Murder Girl (Lilah Love Book 2) Page 11

  With few options, I dial Tic Tac again. “It’s too soon, Lilah,” he says. “I haven’t even typed ten words. I’m good, but not that good.”

  “Ha ha,” I say, but I suddenly have second thoughts about where I was about to lead him. If I connect this case to Laney, I need a reason that isn’t me killing a man with the same tattoo as a victim.

  “What do you want, Lilah?”

  “Just making sure you un-wadded those panties.”

  “I’m fine,” he says. “I don’t have wadded panties.”

  “Okay. Good. Because they aren’t fun, I promise.”

  He hangs up.

  I push out air. Damn it.

  I refuse to believe Beth is involved, but I have to do my due diligence. That’s all. This is due diligence, and since I’m considering the idea that someone in law enforcement might be involved in this mess, I have resources I can use to help me. They aren’t legal, but we do what we have to do. And if that’s what I have to do in the name of justice, that works for me. Just like stabbing a man twelve times also seemed to have worked for me.

  If there is one thing this return home has proven, it’s that I didn’t kill my enemy. I killed my enemy’s messenger. My enemy is still out there, with me and Kane in their sights, which means we had better get him, or her, or them, in view now, before someone else ends up dead.

  We.

  Me and Kane.

  One of us experienced with a knife and the other with a shovel. And therein lies the problem. We have a body that is our secret and can be used against us. It’s us or our enemy, and it is going to be us. Apparently, those who kill and dig graves together stay together. Because Kane is right. We are in this together. And anyone who thinks that’s good for them and not us is going to find out they’re wrong.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I leave Beth’s office, walking a long hallway, with two goals playing out in my mind: catch a killer and defeat what appears to be a long-standing enemy. More and more, those things appear to be related, and I’m hoping like hell Laney’s brother will help me look deeper and in the right places. For now, though, I shove aside anything except my surroundings, and with good reason. I knew a cop who was followed. He didn’t cover his ass, and now he’s dead and so is the informant he was meeting.

  And that’s exactly why my path to Rick Suthers is going to be turned into one of those algebraic equations you figured you’d never need again in your lifetime because they’re stupidly complicated.

  Reaching the glass door that is my destination, I push the bar down and exit the medical examiner’s building. I immediately step out of the view of prying eyes and into the shadows of the dumpster I’ve identified to Uber as my pickup spot, the one with the big yellow X on it. I scan for trouble and any remnants of my collection of stalkers, which I don’t find. I check the time on my phone. Four thirty. It’s then, and right on time, that my Uber pulls into a spot beside me, having actually followed the directions I’d given.

  I climb inside and shut the door. A wrinkled, overly tanned grandma with a baseball hat covering her long gray hair twists around to greet me. And I know she’s a grandma because it says so on her hat. “Where to, honey?” she asks.

  “The park, sweetie,” I say, which earns me a laugh and a wink along with a look that’s a little bit too intimate to be innocent.

  I’m being flirted with by a grandma. I think that means that I’m in the Grandmas’ Club now, and I can’t say it’s nearly as appealing as the Mile High Club, of which I am also a proud member. Thank you, Kane Mendez. And Rich. Once. Sort of.

  Grandma pulls us onto the main road, and a tour bus for some musical group called Big and Rich pulls past us. Fuck. Rich. Kane. The FBI. I dial Rich’s phone, and he doesn’t answer. I dial my brother next. “Where is Rich?”

  “He went with Tweedledee and Tweedledum to Kane’s place. I thought you knew.”

  “No. I didn’t know, and how are we born of the same womb and you could think that was a good idea? I have to call Kane.”

  “No, Lilah,” he orders firmly. “That could potentially be bad for you. It’ll look like you’re guiding him through an investigation.”

  “Damn it, I hate when you make sense, but Rich—”

  “Could be in danger because Kane really is a criminal?”

  “Two exes together is a volatile mix, and you, as a long-standing member of law enforcement, know that. And the idea here is that Kane is pissed enough to act out against everyone but us.” My line beeps. “That could be Rich. I’ll call you back.”

  “Don’t call Kane,” he warns.

  “I get it,” I growl, before I click over.

  “Rich?” I demand.

  “Yes. Relax. I got this.”

  “Got this? What the fuck does ‘got this’ mean?”

  My old driver glares over her shoulder because apparently my language is an issue for her.

  “I’m playing the role,” he assures me. “I’m on their side just enough to hear their side.”

  “By giving them a conflict of interest they can use against us?”

  The car jolts to a stop at the park, and I don’t have to look at the driver to know she’s glaring at me again. I get out on a curb beside a grassy median, and she screeches away like a mad teenager. “Hold on,” I say, my gaze scanning the huge mass of grass where dogs and people play.

  “I don’t have much time,” Rich snaps.

  “You don’t need time,” I say, walking toward a giant, old oak tree on the opposite side of the sidewalk, where I stand in the shade. “You need to pull back.”

  “I’m not stupid, Lilah,” Rich says. “And neither is Kane or he wouldn’t have you convinced he’s one of the good guys.” He doesn’t give me time to counter. “This gives us insider information.”

  “Kane is our insider information.”

  “Because Kane will tell you everything, right?”

  “Yes. He will. Kane and I communicate. That doesn’t mean we’re fucking. Do not face him with that in your head because you won’t like where that leads us. Understand?”

  “Yes, Lilah. I do.”

  “How are you calling me? Where is—”

  “I have to go.”

  He hangs up.

  Damn it to hell, why is everyone always hanging up on me?

  I glance around me, slowly scanning the area again, taking in faces, making sure that I’m familiar with who is around me right now. Once I get my bearings, I start walking, and it takes me a full ten minutes to travel to the other side of the park, where my second Uber is waiting. I’m on my third Uber in thirty minutes when finally, my driver drops me at the Long Island train station, which happens to be only a few miles from the accounting office Rick Suthers owns and operates. Not that I plan to ride the train, but crowds and transportation equal visibility.

  I start the short walk on what has become a chilly day toward Suthers’s downtown Westbury office, which is more like a subdivision than a town and not an exciting one. It’s most definitely no New York City. There are no street vendors. No dogs pooping by street poles while owners happily scoop it up in little baggies like it’s the best gift ever. There aren’t even homeless people hanging out while fancy stuffed suits walk by and try to pretend they don’t exist. There is just a sidewalk that leads me past run-down offices and stores, all of which contrast with the fancy houses only blocks to the east and west of the road.

  I stop at Rick’s office to find a CLOSED sign on the door, which works just fine by me. I’d rather talk to him in his home, which is to most people their safe zone. Cutting down a side street, still not a person or moving car in sight, I walk toward the east neighborhood, traveling several blocks straight and then to the right. The houses are big, their look old but elegant, the yards neatly manicured. An old lady waves to me from a porch. A middle-aged man rakes leaves one house over. Another block and I’m at Rick’s white wooden house, hurrying up the porch steps to ring the bell. After a respectable thirty seconds, I knoc
k. And knock again. Still nothing.

  My mind goes back to the last time I’d been here. He’d called me. He’d wanted to meet. I’d been in the city, hours away, but I’d hurried here. He’d taken forever to come to the door. He’d opened it quickly and stared at me. He’d looked like her, despite being in his late thirties when she’d been only twenty-seven. Good-looking. Blond. Blue eyes. Easygoing, but not that night.

  “Go away, Agent Love.”

  “You called me.”

  “To tell you to go away. My sister is dead. It’s over.”

  “Someone killed her.”

  “She killed herself. She was weak. I am done. Respect that or I will report you for harassment.”

  He’d shut the door.

  He’d been scared. He’d been afraid to talk to me. And he’d called my boss the next day. I’d conveniently been sent to LA to consult on a double homicide shortly after, and that had led to my introduction to the FBI. I’d walked away then, but I can’t do that now.

  I head down the steps again and around the side of the house to find his gray Ford Focus in the driveway. A bad feeling slides through me, and I head to the fenceless backyard. The only door I can find is at the bottom of a set of steps that seem to lead to the basement. I hurry down them and again find a locked door. I really don’t contemplate my next move. I go with my gut, and my gut says I need inside that house. Now. I grab a brick and knock the side window out just enough to slip my hand through the glass, unlock the door, and open it.

  I enter through a laundry area and shut the door behind me. My hand settles on my gun, and I hurry through the unfinished concrete room and up a set of wooden stairs. I pause at the open doorway, where I find the lights on, but there are no active sounds. No voices. No television. No footsteps. Just a clock ticking somewhere. A chunk of ice falling from the ice maker into the freezer a few feet from where I stand just off the kitchen. A foreboding knot forms in my belly and I call out, “Mr. Suthers? Rick? It’s Lilah Love. Agent Lilah Love. We met about your sister, Laney.”

  I wait for a reply and get nothing.

  No words.

  No steps.

  No sound.

  I check my phone and ensure it’s on vibrate, despite checking it in the last Uber, and then pull my weapon, easing into the kitchen. The hardwood floor creaks beneath my feet, and I pause, waiting for some replying action that doesn’t come. I’m still sheltered by the stairwell, but at this point, a sink and a window above it sits directly in front of me. A small hallway is to my left and right. I take the final step and ease into the doorway, now able to see a full U-shaped kitchen before me. I look right to a hallway that leads to a front door and a stairway to the second level. I look left to another hallway that leads to an archway, which I assume is the living area. I head that direction with the intent of circling back to the stairs. I check a small bathroom and then ease into a sitting area that leads directly into a living area. I pass through it, and I’m at the front door. There’s an office directly in front of me that I check as well and find it clear.

  That brings me to the bottom of the stairs, where I call out again. “Rick? Are you up there?”

  I listen again, and there’s a creaking sound that is followed by a swish. This repeats. And repeats. That knot in my gut tightens and grows. I start up the steps, and the sound continues, becoming a little louder as I approach. I take a few more steps and pause, but I don’t call out again. I ease forward and repeat the process of pausing, listening, pausing, listening, until I reach the top level. The sound is coming from the room to my left. There are two more rooms to my right and one directly across from me that appears to be a library with no obvious occupant, but I can’t see every nook and cranny.

  I turn toward the sound and enter the room, quickly placing my back to the wall, gun in the air. And that’s when I find Rick Suthers hanging from the closet that sits immediately to the left of the door I’ve just entered, with a bedsheet around his neck in the exact way I’d found his sister, the tug and sway of the body creating the swooshing sound. And I’m back with Laney for just one minute:

  “Did your mother find an escape?”

  “Only in death,” I’d said. “Don’t let that be you. I’ll protect you. I’ll make sure the information you give me doesn’t come from you.”

  Only I didn’t protect her. I didn’t save her. She’s dead. I found her, and the fact that I’m standing here looking at her brother’s dead body—that I found him, too—is no coincidence. It’s my enemy’s plan.

  I know dead bodies, and Rick Suthers is dead, and I don’t plan on joining him. I exit the bedroom and search the remainder of the upstairs before I harness my weapon, open the field bag that’s at my hip, and pull out a pair of gloves. I slip them on but I don’t touch anything. I step closer to the body and study it first, noting the jeans and white T-shirt that appear neatly pressed. The face is blue, lips and cheeks swollen, eyes bulging. His skin is still pink and that, along with the limited rigor mortis, tells me that he hasn’t been hanging there long. I skip by the implications of that realization, considering my visit, and focus on what I believe to be a crime scene. There’s a double stack of books at his feet, as there had been with his sister. And just like then, I question a person’s ability to stand on those at all without them tumbling. I simply don’t believe it’s possible.

  I close the space between me and the body, kneeling down and doing just what I did at Laney’s feet. I look through the titles of the books. Looking for a message, like the one left for me with the beheaded bodies. With Laney, I’d found nothing significant. That’s how this begins. I search titles, reading each, considering the content. The bottom book freezes me in place: the unauthorized autobiography of Laura Love, a Hollywood legend. My mother.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I have a moment of shock at the presence of that book, and then it’s over. I set it aside and mentally step into my Otherworld, my name for my emotionless zone where I focus on facts and the necessary tasks at hand. I grab the book and thumb through the pages, finding no message or note, but then again, the book itself is a message. I hunt down another book to replace it and then stick my mother’s biography in my bag. I’ll analyze the implications and content of the message it’s meant to deliver, along with who could be behind it, later and alone. Right now, I need to search the house and deal with the crime scene, which is going to be called a suicide. The chance anything is found to prove otherwise is next to zero. This killer is that good. I learned that when I tried to prove murder with Laney. As good as that assassin, and it wouldn’t surprise me at this point if they are one and the same.

  I start a methodical search of the house, starting with the body, checking his pockets and his wallet, and the closest thing to interesting is the odd way he’s folded a dozen or so Starbucks receipts with his cash. That tells me he’s a man of habit and he doesn’t let go of things easily, and yet, he pushed me away. He let go of Laney.

  Moving on, I check drawers, mattresses, pillowcases, underneath the bed. Next, I hit the library, searching books, chair cushions, a small desk. Every room is checked, but there is nothing to be found. Peculiarly, not even a photo of Laney. Note to self: make it clear to Andrew that if I die, I don’t want a shrine, but a good “Fuck you” coffee mug in his cabinet would feel like love.

  I’m finally done with my search, and I walk back to the bedroom and stare at the body, waiting for one of those random deep ideas to come into my head, but there is just one word: murder. And that leads me to contemplate my next move. I could leave. No one would know I was here. No one would know that I broke the window. Unless, of course, a neighbor reported seeing me, and that could get complicated. So could explaining my presence here, but I decide it’s better than explaining my absence. And at this point, all my role-play as 007, along with three Ubers and a walk, is for nothing. I’m exposed. I’m here. It’s known by my enemies, and it didn’t protect Rick, a part of this equation that I can’t let myself linger on
right now or it will fuck with my head.

  I dial the locals and the reply is quick. “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

  “This is Federal Agent Lilah Love from the LA bureau in town on official business. I have a probable suicide. A man hanging by a sheet with no pulse. The address is 345 Plainview Drive, Westbury. To clarify: I’m on scene and will remain on scene and meet them at the front door.”

  “Backup is on the way.”

  I end the call and walk down the stairs to the front door, opening it and stepping onto the porch as the sun sinks rapidly on the horizon. With no time to spare, I dial Murphy. “Agent Love. Do you have news?”

  “I have a situation outside my brother’s territory.”

  “Where?”

  “Westbury, Long Island. A suicide that I’ve called the locals on. I’m on scene now.”

  “And this relates to our investigation how?”

  I stick to a shortened version of the truth. “I stopped by to check on the brother of a woman who died on my watch. She killed herself. When I got here, the brother had killed himself in the exact same manner as his sister.”

  “And you just happened to show up when that happened?”

  “Apparently I did,” I say.

  “And how exactly did you end up in the house?”

  “His sister killed herself. He wasn’t at his office. He’s not overly social, and I had a gut feeling. I have no other answer.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “You’re highly suspicious by nature, aren’t you?”

  “I have one hell of a bullshit detector, Agent. Need I remind you of our earlier conversations on this very day?”

  “You just did,” I say, one dead body and a book too far gone to bite my tongue, “but I get it. Bosses get to be assholes.”

  “Glad we’re on the same page. Now. What aren’t you telling me?”