CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I intend to be early to dinner, but good ol’ Tic Tac is on the ball and sends me a computer-generated list of hundreds of people that have connections in LA, New York, and East Hampton Village to look over while he’s cross-checking Woods and his client list. And since I learned a long time ago that people can surprise you, I never wipe anyone, no matter how seemingly innocent, off a list of possibilities. Instead, I start highlighting names of people I know and researching those I do not. Looking for anyone who strikes some kind of nerve. I intend for it to be a fast process, but it turns out that’s just not possible, and I lose track of time. When I finally check the clock, I curse when I realize it’s nearly seven. Grabbing my purse, I make a fast track to the closet to pull on my Chanel trench coat and head for the door.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull up to my old family home and punch in a code at the gate. Entering the grounds, I drive a path hugged by bushes on one side and low-lying trees on the other. It’s not a short path, but soon I bring the sprawling white mansion into view, its giant porch running the length of a place where memories were born for me. It was there that I read with my mother as a child. There that I fought with her as a teen. There that I kissed my first boy, thinking my father wouldn’t know, only to end up grounded for eternity, it had seemed. But I’d still kissed that boy again.
Pulling around to the side of the house, I park under a willow tree, not too far from a Jaguar XK120 Alloy Roadster that is an easy cool half a million, if I know my cars, and I do. I’d have that puppy in the garage, but then I’m not looking for attention. Whoever bought that car and left it in plain sight is. A thought that leads me back to the assassin I’m hunting. He got in and got out. He wasn’t looking for attention, and he was smart enough not to get it. He’s a pro. These weren’t his first kills. Kevin Woods, and his bad-ending encounter with his cougar’s husband, says sloppy and inexperienced to me. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t killed someone. It just reiterates my thoughts that he’s not my man. Tonight I plan to find out why he’s Eddie’s.
Rounding the corner toward the front yard, my fingers trail along the ivy my mother had planted to climb this side of the house. Her memory is alive and well in this place. Reaching the stone steps, I climb a dozen up to the wide porch, where two heavy wooden rocking chairs frame the entrance, left and right. More memories threaten to turn me mushy, proving that I might have a human side, and I frankly don’t like it. That’s exactly why I walk right past those damn chairs and straight for the door, at the same moment that it abruptly swings open.
A thin, tall man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair appears in the doorway, an air of arrogance and authority to him, which he wears like a second skin. And while I don’t know him personally, I just know of him, my instant inclination is still to hate him in a really big way—a reaction I actually hand out more infrequently than some might believe.
“Lilah,” he greets me, as amicable as I’ve heard him to be, in that snake-in-the-Garden-of-Eden kind of way. “Nice to finally meet you.” He offers me his hand, and the irony of the cross on the expensive black ring his pinky is sporting doesn’t escape me. “I’m Ted.”
“Pocher,” I supply, my hands sliding inside my coat pockets in rejection of fake niceties. “The head of Pocher Industries,” I add. “The billionaire CEO of the world’s fifth-largest privately held conglomerate, with diverse interests that include oil and politics.”
“Of course you know who I am,” he says, pushing the hemline of his expensive blue suit jacket back to shove his hands in his own pants pockets. “Kane Mendez and I have had some business dealings. And, of course, I know from your father that you two are close.”
“And I know that you and Kane are not,” I say, letting him know that I know his business as well as he does mine, and knowing that power fights power, also keeping Kane in my corner.
“Kane dove into oil after his father’s death,” he said. “I admired the direction he was taking the family business and saw a good partnership to be had. He did not.”
Because Kane didn’t like the bastard. “And you didn’t like that, I hear.”
“No man likes to be turned down.”
But this one doesn’t take no for an answer and lashes out when rebuked. Except that Kane, whose family ties are to a drug cartel, scares the shit out of most sane people, which apparently includes Pocher. “What political agenda are you working with my father?”
He laughs. “I heard you were direct. I see it’s true. Your father and I have been friends since I bought a house down the road a few years ago now. Right before you left for LA, I believe.”
My family just keeps on giving and giving with the surprises. “And your political agenda with my father?”
“To support any agenda he might have himself,” he assures me. “He’s a good man. We need more like him.” He redirects the conversation. “How long are you in town for, Lilah?”
“Until I’m ready to leave.”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Please tell me your visit doesn’t represent a township-safety crisis.”
“My father and brother are in charge of township safety, and they’re quite capable, as you know.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“I wasn’t aware my visiting home was cause to call out the National Guard,” I say dryly.
“Of course not,” he agrees, and after studying me a beat too long to suit me, he adds, “I’m headed to the city for the next few days. If you get out that way, call my office and I’ll take you out for a meal.”
When pigs fly, I think, as an old man I’d tried, and failed, to interview a few months ago had said, but I keep that thought to myself, choosing to instead back up and allow him to exit. His lips quirk, eyes alight with interest, not irritation. “I take it you won’t be calling me for that meal,” he comments.
“No, I will not,” I confirm.
“You can change your mind at any time. It’s an open invitation.” He walks past me and heads down the stairs. “Have a nice visit, Lilah,” he calls out.
I step into the doorway and watch him leave, wanting him to feel the weight of my stare, to know that I am not intimidated by his money or reputation. To know he is in my family circle and I have eyes on him. His presence in this house tells me that Kane was right. My father has dived into waters not meant for the likes of an honest man.
Pocher never turns. He keeps walking and I stand my ground until I see that fancy-ass, attention-grabbing Jaguar drive away. Pocher is trouble and I don’t like the fact that he’s involved with my family at a time when they seem to be willing to cover up a murder. Murder, I mentally repeat, a thought hitting me. I step back onto the porch and shut the door, removing my phone from my pocket and texting Tic Tac: Look for a connection between the victims, Woods, and Ted Pocher.
Tic Tac replies instantly. The Ted Pocher?
I respond with: The one and only.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and think, who better to hire a hit man than one of the richest men on the planet? A man who was just in my family home.