CHAPTER TEN
I’m not one to linger and fret over things. In fact, people who spend time fretting get on my nerves. If something bothers you, do something about it. Grow some balls and grab someone else’s. And that’s exactly why, knowing Samantha runs her clothing-design business from her home rather than from her family business located in New York City, I drive to her mansion a few miles from Kane’s offices. I don’t expect her to be there, of course, since she was just putting a note on my window, and her mansion is the only place I would know to look for her, but I want her to know I came for her.
I don’t get past the gate. The staff she keeps on the property simply refuse to allow me to pass. I’m about to back up and depart when a silver BMW I know to be Samantha’s pulls up behind me, blocking my exit. A power play perhaps, but it’s also the move to keep me outside her private space that I find really fucking interesting.
I place the car in Park and then give Junior’s note in the passenger seat a glance. Intentionally leaving it there, visible should Samantha join me, I exit the vehicle as Samantha does the same, her long, blonde hair a sleek, beautiful reminder that I’m the only brunette in Kane’s life. I’m not even the man’s type. She’s also wearing black slacks and a black turtleneck, giving off the illusion of being prim and proper. Oh, come on. We all have a superpower: baking muffins, drawing pictures, listening to dead bodies speak to you. Hers is fucking men senseless. She’s not prim and proper. She’s exactly what I said last night. A ho, bitch, or whatever the fuck I called her. We walk toward each other, meeting at the trunk of my car, as she places her brand-name sunglasses over her face. A little trick we in law enforcement know is to hide the lies about to be spoken.
“Lilah Love,” she says, greeting me.
“Agent Love,” I state, indicating my badge, which she may or may not give a glance to, since I can’t see her fucking eyes. “I’m sure, since you’re fucking my brother, you know there was a murder last night.”
“The whole of the Hamptons knows.” She hugs herself. “It’s unnerving.”
Like her doing dirty deeds with my brother. And Kane, damn it. “Where were you last night?”
“Last night? Why in the world would it matter where I was? I wasn’t at that woman’s house.”
“Where were you, Samantha?”
“With your brother.”
“Really?” I ask, imitating Kane’s classic and highly arrogant arch of one single brow. “That isn’t what I was told.”
She removes her glasses and looks at me, her stare unblinking. “Ask him,” she says, and with no acknowledgement of my comment about her whereabouts, she adds, “I was with your brother.”
“From what time to what time?” I ask, since Andrew was in Southampton when I got into town, the idea that she was with Kane and Andrew the same night turns my stomach.
“I don’t know. I was here, working, and then I was at his place. I don’t know the time.”
I’ve found that two “I don’t knows” in one sentence means a person knows and doesn’t want to say. “Perhaps your staff can help us with that,” I suggest. “Or the log on your security cameras?”
“I . . . perhaps.”
“Good,” I approve. “Let’s go talk to your staff.”
“I’ll get you the security log, but talk to your brother.”
“I will. And your staff.”
“I have business going on today. The log and your brother should clear me. And this is really ridiculous. I might be many things, Lilah, things that you don’t like, but I am not a killer.”
“You are indeed many things,” I state. “Some quite easy to confirm, but as it stands, being innocent of murder is not one of them any more than guilty might be. I need proof of your alibi.” I turn and start walking.
“Lilah!”
I keep walking.
“Agent Love!”
I stop and turn to face her. “Yes, Ms. Young?”
“If you choose to make this personal, you will not like the results.”
My lips curve. “Spoken like every suspect that has something to hide, even if it’s not the crime I’m investigating,” I say, and this time when I start walking, I don’t stop until I’m sitting inside my car and have shut the door. Glancing up at the rearview mirror, I note Samantha has yet to move, which means her car has yet to move out of my way. I shift to Reverse and give a small pump of the accelerator that has her hands flying in the air, and she is apparently shouting something at me. I hold the brake and rev the engine, and she turns around and stomps back to her car.
From there, she is speedy to back up and pull off to the side of the drive to allow me to pass. I do so quickly, my mind already chasing conclusions from this meeting and the one with Kane—many I do not like. I’m just beginning the process of dissecting them when my cell phone rings. Snatching it up, I glance at the caller ID and note my boss’s number.
“Director Murphy,” I greet him. “You’re early.”
“That’s called good work,” he states. “Talk to me. Do we have a serial killer?”
My jaw clenches. “I told you. I think—”
“An assassin. Back that up with facts.”
“Different ages, races, lifestyles, jobs, sexes, do I need to go on?”
“One killer?”
“I’m not ready to say that.”
“Did they die the same way?” he presses.
“Yes.”
“Then it’s one killer,” he concludes.
“Or one execution style.”
“That’s a reach.”
He’s right, but I’m trying really damn hard here not to claim jurisdiction.
He reads my mind. “You don’t want to claim jurisdiction.” He doesn’t give me time to argue. “This isn’t personal, Special Agent Love. This is your job.”
“Which I’m doing properly. I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours. We can’t shake up two police departments in New York in less than twenty-four hours and with an incomplete investigation. And how do we know that’s not what our killer wants, considering I had a murder here waiting on me?”
He’s silent for a few beats. “Forty-eight hours from now, we’re claiming jurisdiction unless you convince me otherwise. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“What do you need from me right now?”
“Space.”
“All right then. Space. You know how to reach me.” He hangs up.
I glance up to find I’ve pulled back into the parking lot of the same diner I’d caffeinated at this morning. I kill the engine, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel, several conclusions hitting me like a WWE Smackdown: If Samantha wasn’t with Kane last night, neither has an alibi for the murder. However, if they were together, which is my gut instinct and also probably why she didn’t want to tell me, Andrew’s sister, the truth, then I have a bigger problem. Because if she is the true whore she seems to be, with Kane and then with my brother on the same night, there’s no way she was at my house. That would mean Samantha can’t be my note writer. Not unless she hired someone to play the role. Translation: no matter how I look at this, someone I have yet to identify knows my secret. And while Samantha knowing my secret wasn’t ideal, the other people I know control her to a certain degree. Most certainly Kane could control her. That spelled control of my own. What don’t I know about that night? And who is motivated to get me out of town? Could it be Kane himself?
I grab the plastic bag holding the note from the seat and reject that idea. No. It’s not Kane. He’s not the note-writing, scary-tactic kind of guy. He’s about power. Directness. Demand. Proven by his demands directed my way today and even that night. Not to mention the man tried to keep me from leaving town with a rock the size of Texas. And yet, I think, he never called me. It’s odd, but I reasoned it away as his bruised ego. Only now do I consider there was another reason he distanced himself from me. He inferred as much. But what reason? And how does it connect to Junior? And why the hell am I not in on this secret?
Pissed off, I make a decision. I will find Junior and I will have my answers about that night. How I approach that will depend on how long this case keeps me in town and how much opportunity I have to fade into the shadows without really going away this time.
I do a search on my phone and find the Hempstead medical examiner’s office, retrieving Beth’s work cell phone number and then getting her on the line. “Agent Love,” she greets me. “I thought I was going to see you at the press conference this morning.”
“Yeah. Right. No. Can we meet?”
“When?”
“You went to the news conference, which means you’re still in the village. Now.”
“Obviously you still don’t believe in giving people a heads-up,” she states dryly.
“A heads-up gives people time to make up stories that waste my time.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t just infer I’d make up stories if you didn’t rush me to this meeting.”
“Can you do it?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that, Beth,” she says in a singsongy voice that, coming from her, is cute. Coming from me, and inclusive of at least one F-word, it would be a different version of cute. The kind of cute that isn’t cute at all. “I trust you, Beth,” she continues. “We’re friends, Beth.”
“Okay,” I say. “All that. Can you . . . ?”
“Yes. I just finished the autopsy, so I’m free. Where?”
“Micki’s Diner. I’ll grab us a table.”
“See you in fifteen,” she says, hanging up and proving it’s only the men in my life who don’t bother with a departing remark.
I slide the note inside my bag, not about to give Junior a chance to clean up again. With it sealed away, I exit the vehicle and make my way to the diner. I reach the door right about the time it’s opening, and Jack Leroy is just exiting. “Lilah Love,” he says, giving me a big hug.
Most people who are not me would love the chance to be hugged by a famous, once-hunky movie star. But the thing is, most people, including my mother, believe that he killed his very famous wife, and therefore I’d rather he hug a street pole with cuffs holding him in place. “How you doing, kiddo?” he asks, thankfully releasing me and giving me a once-over. “As stunning as your mother.”
“You say that every time you see me,” I say to the familiar compliment, which I brush off for one reason and one reason alone: I’m not as stunning as my mother, and I’m okay with that. “How long are you here?”
He laughs. “Why? Do you think I killed that woman?”
I don’t even try to hide the sneer, which I hope I wear as poorly but obviously as I do bright-red lipstick. “That’s not a funny joke,” I comment, “if it’s a joke at all.”
His expression tightens and he looks uncomfortable. “Lighten up, Love.”
“Agent Love,” I correct, and fully enjoying that sourpuss look on his face, I press onward. “Did you know Cynthia?” I ask, calling last night’s murder victim by her first name.
“I did not.”
“And yet you know who I’m talking about?”
“I watched the news conference this morning.”
It’s a reasonable answer but I’m not done making him uncomfortable. “Where were you last night?” I ask, because, you know, once a murderer always a murderer. Which actually isn’t true. Once a murderer is statistically once a murderer, but I don’t like him and choose to think he might just be the anomaly.
“At a movie screening in Southampton.”
“What movie?”
“The new Star Wars release,” he answers and immediately changes the topic. “You can’t seriously think I’m involved in this?”
“I don’t ‘think’ anything. I gather facts. And this alibi you’ve provided can be confirmed and how?”
“The screening was high-profile. I signed in. There were cameras. There were many guests I chatted with.”
“Call the organizer,” I order. “Get them to send the logs and statements to Andrew.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Yes,” I say. “Embrace it and get this behind you and me.” I grab the door to enter the diner and pause. “Scratch that. I need to know who else was at the screening. I’ll call myself.” I don’t wait for a reply, entering the diner, where a sign says WAIT TO BE SEATED. I don’t wait to be seated. I make a beeline to the corner booth that I’d sat in earlier and sit down, putting my back to the wall, giving me a clear view of the door.
The waitress, Rose, a sixtysomething Hispanic woman who served me earlier returns to my side, no doubt pleased that I’d tipped ridiculously high. You’d think everyone in this town would throw some dough at the help, but sadly, most are cheap, rich asswipes. “More coffee, or you want some food with that caffeine now?”
“Coffee,” I say. “I’ll get some grease to go with it after my friend arrives.”
“Grease and coffee.” She laughs. “Sounds yummy.”
“I highly recommend it,” I assure her, quite serious despite her amused giggle before she departs. A tingling sensation lifts my gaze, which lands on the table to my left and in front of me with a heavy thud. Sitting there, staring at me, is Alexandra Harris, a pretty brunette and the assistant district attorney. She’s also my ex–best friend, though the ex part wasn’t her doing. She simply met the same demise as my mentor: the illness called “knowing me too well and seeing too much” that she’d contracted by being with me that night.
I reach for my coffee but never pick it up. Suddenly—unwillingly—I am back in time.
“Bloody Mary,” I tell the bartender.
“Oh no,” Alexandra says, grabbing my arm and looking at the man who’s just taken my order. “The most expensive bottle of champagne you have.” She turns to me. “It’s your birthday.”
“Tomorrow is my birthday.”
“And tonight you’re mine.” Her expression softens. “I know you and your mother used to spend your birthdays together and this is only the second year since you lost her. We need to keep you busy.”
“We did spend it together,” I say, my chest tight, my laugh sad. “My father would hand me an expensive gift and send me on my way while she made a big deal out of it no matter how old I was. Chocolate cake. Coffee. Shopping. I looked forward to it every year.”
“Oh good Lord. I’m focused on your father here. I hope Kane is more sentimental than your father.”
“Everyone is more sentimental than my father,” I say. “It’s being in law enforcement, all these years, I assume. Not here as police chief as much as his years in the NYPD. It roughened his edges.”
“Is that what your job as NYPD is doing to you?”
“Rough as a drunk sailor.”
“Foul-mouthed as a drunk sailor,” she jokes but sobers quickly. “I hope that Kane makes up for the bad stuff and seduces you until midnight.”
“More like at midnight. He’s in Houston and won’t be back until tomorrow night.”
“Oh?” she says. “Why?”
“He’s closing a deal with a bank down there for his father.”
“His father? I didn’t think he worked for his father.”
“He works for Mendez Enterprises. Of course he works for his father.”
“Yes, but his father—”
“Don’t go there,” I warn, irritated that she, like so many, would travel down this path with me. “Kane is an attorney with a degree from Yale and runs a nationwide conglomerate that employs thousands of people.”
“I know. I do. I just worry about you.”
“Kane is—”
“He’s a catch, Lilah. The man is smoking hot and filthy rich. Every starlet that hits this town is after him, but he only has eyes for you.”
Because we understand each other. I accept a glass of bubbly from the bartender and hand it to Alexandra. She takes it from me and lifts it to her lips while a glass is filled for me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Alas, I think I’m just jealous. You know this Larry thing has messed with my head.”
“Your ex was an asshole who doesn’t deserve another thought.”
“You just can’t imagine, Lilah.” She shakes her head. “I can still see his white, hairy ass hanging out of his pants while he banged away at that bitch he calls his secretary. And I can still hear her moans. Oh God. Those moans.”
“Better you found out before you married him.”
“I know, right?” She glances toward the end of the bar and grabs my arm. “Oh my God. Jensen Michaels is here.”
At the mention of the up-and-coming movie star who she’d turned down over Larry a few months back, my lips curve. “My birthday. Your wish.”
“My wish? No. I don’t—”
“You do.”
Her gaze lifts beyond my shoulder. “He’s motioning me over there.”
“Well, go. What are you waiting for?”
She looks at me. “It’s your birthday.”
“Tomorrow is my birthday, but”—I grab her hand—“remember. He wants to fuck. You want to fuck. This is about you. For you. I need you to say it. He wants to fuck. I want to fuck. Just fuck.”
She grimaces. “I don’t say that word. You say it enough for the entire town.”
I roll my eyes. “Say it or you’re staying with me. He wants to fuck.”
“Fine. He wants to . . . fuck.”
I laugh at how hard a time she has saying it. “Now say, ‘I want to fuck.’”
“No. Yes. I want to fuck. And I’m going to tell you about it in graphic detail in the morning.”
“Please don’t.”
She laughs. “Please, yes. I’m going. I’m really going.”
“Please do.”
She nods and takes off walking.
I blink and stare at my coffee cup again, and then I’m back in time once more, an hour later.
I sip the champagne I’ve been cautiously nursing in case Alexandra needs me when she and Jensen head for the door. She waves at me behind his back and mouths, “Happy Birthday to me.”
I laugh and wave before finishing off the last sip of my one glass of bubbly. When my phone beeps, I dig it from my purse to find a text from Kane: Lilah Love.
My lips curve and I type: Kane Mendez.
He types: Do you know what I’d do to you if I were there right now?
I laugh, and because I just love egging on this man, I type: Nothing original, I’m sure.
I can almost hear his deep, rough laugh as he reads that answer and replies with: Challenge accepted. I’m in New York about to get on a chopper. I’ll come to you. Adios for now.
It’s a good surprise, and I quickly stick my phone back in my purse and pay the tab. Alexandra will be appalled in the morning that she forgot, for no good reason. Standing up, I slip my purse on my shoulder and sway.
“Whoa,” I murmur, grabbing the barstool and giving myself a moment to steady. I shake my head and I’m fine. Clearly, I need that dinner I skipped. I head for the door and make my way to the parking lot when it happens again.
And that was the beginning of hell, I think, snapping back to the present. Inhaling on the rush of unwelcomed adrenaline pumping through me, I do the logical thing. I reach for my coffee, but before I drink, my gaze lands on Alexandra, who’s now staring at me. But what I see is not her but me, standing in my living room, naked and covered in blood.