Murder Girl

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Hello,” I say. “I’m calling on behalf of Lucas Davenport about your investments.”

  Lucas rolls his chair around to face me. “What are you doing?” he whispers fiercely.

  I turn to face him and hold up a hand. “Is there a problem?” the woman asks.

  “No problem,” I say. “I just need to confirm some numbers.” I reach over and grab papers and flop around by the phone. “Oh, hmm. I can’t seem to find your last name. I just had it.”

  “Becker. Sue Becker.”

  “Right. Huh. Well, Sue, you aren’t the person I meant to call at all. I feel like a fool.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. We all have those moments. What was your name again?”

  “Roberta,” I say. “I’m new, so please, if you don’t mind, don’t tell Lucas I screwed up.”

  “Of course. Not a problem. Have a better day now, Roberta.”

  I hang up and look at Lucas, who is glaring at me. “Tell me about Sue.”

  “How and why did you just call her?” he demands.

  “I found her number on my father’s desk, but there was no name. You invest for this entire stinking-rich town. It was a good gamble that you invest for her. Who is she?”

  “Thirty-five. Pretty. Fake nice. The kind you know will turn into a bitch once you date her. She’s the new town manager under your father and the daughter of Martin Becker, a New York senator.”

  “That sounds positively uninteresting,” I say.

  He hands me a new document drive. “There’s your file, but it doesn’t look fully updated yet.”

  “The murder was last night.”

  “The murder was last night,” he repeats. “You say that like it’s, ‘Oh, the dinner party was last night.’”

  “Dead bodies are my thing,” I say.

  “You are a freak, Lilah.”

  “Okay, but can you actually cross-reference all these cases to look for matching names and data, or do I have to manually do it all? Because I just did a project that way last night, and it was hell.”

  “I can,” he says, “but I need to build a program to do it. Which cases do you want next?”

  “New York City.”

  “Which will be the most well protected. This is going to take a while.”

  “On television they just punch keys and pull it up.”

  “So you can either get one of those actors to do this for you, or I can build a back door and protect us before I go in.”

  I tilt my head and frown. “Why are you so testy? You’re never like this. I’m the bitch. You’re the nice guy.”

  “Because I am,” he says, turning away from me.

  I study his profile for a moment, or more like ten, frowning as I turn away. Hacking must be messing with his head, and his nerves are making me nervous. I force myself to refocus on my work, inserting the document drive. For the next few hours, I study that file and the ones that follow, looking for clues and scribbling down notes, researching every book, movie, record album, and CD listed as a potential clue, but I end up in a corner of dead ends.

  Lucas has finally moved on to creating a database for me when Kane sends me a text: Walk away from Lucas and call me.

  That doesn’t sound good, I think. I stand up. “I need to call my boss and get some fresh air.”

  Lucas nods but doesn’t look up. Anxious to find out what this is about, I hurry out of the room and down the stairs, then make my way to the backyard. Once I’ve shut myself outside and plopped down on the diving board, I call Kane. “What’s wrong?”

  “My guy connected the overseas money from Ying Entertainment back to Wilkens Capital, a big hedge fund group out of New York City.”

  “Have you pulled the client list?”

  “Yes, but the owner, Red Wilkens, is known to do off-books deals. He was even investigated by the FBI last year and came out of it squeaky clean.”

  “And I have reason to believe that the FBI is covering for Pocher’s political recruits.”

  “They are,” he says. “Which is why I’m going to have to have a friendly chat with Red, one-on-one, in the near future.”

  “I assume rope and a chair are involved,” I say. “And don’t reply to that. I don’t want to know.”

  “We do what we have to, beautiful.”

  “Jesus, Kane. Shut up. I can’t hear that shit. And at this point, I don’t have to be a profiler to look to Pocher as the person pulling the assassin’s strings. He has one political agenda after another and a connection to my mother, and Laney Suthers had a client list of powerful men that could have included him or any of the politicians he supports.”

  “Pocher is too smart to pull the strings himself. He’d work through someone else who might not even know it’s him.”

  “There’s a way to get to him, and I’m going to find it. Have you seen the actual client list for the hedge fund? Do we know if he’s on it?”

  “I have it and he’s not, but as I said, Red goes off books, and often.”

  “I need to see that list.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Lucas is on that list. He does business with Red.”

  “Of course he does,” I say. “He’s the go-to guy in all of the Hamptons.”

  “I don’t like the connection.”

  “What are you suggesting he’s involved in? Laney’s and Rick’s murders? My attacks? Hiring an assassin? The blood tattoo says they’re all connected.”

  “He’s connected, Lilah.”

  “Then he can help us find out the link between the hedge fund and Ying Entertainment.”

  “Hold back until I do more research.”

  “I’ll think about it. Right now, I need to wrap up here and go see my brother. And thanks to you and your legal action, claim jurisdiction. And with it send a message. I’m here. I’m not leaving, and come and get me. I’ll be ready.” I start to hang up, then add, “Protect Lucas.” That’s when I disconnect and intend to check the time, but the photos from my father’s office are on my phone.

  I start tabbing through them again and land on the page that had three phone numbers, one that I have yet to call. I punch it in, and a male voice answers, “This is Greg.”

  “Greg,” I snap, shoving off the diving board and standing.

  “Lilah,” he says, sounding as surprised as I am pissed.

  “What the hell is this? You have a strange number I don’t know that my father has been calling?”

  “Easy, Lilah.”

  “Don’t fucking ‘easy Lilah’ me,” I say. “What the hell is this, Greg?”

  “This is my new number for the security job,” he says, his voice dipping in random places and then lifting. “I didn’t have cards yet at the party. Your father wanted it for some political fund-raiser.”

  That dip and lift is what he does when he’s undercover and lying, which is why I hated for him to go undercover. “You’re lying. I know when you’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying. You’re attacking me.”

  “What are you into, Greg?”

  “You know me. I’m one of the good guys.”

  “Good guys go bad and not always because they want to. We need to meet.”

  “I’m on that book tour, which means Chicago right now and on to Washington.” There are voices in the background. “I have to go. I’ll be back in a week. Will you be there?”

  It feels like a trick question, an information grab. I don’t trust him. “Call me when you get back.” I hit the End button and glance up to find Lucas leaning on the doorway with the glass door now open. Feeling really damn sick of everyone around me being dirty, rotten criminals, I walk toward him.

  “That didn’t sound good,” Lucas comments, and I join him. “Want to talk about it?”

  “No,” I say, folding my arms in front of me. “I do not want to talk about it. In fact, the last thing I want to do is talk about it.” I start to walk past him, through the gap in the door, but stop and back up, facing him again. “Aside from hacking at my reque
st, are you dirty, dishonest, or a freak in any way that it’s my business to know?”

  “I’ve invited you to find out how freaky I am, but aside from that, you know my dirty secret. And I’m living it right now.”

  “Hacking is your only dirty secret?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It is. And it feels good?”

  “Yeah, Lilah. It feels good. It’s an addiction, a high, an adrenaline rush that drags me to the dark side, and I don’t want to come back.” His lips thin. “Proof that sometimes what feels good isn’t what’s good for you.”

  He sounds angry. I’m glad he’s angry. That means he has a conscience. And that conscience is exactly why I can’t ask him to look into Red Wilkens. Because he has to do business with him, and if Red is dirty, and his guilt shows, that really could be dangerous.

  “But you know all about things that are dangerous addictions,” he says. “Don’t you, Lilah?”

  By things he means Kane, which I don’t intend to discuss with him. Instead, I give him a half smile, but I don’t say anything. Little smiles like that fuck with people. They don’t know what to make of them. His brow furrows as if to prove my point, and with my success, I walk past him and head back upstairs, where I start packing up. “You’re leaving?” he asks, appearing just inside the doorway.

  “My brother will be hunting me down if I don’t go deal with some legal issues,” I say, sliding my field bag back onto my shoulder as I walk to stand in front of him. “And that would just piss me off, and you know that never ends pretty.”

  “I should have the program built and be able to cross-reference cases in the next few hours. You gonna come back by?”

  “Based on the shit I’m about to stir up, I wouldn’t count on it. But if you get any hits, text me. I might not be able to answer my phone. And if you do, I’ll steal you another bottle of forty-year.” I walk past him and head down the stairs.

  “If you father asks me about it, I’m telling him you gave it to Kane.”

  Smart man, I think. Because even my father won’t cross Kane.

  I exit and head to the car, and once I’m inside, I start the engine, the war to claim jurisdiction I’m about to have with my brother on my mind, right along with the case files I’ve spent hours studying. Lucas’s words replay in my mind: It’s an addiction, a high, an adrenaline rush that drags me to the dark side, and I don’t want to come back. The assassin is methodical. Practiced. This is a job to him. It doesn’t even feel like a high, but it has to be done and done perfectly. After all, that’s his reputation. He has shown that skill with every kill.

  But the person who hired him, who ordered every victim to be undressed and humiliated, enjoys every kill. That person is emotional. That person will make mistakes, expose themselves if the right buttons are pushed. Maybe that person is Pocher. Maybe it’s not. Whatever the case, that person hates me enough to taunt me or fears me enough to try to scare me away; either way, it’s clear: I’m the button. I’m the bait in a trap I need to set.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It’s six o’clock when I park in front of the police station and kill the engine. I reach for the door, but my gaze catches on my front window, where days ago I could easily expect to find a note from Junior. Junior’s taunts lead me to another darker place: the growing body count. As of now it stands at two in Los Angeles, one here in East Hampton, one in New York, Woods, and—if this is all connected, and it is—Laney and Rick Suthers as well. Maybe even the two Romanos who had their heads chopped off. That’s nine dead, but I can’t connect those cases for my brother as they connect for me without circling back to my attack. In other words, I won’t be connecting those dots for Andrew.

  I pocket my keys and exit the car, walking to my trunk and opening it before tossing my field bag inside. It has too much of the data Lucas provided me with to risk it being picked up or nosed around in. I shut the trunk, glance down at my pink silk blouse, and decide I actually like it even though pink really isn’t my thing. But it’s girlie, sweet, and should remind my brother that I’m his little sister in need of love and support. And his understanding. The black slacks and jacket say I’m a professional. It’s a good combination. I snort. Who am I kidding? He doesn’t believe I’m sweet and in need of love; we’re going to duke it out.

  I hurry forward and enter the front door of the building to find the lobby the same as I remember it: a row of cushioned waiting chairs to the left and right, with a couple of tables set randomly here and there. The now receptionist-free front desk sits center stage, already cleared for the day. I walk past it and to the right, passing several closed offices on my way to the corner office, its door open and a male voice lifting from inside.

  I step inside the archway to find my brother’s asshole married-to-my-ex–best friend, pretending-to-be-family-when-he’s-fucking-not second-in-charge, Eddie, leaning on the wall beside my brother’s desk. My brother is behind his desk, feet kicked up on top. “Lilah,” Andrew says, lowering his feet and straightening.

  “Ready to go home?” Eddie asks.

  I decide I’m not in the mood for an argument or a fight. This just needs to be over. “I’m claiming jurisdiction,” I say, ignoring the asshole and focusing on my brother. “I’ve linked two LA murders, one New York murder, and your case together. Consider this official FBI notification, and there will be paperwork submitted through the LA office by morning.” I turn away, but before I take a step, Eddie spouts off.

  “Your power trip is going to fuck this town,” he declares. “Make Woods the guy or fuck your town and your family.”

  I turn around to face him. “I can’t ‘make Woods the guy’ if he’s not the guy. And we all know he’s not. Do your duty, uphold our oath for justice to be served, no injustice for convenience.” I look at Andrew. “Be the man I know you to be, not the one you’re being made into.” This time when I turn away, I don’t stop walking. I charge down the hallway, and I don’t stop until I’m at my car door.

  “Running again?”

  At the sound of Eddie’s voice, I laugh and face him. “More like giving you room to lick your wounds before I give you another lashing.”

  By the time I finish that statement, he’s standing in front of me. “Go back to LA, Lilah.”

  “When I catch my killer, I will, so I suggest you start cooperating and help me.”

  “Don’t be a bitch and a fool. Stick to being just a bitch.”

  I narrow my eyes on him, his agitation outside what is reasonable. I lower my voice, soften it. “Talk to me, Eddie. What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid, but you should be.”

  “And now you threaten me. Okay. Go on back to your office.” I turn away, and he grabs my arm. I whirl around, lift my arm, and shove my elbow to his face, stopping short of knocking the shit out of him. “That could have hurt. Let go of me and don’t touch me again.”

  “Eddie!”

  At the sound of my brother’s voice, Eddie glares at me but releases me. He backs up and turns away, walking toward his fancy bright-blue sports car that he no doubt bought with Alexandra’s money. My brother heads down the steps and joins me, leaning on the car, his booted feet crossed at the ankle, his arms folded in front of him. Relaxed because it’s me but guarded because he’s a part of this cover-up. And that makes me sick to my stomach.

  I turn and mimic his position, and we both watch Eddie pull out of the parking lot. “He’s afraid of something,” I say. “Are you?”

  He glances over at me. “The Love family isn’t known for fear.”

  I push off the car and face him. “Letting Woods fall for this is wrong. And the brother I know would never let that happen. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I have political pressure. I admit that.” He unfolds his arms and presses his hands to the car on either side of him. “And if you don’t understand that, talk to your boss. He will.”

  “Politics isn’t what law enforcement is about.�
�

  “Again. Talk to your boss. Make that statement to him and see if he agrees. And do you have any leads on someone other than Woods?”

  My lips thin with my unwillingness to share details with him, my own brother, someone I have always trusted. “Is Dad the reason why you’re doing this? Is he the one pressuring you?”

  “So you don’t have a lead outside of Woods. Walk away, Lilah.”

  “In other words, let a killer kill again. I don’t even know you.” I walk to my door and open it.

  He is immediately at the window on the other side, holding it open. “You do know me,” he says, “and that’s why I’m asking you to trust me and do this.”

  “And what happens when another body shows up?” I ask him and not for the first time.

  “There won’t be another body.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because Woods is dead.”

  “The cover-up is done, you mean.” I settle into the car and yank at the door. He holds it against my will at first, but with my second tug, he releases it. I start my engine and back up, heading out of the parking lot, more determined than ever to stop the corrupt sickness overtaking this town and my family.

  Once I pull onto the road, I head toward Kane’s rental house, where the local victim died, and dial Murphy. “It’s done,” I say when he answers. “Do I need to make contact with the NYPD, or do the politics of this require you make contact?”

  “They were put on notice this morning after my conference call. I’ll have paperwork faxed to them and your brother. How did he take it?”

  “Like a regular champ,” I say.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “It’s handled.”

  “Any regrets about sending your backup back to me?”

  “None. Rich is better off there. And I’m better off with him there.”

  “Where are you in the investigation?”

  “Do you know of an assassin with a scar down his face?”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar. Have you had Tic Tac run a search?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll have him do it. Where did that question come from?”

  “Anonymous tip,” I lie.