CHAPTER THIRTY
We land in New York without a word between the three of us. Exiting the chopper, I head toward the car waiting on us, just past the runway, and Rich chases me down. “Lilah—”
“Working, Rich,” I say, as he steps to my side. “This is not the place for personal shit-kicking.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t be on this case.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t be here.”
My phone buzzes with a message, and I don’t even think about looking at it while he’s hovering. We reach the vehicle and he opens the back door for me. I walk to the front passenger side instead and climb inside, a local police officer in the driver’s seat, I give a barely there nod. Andrew and Rich end up in the back and cuddling for all I care. I glance at my phone and read the text from Kane: I would never leave a calling card. Not that he would never do this. But that he’d never get caught. Which I believe.
For the next forty-five minutes that it takes to make it to the crime scene, I process the implications of that message. Who would set Kane up? The answer goes back to Pocher and Romano. But would a Romano kill a Romano to pull that off? Maybe, but most likely Pocher is trying to damage Kane and ensure Romano is loyal. Or I’m completely chasing the wrong people.
I’m in deep thought when we pull up to the apartment building that is our destination, police vehicles and fire trucks congesting the street. I exit the car and freeze with realization. The tattoo parlor where I met the old man is one block down. There is no such thing as a coincidence, and this is not one.
“Lilah-fucking-Love.” I glance to my left to find Mitch Gibson, a graying forty-year veteran who’s still one of the best damn detectives in the city, walking my way. “Spreading the love everywhere she goes.”
“Right,” I say, and because he expects it and because it feels right, I add, “Fuck you, Mitch.”
“Same ol’ Lilah,” he chuckles.
Andrew and Rich step to my sides, and I introduce them. “I’d prefer to stick to two of you up there. The scene is pretty messy.”
“I’ll hang back,” Rich offers, which is what he should have said back in the Hamptons.
“What’s your take on the case?” I ask Mitch.
“I’ve met Kane Mendez on four occasions and all for business or charity events. No way that man left a calling card like this one. But that’s my opinion.”
“Isn’t this the Mendez signature kill?” Andrew says, clearly not happy with the direction this is going.
“Maybe in Mexico,” he says. “Not here, but hey. I suppose if someone really pissed him off, maybe he wanted to send a strong message. There’s a first.” He motions to the door. “Go on up.”
Andrew and I enter the building, and we’re handed booties and gloves before being directed to the sixth floor. We start the climb. “I suppose you think that means someone set him up,” Andrew says, falling into step with me.
“I didn’t say a word.”
Several cops appear in our path, sparing me his further comment, and by the time they pass, we’ve reached our destination, where we are greeted by an officer who clears us for entry. “Showtime,” I say, slipping my purse and briefcase straps across my chest and then putting on my booties, while Andrew does the same.
“You know why I wanted you to see this, right?” Andrew asks, pulling on his gloves.
“You want to tear down Kane,” I say, slipping on my gloves as well, “and prove that he’s brutal and scary while providing an alternative with Rich because I’m a girl and always need a man. I get it. And for the record, I know Eddie helped you come up with the Rich idea.” I reach for the doorknob, and knowing that he’s a Hamptons police chief with a rather sheltered service, I add, “Good thing we missed breakfast.” I enter the apartment, and an officer directs me through an archway. Andrew joins me and we enter the next room where the bloody nightmare has unfolded. There are two bodies, not one, a man and a woman, both tied to chairs and facing the TV, but, of course, their heads are sitting in their laps, and there are puddles of blood around the chairs.
“Son of a—” Andrew begins before he turns away and someone shoves a bag at him, where he proceeds to heave up what sounds like his lungs and someone else’s. Brutal indeed.
I motion to a cop who’s busy bagging evidence. “Has the medical examiner been here?”
“Come and gone,” he confirms.
I look down and I’m now standing in a puddle of blood. I really, really hate puddles of blood, and since this crime scene is clearly a message to me, you’d think the killer knew how I felt. Andrew rejoins me. “How’s the profiling going?”
“I could run down all the basics for a case like this,” I say, “but I think you know most of them and do you really want to do that here?”
“Not really.”
“Go, Andrew,” I say. “I’ll be a while.”
“This doesn’t faze you at all?”
“You find a way to compartmentalize when it’s what you do all the time.”
He turns to face me. “But you’re not so cold now that you can’t see how brutal this is, right?”
I’m not sure he can handle hearing me say that I have to respect the killer’s work to catch the killer. Or that I don’t see the brutality but the craft of the kill. I settle on, “That’s not how this process works for me.”
He stares at me with disbelief, like he’s seeing a monster, or maybe he’s seeing Murder Girl for the first time. “I’ll be downstairs,” he says, and I think, We are changed forever, the way I was changed the night a different monster found me. I return my focus to the bodies, and I stare at the man and woman, and think, Kane and me. It’s a crazy thought, but the idea that this is a threat sticks. I think of Junior’s note: W is for Warning.
It’s a warning. My brow furrows and I note that the bodies seem to be posed. I turn and face the direction of the bodies. I’m now staring at a big-screen TV. My gaze lands on the DVD player where a DVD is sticking out. I walk to it and remove it with my gloved fingers to read the title: Take Me to Church. This crime scene is meant for me. The question is, was it ever about Kane at all? Or was it about getting me here?