First class to New York City, my pre-Hamptons destination, is full of two types of people: rich, pompous asses who look down on everyone in coach and people who want to get sloshed and go to sleep with leg room. I kick off my shoes and stretch out my jean-clad legs, hoping the seat next to me remains as empty as it is right now.
"Drink, Miss Love?"
I glance up at the sound of the question laced with a Texas twang to find a middle-aged, bleached-blonde flight attendant, her hair puffed and frozen with excess hairspray. "Bloody Mary, heavy on the Mary," I say.
"Pardon me," she says, "but what does heavy on the Mary' mean exactly?"Is she fucking serious? "Mary," I repeat.
"Heavy on the Mary." This earns me several mascara-laden blinks, and I grimace. "The bloody is obviously the tomato juice, which means the Mary is ..
" I hold a hand out, certain she will be amazed by my brilliance, allowing her to reply with awe, but all I get are another few blinks. "Vodka," I say. "Just bring me vodka on the rocks. The rocks would be ice."
She laughs nervously. "Of course. Coming right up." She hurries away and my cell phone buzzes from the pocket of my brandless black backpack that will soon be scandalously unacceptable. I reach down and grab it, glancing at the message from Director Murphy
I type my reply and hope it ends the conversation.
My phone rings. "Damn it," I whisper, tapping the Answer button. "Agent Love," I say.
"Agent Pain in My Ass, at the moment.
The Hamptons might be home to you, but we have procedures to follow. When do you arrive?"
"I land in New York City at seven. I'm taking the train into the Hamptons from there."
"I have higher powers all over me about our dead body. Take a chopper."
"That's expensive."
"So is bad press and a community in panic. I want you there now, not later. Get me answers. I'll e-mail you reservations and have the locals waiting on you when you land. And I expect to hear from you tonight
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yes, Director Murphy. I will call you once I make contact with the locals."
"That's more like it. Have a safe flight, Agent Love." He ends the connection.
I shove my phone back in my backpack just in time to be handed a glass of vodka.
I down it and grimace. Damn, it sucks without the tomato juice. What the hell was I thinking? "Now I'd like a Bloody Mary," I say to the attendant.
"Extra….. Mary?"
"Just a Bloody Mary," I say, letting my head sink back against the cushion and hoping like hell a little more booze is enough to put me to sleep. I have enough to deal with when I get home. I don't need to deal with it on the way there as well. My damn cell phone rings again. I pull it out of my bag, note Rich's number, and turn it off. He probably just found out I'd left, and I can't focus on his misplaced outrage right now. I grab my case file, which now has the data from the local murders inside and the assumed-to-be-connected case in New York, as well as my MacBook. I pull down the tray table and flip open the file. I'm immediately staring at the image of today's victim, a man who shares two things in common with my attacker from years before: he's Mexican, and he's got the same ink on his arm. I thumb through the photos and find a shot of the tattoo, confirming that, yes, it's the exact same image I remember: the Virgin Mary, bleeding from the mouth. And since I've googled and researched that image many times, I know that there is no documented gang or organizational affiliation, despite my certainty there is one.
I move on to our first victim, a white female, also in her thirties. Also killed with a bullet between the eyes, her clothes missing when we found her. But there's no tattoo on her body, and her career as an investment banker doesn't exactly scream gang. A cult, maybe? Yes.
No. I'm back to a solid maybe. Flipping to the next case, I'm now looking at the New York victim, a white man, fortyish, with no notes on his career.
Sure enough, the body's been stripped naked as with our local cases, and the cause of death is a bullet between the eyes. Other than the MO of the murders, these people have nothing in common, which to me reaffirms my instinct that this isn't a serial killer. This is a hit list. I know it. I feel it.
My drink appears beside me, and I glance up to find the flight attendant, "Texas," I decide to call her, standing beside me, rambling on about something in a sticky-sweet voice. I really hate sticky sweet. It reminds me of the Hamptons. I nod, having no idea what I'm agreeing to, and then down my drink. And thank the Lord above, she responds by walking away. Certain perhaps beyond logic that the tattoo connects all these victims, I tab through the New York victim's photos, scanning the body shots for ink that I don't find. Either the New York officials screwed up and didn't document the tattoo, screwed up and didn't give me all the shots, or there simply wasn't a tattoo.
From that I surmise that either the method of murder is coincidental, or it's not a coincidence. I grimace. Wonderful.
Compliments of the vodka, I'm a rocket scientist. Texas and I might even be able to communicate now, which is not a good thing.
Shoving the documents back into the file, I shut it and stuff it in the side of my seat, letting my head settle on the headrest behind me, my lashes as I wish I were on a jog, which is where I do my best thinking. Execution-style does not mean assassin, but every instinct and piece of training I own tells me it does.
This could be a hit list, and some-or maybe just one—of the victims could just happen to be a part of a gang or group that the tattoo represents. My mind goes to the tattoo on this morning's body, and then instantly I am back on the beach, back underneath that man. I shove the bitch of a memory aside and do what I've learned rescues me from me: I force myself into my first gruesome crime scene memory-its horror making it more vivid than any crime scene memory prior to it-and suddenly, I'm two years in the past. The emergency and police vehicles tell me I've found my crime scene. I park at the curb just outside the apartment building's parking lot and slide my leather bag over my head before popping the door open. I step outside my gray Ford Taurus and shut the door. It's new and basic, because new and basic is what I'd hoped to find when I arrived here a few weeks ago. I cross the parking lot, walking toward a crowd gathering outside the yellow tape. I trip on my own feet, irritated that I'm anything less than cool and confident, but the reality is, my new department isn't exactly welcoming me with open arms. The whole
"young, female, and damn good at profiling" doesn't work for the men in my department.
Weaving through the crowd, I approach the line and a uniformed officer. "FBI," I say, pulling my badge out from underneath the black sweat jacket I'm wearing over a black Garfield T-shirt that sports my favorite reply to idiots, "Whatever."
The gray-haired, potbellied asshole gives me a once-over. "Since when do twelve-year-old interns get badges?"
My irritation is instant. "I have two pet peeves, Officer, and you've managed to hit them both," I say, ducking under the tape to face him. "Ignorance with a mouth hole and a cop who stuffs too many doughnuts in said mouth hole and can't touch his toes let alone do his job justice."
"Bitch"
My lips curve. "Damn, I like that name.
Have a good day, Officer." I start walking, lifting my hand and wiggling my fingers in departure.
A man in a suit greets me, his detective badge hanging on his chest. "You're Lilah Love," he says.
I don't ask how he knows. "That's right."
"I'd say welcome, but there's nothing welcoming about today." He motions to an open apartment door. "We appreciate the feds loaning you to us today. I'm Detective Smith." He shakes my hand.
"Happy to help," I say.
He grimaces. "I doubt you'll say that after you see the scene." He motions to the apartment next to us. "Suit up in there.
You need to be in hazmat gear."
This is a first. "Hazmat? Why?"
"You'll know when you get there." He turns and walks away.
I grimace and enter the apartment, to be greeted by a guy in jeans and a T-shirt with red hair who looks me up and down.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Lilah Love," I say. "I'm supposed to suit
иp."
"Lilah Love," he repeats. "Who wanted you to grow up and be a stripper?"
=
"That joke is about as original as a teenage boy thinking a green M&M makes him horny."
Great. He doesn't know that common teen joke. I really hate when no one but me gets my jokes. "No. They make you happy. And fat if you eat too many. Just like how bad jokes make you stupid."
His extremely thick brows twist into a furry glower. "I have no idea what the hell you're talking about." He reaches to a rack just behind him, grabs a hazmat suit, and shoves it at me. "Put it on. Don't worry.
You can leave your clothes on." He wiggles a brow. "Unless you don't want to."
I give him a deadpan stare. "You're so funny," I say, my tone intentionally flat.
"And horny, sweetheart," he says, tossing rubber boots next to me. "Those really get me hot."Pretty sure I'm losing brain cells every moment I participate in this conversation, and desperate to save the ones I have left, I give him my back and step into the all-white suit. Once I'm covered up to my shoulders, I zip up and leave the hood and mask dangling. I then pull a pair of rubber boots over the tops of my black Converses, their color masking the dirt from numerous sandy crime scene visits. The choice of brand masks my normal penchant for Louis Vuitton in all forms, including sneakers. Feet covered, I ignore the redheaded asshole and walk outside, immediately heading toward the crowd.
Detective Smith greets me with a command. "Hood and mask on. And good luck." He steps aside and clears a path that leads me to a tarp walling off an investigative area and another apartment. I start moving again, and there is the clawing sense of dread in my belly that is always there just before I see a body, those moments before death whispers my name.
And it does. Every day and every night.
Blood rushes in my ears. Adrenaline pours through me. I pause and pull my hood and mask into place. Another few steps, and I barely register the moment I pass through the opening in the tarp, or the moment when I see the plastic sheets on the floor covered in bloody footsteps that warn of what is waiting on me at the actual murder scene. Or even the cop by the door who mouths, "Good luck," before motioning me forward.
I step into the room, liquid sloshing at my feet. Everything slows down then, and my tunnel vision forms. My feet are plopping into a pool of red, so much red. My gaze swims past my feet to search for the body that isn't there, catching on another person in a suit that points upward. I look to the ceiling, and my throat goes dry.
There is a body anchored there, and it's not in one piece. The limbs are detached and reconnected in odd places: the leg's where the arms should be. The hands where the feet should be. The arms where the legs should be.
My gaze jerks back down to the blood that has started to congeal around my boots, and suddenly the room is spinning and my stomach is knotted. I rush for the door and exit, walking as fast as the tarp allows, and then turning and leaning against the walled area behind it. My knees go' and I sink low, pulling away the fa = k
I'm wearing and gasping for air, my lushes lowering.
"You okay?"
I blink and open my eyes to find a man squatting in front of me. "Fine," I say. "I'm fine. I'm going back in."
"Everyone who's gone in has come out just like this," he promises. "Take a minute to catch your breath."
"I will. Thank you."
"I'm Rich," he says, giving me this Ken-doll smile that reaches his pretty-boy blue eyes.
"I'm here if you need me." He's coddling me. I do not need to be coddled.
"Yeah, well, fuck you," I say, pushing to my feet. "I don't need to breathe, and I don't need you." I pull my mask back into nlace and charge for the door.
Everything goes blank then. Everything is just black space until I am suddenly in another memory. I'm in the Hamptons.
I'm at a fancy restaurant with him. He's staring at me with those damn brown eyes. He reaches up and touches my face, then my leg. I was young and foolish. He was older and not even close to foolish.
I shove aside the memory and I'm immediately on that beach, that hellish night again, and he is there. I am trembling all over, blood at my feet, all over my body. "Go inside," he orders.
"Take a shower."
"No," I say. "No, I-"
He grabs my arms. "Go the fuck inside. Do as I say."
"No, damn it. No!"
"Miss Love. Miss Love!"
I blink and sit up, realizing Texas is leaning across the seat and grabbing my arm, looking quite mortified. "Oh God," I murmur. "Did I scream out?"
"Yes," Texas confirms. "Quite loudly."
"Fuck me," I gush out and then hold up a hand. "I mean. Sorry about that. Are we about to take off?"
"We're about to land. You slept through the flight," she gives me a disapproving look and moves away.
I shift in my seat, and the file falls to the ground, the contents spilling out. Bending over, I reach for it, stuffing the contents back inside, and the tattoo photo cat-hes my eye. I stare down at it and flas
to me lying on that beach
with my attacker on top of me, my gaze on his arm etched with the Virgin Mary, blood dripping from her mouth. I never knew who he was or why he came for me. I'd run instead, but I can't run now, and I don't want to, anyway. I have a killer to catch. One that seems to have more than one connection to me and my past.
Chapter 3
Once I'm on the ground in New York, I check my messages, which include details on the chopper service I need to locate to get to the Hamptons. Clearly, Director Murphy's really damn eager to spend the money on this chopper service, and the more I think about that, the more uneasy I am with his willingness to spend $600 to speed up my progress into the Hamptons.
What does he know that he hasn't told me? I dial Murphy's number as I head to the cab line to make my way to the private airstrip that will be my lift-off location, the call going straight to voicemail. Grimacing, I end the call, climb into the cab, and tab through my messages, deleting not one but three recordings from Rich, and I do so without guilt. He's a good guy and I absolutely uck at being good to him. He needs to late me and I need to make sure he does ooner than later. Why the hell doesn't he already?
An hour later, I'm on a chopper, flying over Long Island, and my mind tracks back to the bloody scene in LA that I'd remembered on the plane. And I know exactly why my mind had taken me there. It wasn't about escaping my past, or finding Rich that day, or rather him finding me. It was about how that day had led to me finding my zone, a place in my mind that I enter where blood and death are not real. I call it "Otherland," and when I mentally step into that world, I don't feel anything. I just process. I just profile. It's sanity. It's peace. It's survival.
And on that plane, my mind was telling me to make the Hamptons a part of my Otherland. A comical idea really, onsidering the Hamptons is an therland in and of itself. An alternate universe, where the rich and famous live the high life and shun those who don't meet preordained standards that are known but not spoken. A univers once owned me, controlled me. Ai can't let that happen again. I can, and will, survive by making this trip a visit to one of my Otherland crime scenes, not a visit home.
Easier said than done, I decide as we approach the village of Wainscott, flying over the now-shadowy silhouette of the graveyard where my mother is buried, and a million memories-good and bad— erupt inside me. By the time the pilot sets us on the tarmac, I've wrestled them into submission, but I just want off this bird and out of this airport. I exit the chopper, grab the small bag I've brought with me, and head across the tarmac. My plan is to pick up my rental car and get to the cottage in Sag Harbor that I've booked for he night. Once I'm there, safely out of my amily's direct line of fire, I'll try to ecover the evening off the radar of everyone involved in this case, which I'd planned to do before Director Murphy announced my visit. I'll let the local officials know I'm here, I'm tired, and I'll see them tomorrow. And then I'll dig around before anyone has real eyes on me.
It's a good plan that goes bad in all of two steps inside the terminal when I find a tall, lanky police officer holding a sign with my name on it. And since I know the police chief's territorial nature, I'm not mistaking this greeting as a welcome, but rather as his establishment of his control.
Crossing to the man, I stop in front of him. "I'm here," I say. "I'm Lilah. Who are you?"
Officer Rogers. Shirley Rogers."
blink. "Your name is Shirley?"
"Yes, ma'am. Named after my father. He was a 9/11 hero.""Oh," I say. "That certainly makes Shirley a marvelously unique name. Thank your father for his service."
"He's dead," he blurts out awkwardly.
"Well then," I say again. "Thank you and your family for his service. And tell your chief I'm here in the flesh and that I'll see him in the morning." I start walking toward the rental car booth.
"Ms. Love. Wait. Please." He catches up with me as my cell rings. I reach for it while he attempts what he doesn't understand as of yet to be a destiny of futile communication. "Ms. Love-"
I'm renting a car," I say, cutting him off nd pulling my phone from my bag and noting Murphy's number. "I don't need a ride." I walk up to the rental car counter.
"Lilah Love," I say, answering my call and bypassing "hello."I add, "I'm at the airport." I slide my ID onto the counter in front of a tall, dark-haired female I thankfully don't know, when I know most everyone on the east side of the Hamptons.
"Good thing," Murphy says approvingly,
"because you have a gift waiting on you.
A dead body that fits our killer's MO."
"What?" I say, accepting a form from the attendant, who seems unfazed by my conversation with someone other than her. "Are you sure?"
Just got word from the chief, who's in outhampton for a meeting of some sort. by the way, he sent a man to pick you up.""He's here," I say, my mind chasing this new development while he's already moving on. "What did you tell the locals about my investigation?"
"You mean your brother?"
Smart-ass. "Yes," I say. "Him."
"When it became clear you'd told him nothing, I kept it vague. He believes you have a loose link to a series of murders you're investigating. I'll leave the rest to you, but I need to be kept abreast of the tone you're keeping."
Understood."
And I don't know about you, but I find it odd that this body shows up right when you get there."
"Yes," I say, already thinking the same
thing. "I have to agree."
"Either someone left you a gift," he adds,
"or someone knew you were coming and did an emergency silencing. In which case they have access to your inner circle, be it professional or personal. And with either conclusion, you're the common denominator. Clearly, someone thinks you're a threat. What haven't you told me, Agent Love?"
"Nothing," I say, and it's the truth, at least as I know it in relation to this case and my job. "But I'm going to find out."
"Do that," he orders. "And watch your back." He ends the call.
refocus on the rental car agent before I urn and exit the line to find Shirley waiting on me. "Why didn't you tell me there was a dead body?"
"I tried."
"Try harder next time. What's the address?"
"Montauk," he says.
"I need an address."
He grabs his phone from his pocket and recites the street and zip code.
"Who owns the property and who lives at the property?" I ask, knowing that area to be laden with seasonal rentals.
"I don't know."
Find out," I say, motioning to his phone.
Put my number in your address book nd text me when you know." He does as ordered, and I hold up my rental key. "I'll meet you at the crime scene."
I turn away and start walking, ker =
my head low to avoid chance enco. that too easily happen in an airport
catering to rich fucks coming in and out of the city. Right now, I need to think.
Who knew I was coming? How do they connect to that tattoo and those murders?
Am I in danger? My answer is a resounding yes. I exit into the glow of streetlights and a starless, moonless night, finding my way to the parking lot where I locate my basic white rental, and that yes I've just given myself is still in my mind.
Exactly why I waste no time dropping my bag in the trunk and unzipping it. I then remove my shoulder holster and slip it on over my simple black T-shirt that matches my simple black jeans I've aired with my Converses. I then insert ny service weapon, a Glock 23, standard Bl issue, otherwise known as my best riend in this world, into the appropriate location, a message in my actions.
Whoever might be watching me, or even coming for me, needs to know that I have
a buddy on board who knows hou blow holes in nasty people.
I've just settled inside the car when my phone buzzes with a text from Shirley:
The devil-or prince-of the Hamptons depending on who you're talking to. And since it's me, he's the devil.
***
I pull the rental out of the airport and onto the highway, driving toward Montauk, a popular beach escape for tourists and a residence to many locals.
I'm on the road all of five minutes before
Shirley's squad car appears in my rearview mirror. I tune him out, focusing on the turn of events before me, namely just how accurate Director Murphy's conclusions were: this murder I'm about to investigate is either a "Welcome home" gift for me or at the very least a reaction to my visit. But what Murphy doesn't now is that I told no one I was coming. The only alerts about my arrival were given by him and most likely by way of law enforcement. I steer myself away from the obvious assumption that one of our own is dirty. I didn't announce my expected arrival for a reason: I'm an old-school local, the daughter of what some might call royalty in these parts. One word about my visit will travel like wildfire and reach a wide horizon and do so quickly, an idea that gives my brain plenty of fodder, beyond the murders, to play with for the rest of the drive.
Thirty minutes later, my drive has been filled with a dozen memories I could do without, all of which remind me why I don't do the holidays in the Hamptons.
Exactly why I welcome arriving at the crime scene, a white, wood-paneled cottage on a strip of beach with another alf a dozen homes sprinkled over a everal-mile radius, all with the rear side acing the water. I park at the first open spot behind a row of marked and unmarked vehicles. By the time I'm at my trunk, sliding my crime scene bag across my chest to rest at my hip and my badge over my head, Shirley pulls in behind me.
Irritated at his presence, despite the fact that I told him to meet me here, I shut the trunk and ignore him for one reason and one reason only: I know the chief well enough to bet my entire inheritance now rotting in the bank that Shirley is my babysitter. In other words, the chief has ensured the poor guy gets a good, firm spanking he probably won't deserve. But I'm still going to give it to him to get him the hell off my ass.
I hike toward the yellow tape, where Ned, one of the longtime local uniforms, is standing guard, still looking tall and fit lespite his graying hair. "Lilah Love," he reets me. "How you doing, little girl?""I'm not so little anymore, Ned," I say, lucking under the tape.
I've known you since you were in liapers. You're always a little girl to me, which is why I hate seeing ya here today, wading into the thick of a murder. But then, I guess it's in your blood, with your family history and all."
"Right," I say, the words in your blood grinding through me for about ten reasons he wouldn't understand, and my lips tighten around my agreement of,
"Yes. I suppose it is. I better get inside." I offer him my back and begin traveling a path up a sidewalk with one thing certain in my mind. Had I stayed here, I'd never have survived the "murder" that's in my blood. I reach the porch and show my ID to a iniformed man I don't know. A novelty n this town three years ago that I hope sn't a novelty at all now. Tourism has ncreased the population of the towns and hamlets known as the Hamptons, and perhaps I'm more a pebble in a pond than a rock on the shoreline now. One can only hope.
Climbing the steps, I walk into the house, pausing in the doorway to catalogue what I find. It's a large, open-plan living space with a half dozen men in various modes of attire, attending to investigative work. There are no signs of a struggle. No random smears or puddles of blood to wade through. There is, however, a naked female body lying on top of a coffee table, the centerpiece of the white tiled floor and brown leather furnishings. I walk that direction, wasting no time stepping to the table beside the body.
Beth Smith, the medical examiner, one of nany who work from the Hempstead nain office, is kneeling next to both, her slonde hair pulled back from her face.
But it's not her I'm focused on. It's on both the bullet hole between the victim's eyes and her red hair and freckles, which now divides our four victims in several distinct ways: two males and two females. One is Mexican and three are white. "Are there any tattoos on the body?" I ask, removing a pair of gloves from the bag at my hip and pulling them on.
Beth glances up at me, her stare blank a moment, her attention clearly still on the crime scene, until recognition and awareness flood her face. "Lilah Love," she says, her lips curving. "FBI agent by day. Stripper by night."I laugh at her use of my familiar, combative reply to those who love to taunt me as I squat down to her eye level.
Beth Smith," I say. "Newly crowned nedical examiner by day, and-"
"Alone by night," she supplies. "Playing with dead bodies isn't a great way to get dates. And in answer to your question: no tattoos—at least, none that I've located thus far." She narrows her eyes on me.
"Why are you in on this one? What don't I know?"
"I'll let you know when I know," I say, reminded of Director Murphy pushing me to take that chopper and get here sooner rather than later, which leads me to a critical question. "What's the time of death?"
"I'm officially marking it down as six o'clock, which is three hours ago.""Broad daylight," I note. "Any signs of a struggle?"
None," she states. "The kill was clean nd fast." She indicates the bullet hole between the victim's eyes. "One bullet.
One moment in time that she was alive, and the next, she simply was not."
"Was she naked when she was killed or stripped afterward?"
"Based on the condition and position of the body, before," she says.
"Did we locate her clothes?"
"My understanding is that Sergeant Rivera is looking for them."
"Eddie Rivera?" I question, wishing like hell I didn't have to. "He's a sergeant now?"
And reminding us daily for about three nonths now."
"Of course he is," I say dryly. "And he's leading this case?"
"Yes. He is."
At the sound of the familiar male voice, I clamp my jaw, turn on my heel, and stand to face the man in question, his brown hair buzzed short. His brown suit is well pressed, a symptom of his anal-retentive disorder that, while effective on duty, makes him a pompous pain in the ass the rest of the time. "Congrats on your promotion to sergeant," I greet him. "I'd be happy for you, but you were an arrogant ass before the promotion. You must be an unbearable arrogant ass now."
I am," he agrees, his blue eyes lighting in hallenge, the way they often had at the many family dinners he'd attended at my father's request. "But you like arrogant asses, so I'm in luck."
"Right," I say dryly, and because I've learned not to pull punches, I throw one instead. "Good to see your opinion of yourself hasn't suffered over the years." And having no desire to play verbal dominoes with a man who has always had a sick desire to both fuck me and become the second son my father never had, I move on. "Did you find our victim's clothes?"
His lips tighten. "Why is the FBI on my crime scene, asking questions?"Because we're about to take jurisdiction, asshole, I think, but I say, "Ask the chief.
He requested my presence. Did we find he clothes?"
No."
"Have we ID'd the victim?"
"Her name is Cynthia Wright. Twenty-eight. A lawyer who leased the property six months ago and works for her landlord."
"Kane Mendez," I say.
"Yes," he confirms. "Kane Mendez."
"Excuse me," an officer calls from the doorway, drawing both my and Rivera's attention before adding, "Kane Mendez is here to see you."At the announcement, adrenaline surges through me.
I'm sure he is," says Rivera. "Tell him I'll
'e right there."
"Sorry, Sergeant. It's Agent Love he wishes to speak to."
Rivera raises a brow at me. "He wants to speak to you. Why does that not surprise me?"
"I'm sure there's not much that surprises you," I reply dryly, keeping a cool exterior while my heart is about to explode from my chest. "Is there anything I need to know before I speak to him?"
"Don't fuck him and compromise my case, or I'll have your badge." He turns and walks away. God, how I love being back home, but hey. Maybe I should change my strategy. nstead of waiting until tomorrow for the lappy reunions, I'll kick over the entire ucket tonight. I head for the door and exit into an ocean-chilled wind that is now just as chilly as this meeting will be if I do my job right. I start down the steps and make it to the sidewalk when Shirley steps to my side, matching my pace.
"Why are you beside me, Officer Rogers, in my personal space?"
"The chief said-"
I stop walking and turn to him. "My brother said," I amend.
"He's my boss, Agent Love. I'm just doing what I've been ordered to do."
"Which is what exactly?"
His face reddens and irritation rolls through me, but not at him. At me. I know his orders without being told. I'm talling, avoiding, hiding from Kane-ucking-Mendez. Officer Rogers mumbles omething to me, and I tune it out, clamping down on the rush of adrenaline pouring through me and willing myself to calm the hell down. I start moving again.
Officer Rogers is slow to join me, but I give him credit for having the balls to stay the course despite my obvious displeasure. He does have orders. He does have a job to do. Just like I have a foot to insert in an ass that rightfully should be my brother's, not his. There is good news to this little distraction I've created, though. I've kicked my own ass in the process, finding my zone and readying myself for the cat-and-mouse game Kane Mendez will try. And I won't be the damn cat if he has his way.
Tearing the end of the sidewalk, I glance it Officer Rogers. "Where's Mendez?"
"Parked on the road across from your car."
"Stay here," I order and don't wait for his compliance. I start walking and to his credit, he has the common sense to listen.
He stays behind the way common sense says I should have fought to stay in Los Angeles and even welcome Rivera pushing me aside. But there are too many links between me, a secret I need to ensure stays buried, and these murders for me to ignore. And one of those links is Kane Mendez.
Ready to get this homecoming with Kane behind me, I follow a line of four vehicles in my path, mine being the fifth. I cut between my front bumper and the rear of a pickup, and I stop dead in my tracks when I bring Kane into view. As expected, he's parked his sporty black Mercedes on the opposite side of the road, across from my rental, letting me know that he knows it's mine. He doesn't see me, and I watch him, assess him, and take in the sight of him in his suit, gray and custom-fitted to his long, leanly muscled body. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, and he has one foot over the other. Cool. Casual. Seemingly relaxed, but there is an air of a predator to him—a beast waiting for dinner, waiting for me. Or so he thinks. It's my job to make sure he knows dinner is not served. His attention shifts in my direction as if he senses me watching him, and that's when I feel the punch in my chest, the familiar awareness for this man that I don't want to feel. Emotions explode inside me, ones that I refuse to name and fiercely reject. He's a tall drink of poison that I've already swallowed and felt the repercussions from. I'm not stupid enough to take another drink. And me standing here, staring at him, is a blink he could read in a million ways that 1 can't afford for him to read.
I start walking, and his eyes, I know to be intelligent and so dark brown they are nearly black, track my every step. He's watching me the way he's always watched me, the way he watches everyone. Like they're all that matters. Like he cares about nothing else. It's the way he seduces people. It's the way he destroys people, but everyone who destroys eventually gets destroyed, as proven by the murder of his father. I don't walk quickly. I walk slowly, steadily, and completely calculated. I don't let myself feel anything. Finally, then, I stop in front of him, close enough to say I'm fearless, but far enough to stay out of his reach, to ensure he doesn't touch me.
I expect him to push off the vehicle, to tower over me and attempt to intimidate me, but he doesn't. "Agent Love," he greets me, his voice refined, the smallest hint of an accent to his words. "Still in the murder business, I see."
"I hear the same might be true of you.""If you're inferring that I'm my father's son," he says, "you of all people know that's not true."
"Isn't it?"
"I'm not him any more than you are your father."
"Why are you here, Kane?"
"You know why I'm here."
"Because your tenant, and employee, is dead," I state.
"That's not why I'm here."
He's here for me. I pretend he's not.
"What can you tell me about-""Nothing," he says. "I don't know her. My leasing agent handles my property management."
"She's an attorney at your company."
"Who I've never met."
"You know I'll find out if you're lying."
His lips quirk. "Of course you will, Agent Love, but I have never lied to you. I'm not going to start now."
"You just don't tell me what you don't want me to know." It's a reference to the past, to my secret, our secret, that's out before I can stop it, and I swallow the dryness in my throat.
He knows it, too, of course, and his eyes narrow, darkening. "Ask a question if you want an answer, Lilah."
Lilah. Not Agent Love, but Lilah. And again, here we are talking about the past, not the present, and it has to stop. Now.
This moment. "How did you know to come here tonight?"
"How did I know you were here or how did I know there was a murder?"
"Both."
"The police contacted my real estate agent, who called me about the murder," he says. "And I always know where you are."
"That's fucking creepy, Kane.""Creepy?" He laughs. "You do have a way with words, Lilah." He pauses, his mood shifting, darkening, something in his face I can't quite read before he says, "This is where you belong, Lilah Love. You've been gone too long."
"This is not where I belong."
"Isn't it?"
"No. It's not. And right now, I have a murder to solve, Kane. I need the contact information for your real estate agent."
He reaches into his pocket and produces a card, which he holds up and then offers me. I stare at it, aware that if I take it, he'll touch me. "I don't bite unless you tell me to bite, beautiful. You know that."
I reach forward and take the card, but he catches my hand, and a charge rolls up my arm, but his words, and his eyes staring into mine, are what hold on to me. "I handled it. Let it go." He releases me, and I cut my gaze, shoving the card into my pocket, my hand trembling when my hand never fucking trembles.
"Where were you this afternoon?"
"In my office."
"Which, I assume, can be corroborated by half your staff."
"And a camera."
"Of course. A camera. Don't leave town until we're done questioning you."
"You're here. I'm not going anywhere."
I force myself to look at him. "I'll be in touch."
I turn away and start walking, feeling the weight of his stare, and just when I'm about to disappear between the vehicles again, he calls out, "You still have a nice ass."
I cup my hand behind me and shoot him my middle finger. He laughs, a low, deep, taunting laugh that fades into the wind, even though he refuses to fade out of my life. I quicken my pace, placing much-desired space between him and me, and finding Shirley waiting on me at the gate.
Ignoring him in hope of avoiding conversation, I pass him by, step onto the sidewalk, and charge toward the porch.
"I heard you used to date him," Shirley says, falling into step with me. "And they called you Marilyn and Pacino, you know, because Kane was born into a crime family and your mother was a famous actress who once played Marilyn Monroe and was married to the mayor. And then your mother was killed and-"
"Bringing up my dead mother is in very bad taste," I say, stopping to face him, his face reddening in response, but I'm not done teaching him a lesson. "And since you seem to be getting fed gossip on me, let me just give it all to you. Did you know I slept with Keanu Reeves, too?"
"You did? Was it the Matrix Keanu or the older John Wick Keanu?"
I never have time to watch movies and have no idea what he means by John Wick, but I just go with it. "Both," I say,
"but the John Wick version was older.
Wiser. Better in bed."
He holds up his hands. "That's more information than I needed to know."
"You're right. It is. That's my point. Holy fuck, Shirley. You aren't from here, are you?"
He blanches, looking quite confused. "No.
Connecticut. How did you know?"
"Because gossip is an outsider's fodder.
And if you believe I slept with Keanu Reeves, or Kane Mendez, with nothing to back it up but words, you will never be anything but someone else's babysitter."
I give him my back and climb the stairs back into the house. Rivera is waiting for me in the doorway, one shoulder on the doorframe, one laced-up loafer over the other, his eyes cold and calculating.
"What'd you find out?"
"Nothing. Not one damn thing." I try to walk around him.
He steps in front of me. "I don't believe you."He's close, his spicy, overused cologne misplaced at a crime scene and irritating my nostrils. "Step aside, Rivera."
"You're done here.""On what grounds?"
Seconds tick by, his eyes glinting with a mixture of hate and lust that, while familiar, never becomes tolerable."On what grounds, Sergeant Rivera?" I repeat.
"Conflict of interest."
"What conflict of interest?" I press.
"Mendez."Did you hear me?" he demands. "I want you off my case. When your director finds out you fucked Mendez-""I heard you," I say. "You want me off your case." Maybe a little too much, I think, before adding, "We'll leave it to the powers that be to decide."
I turn and start walking, but I'm not going anywhere. Kane's right. I do belong here, at least for now and until I figure out what this all has to do with me, before someone else does first.
I climb into my rental and dial Director Murphy, who answers the call this time.
"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," Murphy 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."
M
"I will," I assure him. "But you should know that Rivera wants me off the case.
He's going to be a problem, but I'll handle it."
"If you need me to-»
"I don't. This was just an FYI."
"Noted. Check in tomorrow." He ends the call and I start the engine, but I pause as Kane's words come back to me: I handled it. Let it go.
I'm suddenly not sure whether he was talking about the past and my secret, or the present and tonight's murder. I pull onto the highway with one thought: my secret has secrets. It's that thought that directs my path. I start driving and instead of ending up at the cottage I rented, I find myself in the garage of the beach house I inherited from my mother, while my father maintains what he calls the "Master House." I never really understood why we had two homes only miles from each other, but I always suspected my mother kept this house to get some much-needed space from my father. Although he tended to follow her, so I'm not certain it worked. Whatever the case, it became my getaway after I left Cornell to recover from her death.
And then later it became a weekend getaway from the city when I decided two years of law school was enough and joined the NYPD.
This is also the place.
This is where the man with the tattoo attacked me. Where a strange turn took place that I can't explain. Something beyond self-defense. Something that now defines who I am. Or maybe it defines who I always was and didn't dare admit, even to myself.
Whatever the case, if the man from that night is connected to these murders, and I believe he is, then this is where I will find answers and how I will catch a killer.
And you don't catch a killer by hiding from him. You catch him by getting to know him.
Killing the engine, I don't give myself time to replay the past. I open the door, grab my bag, walk straight to the entrance, key in my security code, and then dial the security service, giving them a password and letting them know that the house is occupied. Entering the kitchen, I flip on the light, illuminating whitewashed cabinets, then pull my bag over my head and toss it on the granite island. My gun I keep, but I don't scan the house. I don't even see the house. Not now. I can't see anything right now but the past. I need to face my fears, and I walk across the tiled floors and go straight to the patio, shoving the curtain aside to open the door, then walking outside, shutting it behind me. A chilly breeze gushes off the ocean, and my stomach knots. But I'm doing this. I'm going to the beach. I'm going to that spot where it all happened. I start walking.
And walking. And then running. I run as hard as I can until I'm standing in the place where it all happened. I inhale the salty sea air and hold my hands out, letting my face reach to the sky, the full moon seeming to cast a light on my guilt.
Images flicker in my head but refuse to take form. I'm back in my recurring nightmare, but I'm awake. I look down and blood is pooling at my feet. So much blood. Too much blood. I blink and it's gone. Now, there is just sand. I sit down. I inhale and then lie back, stretching my arms and hands to my sides, willing the memory of the past to come to me. In it I will find answers, and I realize now that's what I need. Real answers. But nothing comes to me. I lie there, and lie there some more, and after all the times the past has haunted me, it eludes me now. I don't know how long I stay there, but finally, I force myself to give up. I stand, scanning the ocean, expecting it to turn to blood, but it simply crashes to the shore.
I turn to the house and take a step, then stop abruptly, a shadow flickering by the house. A shiver runs down my spine.
There it is again. Another shadow.
Someone is there. It's then that I flash back to being on this very sand with that tattooed man on top of me. Then that 1 remember Kane grabbing my arms and saying, "I'll take care of it." And I let him, and did so without asking questions, until it was too late to change the outcome.
Because I was weak that night, and he was strong. But I am not weak anymore.
I pull my weapon and start running for the house, wind in my hair and face, my heart thundering in my ears, and I don't stop until I'm staring at the blood splattered all over the patio glass, some kind of note pinned in the center. Adrenaline surges through me, but I am in my Otherworld now. I retain my cool. I walk to the patio door, using the end of my shirt to open the door, and then I systematically search every inch of the house. When I know I'm alone, I walk to my bag, pull on gloves, and then walk back outside, yanking the note off the door. Returning back inside, I lock the door and pull the blinds, and then I open the note. At the top is the alphabet, pasted in paper letters, with an X across the letter A. The note reads:
A is for the Apple a day that keeps the doctor away. But a doctor couldn't help him, could he?
I KNOW.