rich.

  He’s a nice guy who really is a nice guy, who is going to get eaten by the big bad wolf, which is Kane. And as pissed as I am at Rich right now, that’s why I’m angry. He’s not only going to get himself into trouble he’s not equipped to handle, he’s creating leverage for Kane against me. I have to get him out of here.

  With that thought, I don’t linger at the sink. I walk into the closet, and keeping with the New Yorker theme I’ve gravitated to since arriving here, I dress in black jeans and a black V-neck sweater, along with my Chanel boots. It’s a generic look that my old boss in New York loved. It doesn’t stand out because it’s not me who needs to stand out, it’s the criminals.

  Once dressed, I realize that my shoulder holster is still on the chair in the bedroom where Kane apparently left it. I opt for my hip holster and attach it to my belt for easier reach. Once it’s in place, I grab my wallet-sized purse—Chanel, because this town is all about brands—and slip it across my chest and settle it at my opposite hip. I then pull on a black Chanel jacket and call it done.

  Exiting the closet, I hurry forward and enter the bedroom, pausing by the chair to remove my firearm resting there and holster it at my hip. That’s when I rotate and take a step, only to stop dead in my tracks and stare at Cujo where it rests on the bed. Now that I’m clearheaded, that’s not as insignificant as it was an hour ago. Cujo was in my office, along with the notes from Junior and all my case notes. Kane was in my office. I launch myself across the room, and I’m in the hallway and up the stairs in seconds. I stop in the doorway to find the pizza box I’d left on the top of the desk missing. My computer is open, my note cards stacked to the left of it.