Murder Girl (Lilah Love Book 2) Page 10

  “Except for the other night,” I say to Greg. And then to her, “What are you doing here?”

  “Your brother likes the strawberry pie. It’s famous here, you know.”

  Greg chooses that moment to touch my shoulder and motion toward the door. “I’ll call you,” he says and turns away.

  “Wait,” I call after him, not even close to done with the bombshell or ten I’m thinking he has going on right now, but he’s already disappeared behind several big bodies.

  I take a step, but Samantha maneuvers in front of me. “I know you don’t believe this, Lilah,” she says, “but this thing with Andrew and me is real.”

  “This thing,” I repeat. “Well yes, Samantha. Everyone you fuck is a real fuck. I guess it’s extraspecial, though, when you buy pie instead of cigarettes afterward. Enjoy the pie. We both know it won’t last.” I step around her and find a clear path to the door, quickly exiting the diner. Pausing just outside, I scan for Greg but realize now that he was a subway rider in NYC. I don’t even know what kind of car he’s driving.

  Cutting left and then around the corner, I find most of the cars now gone, no sign of Greg, and my car in view. I hurry in that direction, and as I approach, I spy the white piece of paper flapping in a gentle breeze. Samantha, I think. Someone must have spotted her, and she needed an excuse for being here, one I myself would validate, thus the strawberry pie.

  I stop at the car and pull the note that actually seems to be on a napkin, which is new for Junior, from the windshield. Flipping it open, I read:

  Strawberry pie, my ass. WTF was that all about?

  Dinner. Soon. —Greg

  He’s right. Strawberry pie, my ass, especially since my brother hates all things strawberry. That encounter felt very stalkerlike, very Juniorlike, and yet it was Greg who left me a note on the car. Which leaves me with only one clear-cut conclusion: I can’t ever eat strawberry pie again without thinking about Samantha, which means she’s ruined it for me forever. And with a killer and Junior on the loose, if that’s all I’ve got right now, I’m in trouble.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I don’t know why Samantha showed up and disrupted my personal space. Though unlikely, maybe she really is Junior. Maybe she hired someone to be Junior. Maybe she’s just a crazy, whacked-out bitch who is obsessed with everything me for God knows why. I’m sure as hell not. Or maybe she is part of a bigger picture, a minion of Pocher who spies on Kane and tries to control my family from the inside out. That means keeping an eye on me. Or I’m back to that maybe she really is just a whacked-out bitch. Whatever the case, I start my car with no intention of lingering to watch Samantha exit with a pie my brother won’t eat. I’m not even going to ask him about it because come on. She’ll take it to him to cover her story. She’ll flash her boobs and pretend she thought he wanted it. And he’s so balls to the wall for that woman, he might even eat it. What the fuck has happened to my brother?

  I back out of my parking spot, driving toward the exit, where I glance at the short handwritten sign on the curb that reads OUR STRAWBERRY PIE IS FAMOUS. Those were Samantha’s inspired words, an advertisement she latched on to when she had nothing better to say. I’d dismiss that if I wasn’t concerned she was going to cut my brother’s heart into pieces after dragging him into corruption. For now, though, I set that problem aside and scan for the familiar and unfamiliar, for those who are following, of which there are at least two: Kane’s person and the doughnut-chasing fool. Hell, maybe the assassin is watching me, too, and this is one big fucking Lilah Love porn show, only with clothes. I’ve never liked being the show. I like ending it, and that’s what I have to do now. I need to find answers before another dead body shows up and I end up being pulled back to LA, powerless to end this once and for all.

  I pull onto the main road, and while I see no one in my rearview mirror, I still believe that Laney saw too much and that got her killed. And since dead bodies are the only clue I have right now, and they aren’t exactly talking to me, I decide to go to the one man who might actually have something to say: Laney’s brother. He’d had influence over her. He’d known things, and at one point I’d thought he’d help me. Then he clammed up, and that didn’t change when Laney ended up dead. I need to have another talk with him, and this time, I’m not leaving without answers.

  That said, the last I knew, Laney’s brother was in Westbury, Long Island, which is two hours away, and not a drive I want to take without a plan. I pull up to a stoplight and dial a guy I know from high school who is now at the DMV here in New York. We dated one time, way back then, and somehow, we don’t hate each other. “Nicolas,” I say when he answers, scanning my rearview for followers that still haven’t appeared.

  “Lilah-fucking-Love.”

  “I need stuff,” I say.

  He lets out a bark of laughter. “Believe it or not, I miss hearing that. Are you here?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you owe me dinner, remember? You said if I helped you again—”

  “That I’d buy you a slice of pizza. That’s not dinner.”

  “Steak. It was a steak, but what do you need?”

  “An address for a Rick Suthers. Should be in Westbury.”

  The keyboard clicks and my light turns green. “345 Plainview Drive,” he says as I accelerate and pull away from the light.

  “Got it,” I say. “That’s what I remembered.”

  “When do I get that steak?”

  “Pizza,” I say, “and it’s coming.” I hang up and note the black sedan that pulls in behind me several blocks back. My very special doughnut-loving stalker. In response, I turn right and into town when I’d planned to turn left toward the highway. And since it’s obvious that this investigation ties to my attack, I’m done fighting Kane’s role in this investigation, which is why I dial him now.

  “Yes, beautiful?” he answers.

  “My tail is back. I need the license plate number. Have your guy text it to me.”

  “I’ll text it to you,” he says, not even bothering to deny he has someone following me. Neither of us is big on games.

  “Whatever,” I say. “I just need it. And I need the tail to go away without ending up dead or hurt. I’m following up on a lead, and I don’t need it to get back to the wrong people.”

  “Where and what lead?”

  “If your Lilah stalker is good, he or she will find me. Just make sure they’re the only one that does.” I hang up. He calls back. I don’t answer.

  I turn my car down a country road that I know will lead me back to the main highway. Whoever is tailing me will expect me to exit at a certain location a few miles away. Instead, I do a U-turn, pull to the side of the road, and wait, planning to exit the way I came from. My phone beeps with a text. I glance at the screen and, to no surprise, discover Kane is my messenger.

  What the fuck happened to ‘being in this together’?

  I think he might need some clarification on what “being in this together” means to me, and feeling generous, I give him some: If you can keep up, I type, you’re in this with me.

  You doubt me? is his instant reply.

  I snort and type: What do you think?

  No, he replies. You don’t doubt me. But you think it would be easier if you did.

  I grimace. He’s right. It would be easier to doubt him because as an FBI agent, that’s what I’m supposed to do. Doubt people like Kane. And I do. Everyone but Kane. Which is why I don’t reply. And it’s also why I know that my doughnut-loving stalker will be handled. This is Kane. He’s good at being bad. I glance at the clock and count down five minutes. On the fifth, another text message beeps, and I glance at the screen to read Kane’s newest message: Your rogue stalker is detoured. And don’t fret, beautiful. He’s alive, unharmed, but most likely irritated. License plate number AXL-285 New York.

  I don’t reply. I don’t ask details. I dial Nicolas again on speaker. “I need stuff,” I say, even as I pull back onto the road.

  “When y
ou’re back, you’re back. Hit me with it.”

  I give him the plate number. Listen to his keys clacking before he says, “Martin Walker. Albany, New York. Eighty-nine years old. Sounds stolen to me.”

  “Got it. Expect something from me tomorrow.”

  “Do I even want to know what that means?”

  “It’s from me. You know it’s wonderful.”

  “You mean I know it’s fucked up.”

  “Maybe,” I say, laughing and hanging up with a mental note to order the man a stripper and a steak lunch.

  I pull to a stop sign and glance right and left, looking for trouble and finding none, though I know Kane’s person is nearby but obviously damn good at hiding. Cutting right, I reenter the main road and take it slow and easy through town until I hit the highway. While watching my mirrors, I formulate a plan that ensures no one, not even my invisible stalkers, knows my next move. I need cover, a place to disappear.

  I dial my pal Beth at the medical examiner’s office in Suffolk County, which just happens to be a short drive to Suthers’s work and home. “Lilah Love,” she greets.

  “I’m headed in your direction,” I say. “Can we meet?”

  “Why? What’s happening?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “Why? What’s happening?” she says again as if I haven’t spoken.

  “Seriously, Beth. I just want to catch up.”

  “Okay. I give up. Of course, we both know this is about the murders you’re investigating and the body I autopsied, but you’ll admit that when you get here. When do you want to meet and where?”

  I glance at the clock to read one o’clock. “Three thirty and I’ll come to the medical examiner’s office.”

  “I’ll see you then,” she says before ending the call.

  And yes. She will see me and so will everyone else, which is my plan.

  I arrive at the eighty-five-thousand-square-foot Suffolk County medical examiner’s office fifteen minutes early and park at the front of the building. I’m just about to open the car door and exit when my cell phone rings. “Yes, brother of mine,” I answer.

  “We have a problem.”

  “We? As in you and me? Because it can’t be just one. For starters—”

  “Lilah,” he bites out.

  “Yes, Andrew?” I ask sweetly.

  “A Detective Moser from the NYPD was just here with an NYC FBI agent named Smart.”

  “Really?” I ask, aware that this is the power play Murphy expected. “How’d that go for you?”

  “I told you to get your ass here and close this case. They’re on their way to Kane’s office to talk to him.”

  That earns my laughter. “Really? They think that’s going to work for them, do they?”

  “What part of this are you not getting? They’re going to claim jurisdiction based on him, and we’re all fucked. There’s no telling where this will lead and what kind of press will follow.”

  He’s pissed and obviously distressed, which means that either the FBI in NYC isn’t in bed with Pocher and helping my father, or my brother just doesn’t know, and therefore isn’t as dirty as I’d feared. “There’s no evidence against Kane,” I assure him. “None. And showing up at his office is going to make them an enemy they can’t beat.”

  “You really think they can’t beat him?” he demands, his tone incredulous.

  “You really think they haven’t tried before now? Relax. The only one you have to battle for jurisdiction is me. Just stay away from the flame. Let them burn themselves. Did you get that information over to Murphy?”

  “I got it to him, and we both know how that looks. We need to have a sit-down. Where the hell are you?”

  “The medical examiner’s office in Long Island.”

  “Why the hell are you there?”

  “Murphy wants me to make my case, just like you have to make yours.”

  “I could say about ten things about your case and what you’re doing right now, but I won’t. Just get your ass back here.”

  “Okay,” I say before ending the call, and my agreement stems from one place: I do plan to get my ass back there. When I’m ready.

  Right now, though, I’m working on my communication skills. I dial Murphy. “Agent Love,” he greets, because he’s really the only person who doesn’t greet me as Agent-fucking-Love.

  “The NYC FBI is headed to Kane’s office to question him.”

  “And?”

  “And … I’m just doing that communication thing you seem to love.”

  “And you want to do what in response?”

  “Depends. What’s your position on Woods’s guilt?”

  “There is no proof that Woods is guilty, and before you ask, I’ve stated our intent to claim jurisdiction to my counterpart in NYC. He requested that we hold, and I moved my request to a higher level that’s waiting on approval. That said, how likely is it Kane goes down tonight or connects himself to the murders?”

  “Zero.”

  “All right. You’re confident. I’ll run with that. How will Kane respond to an FBI probe?”

  “A probe done professionally is one thing. He won’t be humiliated at his office and do nothing.”

  “That’s what they’re counting on. That he lashes out or makes a move they can use to burn him.”

  “The man has a degree from Yale and graduated top of his class. He’s not stupid. He’ll defend his reputation, but he won’t give them leverage against him, which means he won’t be their excuse for pushing us out.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I’d bet your firstborn,” I say.

  “My firstborn?”

  “People like me don’t have kids. When can I expect an answer on jurisdiction?”

  “Tomorrow, if you’re right on Kane.”

  “I am.”

  “You better be.”

  He hangs up, and I don’t even consider calling Kane. He can handle himself, and besides: a surprised Kane is a pissed Kane. I have a crazy kind of kinky attraction to the pissed-off Kane that always does me right when it does everyone else wrong. Sometimes I think that’s a problem. This isn’t one of those times. This isn’t going to work out badly for me. It will for them. And that means we get to catch a real killer, not blame an innocent dead man.

  With that certainty and my field bag on my shoulder, I exit the car and head toward the medical examiner’s building. Once I’m inside the lobby, I announce myself to the receptionist. She buzzes Beth, and it’s two minutes at the most before Beth appears in the lobby, her black pantsuit accented with a hot-pink silk blouse. Her blonde hair tied at her nape.

  “There’s a coffee shop on the second level,” she greets as we move to the rear of the lobby.

  “Actually,” I say, “I need a place to join a conference call that’s private.” I don’t try to be apologetic. It’s just not my thing. And it’s not necessary anyway. Shit happens in this job.

  “Oh,” she says, giving me a curious look. “Yes. Sure. You can use my office.” She motions me forward and we enter a hallway. “Anything you can talk about?”

  “To summarize: a demanding boss, a crazy ex who isn’t Kane, a killer I haven’t caught, and this call is a prelude to me having to skip our coffee.”

  “God, no wonder I like you. You just replayed my life. No. I need a life.”

  “Would you settle for old times? Weekend yoga with pizza as a reward for surviving.”

  “In other words, I do yoga and you watch and eat pizza?”

  “Right. Like old times.”

  She laughs and stops at an office door. “Call me for the yoga-pizza party,” she says. “I have an autopsy I was waiting to start until you left.” She unlocks the door and gives me a knowing look, like she knows this is all a setup. “You can let yourself out.”

  “Thank you, Beth.”

  “Catch that killer,” she says. “Because we both know Woods isn’t the one.” She turns and starts walking away.

  I enter her office for
show and shut the door, leaning against its wooden surface, to take in the mahogany desk and the corner table. There is a picture on the wall of the building I’m in. It’s a sterile environment that infers she’s emotionally detached. The office of a woman who spends more time with the dead than the living. I wonder if that detachment is innate or learned. One certainly could reason that it’s a necessary skill for people like her and me. A skill Beth and I share with the assassin. A skill Kane shares with us and the assassin.

  But Kane aside because, well, Kane is fucking Kane, and I’ve already considered him and marked him off the list. I’m back to Beth, and I don’t like where I’m leading myself right now, which is to add a suspect to my list, one I don’t want to add. But I have no choice. She lives and works near here, yet she was in the Hamptons the night of the murder. She was one of the first people at the crime scene.

  Okay. This is insanity. It’s not Beth. She is not an assassin. She is not Junior. She did not hire an assassin. This is one of those times when my mind takes me one place to go another. It has to be.

  This craziness has to wait, at least momentarily, while I focus on the real reason I’m here: Laney’s brother. I pull out my phone and arrange not one but three strategically placed Uber pickups. Only then do I return to Laney and where my thought process about her guides me. I call Tic Tac.

  “Lilah,” he greets me, his voice a tight ball of awkwardness and anger.

  “Okay,” I say. “Clearly you have your panties in a wad. Un-wad them now. We got bitch-slapped by Murphy. It’s done, and I have a killer to catch before I lose jurisdiction. Look for anyone inside the system who had contact with the victims’ cases. Obviously, there is you, me, and Murphy. Look deeper. Medical staff. Technicians. Clerks.”

  “You think there’s an insider?” he asks, that tightness in his voice easing.

  “Just look. If you find anything, text me, don’t call me. I’ll call you.” I hang up and look around the office again. Damn it. This place is as sterile as her procedure room. However, it’s reasonable to believe that she quite possibly can’t deal with those she loves in a place where she deals with those who’ve died. But did she have any connections to Laney Suthers? We were close then. She knew I was on the case. “Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.” I need to know.