Murder Notes Read online

  “That alibi doesn’t exclude you from hiring a hit man.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Lilah. Now I’m stupid enough to hire a hit man to kill someone in my own town?”

  “That’s not the point. The point is me remaining objective, and I don’t even do you any good in this if I’m not seen that way.”

  “Tell them you’re milking me for information,” he says, tapping a contact on his phone, “which we both know is your intention.” He places the phone to his ear. “I have reporters following me. Take care of them.” He ends the call.

  “Take care of them? Who is taking care of them and what does that even mean?”

  “They’ll run them off the road and hope that no one dies,” he says, turning us into the airport.

  “Kane—”

  “Look behind us, Lilah.”

  I rotate to find several security vehicles now blocking the entrance. “They’ll keep coming,” he says, as I settle back down in my seat. “Especially now that they have a piece of you on the morning news.”

  “Damn it,” I say, grabbing my purse and digging out my phone. “I didn’t even think about warning Andrew about this.” I punch in his number and, of course, get voice mail again. “Now look who doesn’t answer his fucking phone,” I say to his voice mail as Kane pulls us into a parking spot. “Reporters cornered me this morning,” I add. “I thought you’d want to watch me on the news.” I end the call.

  “You still have a way with words, Lilah,” Kane says, killing the engine.

  “Believe it or not,” I say, glancing over at him, “I’ve learned to tamp down on that since I left.” He arches a brow. “For small windows of time,” I concede.

  He laughs that damn laugh again and glances over at me. “Very small, I bet,” he says, opening his door and exiting the car. Not about to allow him to play gentleman, I quickly gather my things and do the same. And sure enough, by the time I’m outside, he’s towering over me, all six foot three inches of him in his custom suit, this one blue. Way too close, the sense of him being near way too familiar. I don’t like how it feels, but if I turn away, he’ll know he made me blink.

  “We both know you don’t really believe I’d run those reporters off the road,” he says.

  “I was in the moment.”

  “The same moment you’ve been in for two years.”

  “I’m done pretending you aren’t what you are, Kane. We’re enemies by trade.”

  “I run a corporation, not a cartel, Lilah.”

  “If you don’t run your father’s business, who does?”

  “My uncle, Miguel.”

  “Insulation,” I say.

  “Distance,” he counters.

  “Semantics,” I reply.

  The air crackles between us, seconds ticking by. “Let’s walk,” he says.

  “Yes. Let’s walk.”

  We turn at the same time and start moving toward the building, that charge still between us, and yes, it’s sexual in part—it always is between us—but there is anger there, too, his and mine. It’s too raw, too intense. Too us. It’s driving me freaking insane. He is driving me insane, which is why I met him at the Cove where the energy is the place, not what is between us. It churns between us, both of us all about control, and I know he hates that he has absolutely none with me anymore. I can almost feel his determination to change that, and I am sure he can feel mine to ensure he continues to fail.

  We reach the entrance and he opens the door for me. I don’t look at him. I walk through and he is almost instantly by my side again, a man in a black suit motioning us forward. Our path leads straight to the tarmac where Kane’s familiar private luxury chopper waits, complete with Mendez Enterprises’ logo on the side. At the steps, he motions me forward, and I climb the short staircase, greeted at the top with the same four leather seats, two on each side, that were here all those times I used to make this weekend trip with him in the past. We’d been inseparable, even sharing his Manhattan apartment during the week. And while I’d like some of the distance from that past right now, I choose the window seat on the right, as I always did, because really, fighting the norm that once was is wasted energy at this point.

  I remove my coat, drape it over my seat, and settle into the cushion, grabbing my cell phone from my purse and then placing it and my briefcase beneath my seat. I’m just buckling up when the phone rings, and I glance at the number to find Andrew on caller ID. “Now that the press is involved, you call back?” I demand, watching the door for Kane, who has yet to arrive.

  “I was asleep when you called last night. What happened with the press?”

  “I was pretty clear on voice mail. They cornered me and I told them I did you a favor, since I was in town.” I change the subject before Kane is here and I can’t talk. “That wasn’t a confession. And why did he call Alexandra? Does she know him?”

  “I have no indication that she does.”

  “That message directed to her does not fit, unless she does.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “I need her to call me. I left her a message. Was there DNA in the victim’s house to match Woods?”

  “No.”

  “If he was dating her there would be DNA. Do you have any proof the victim even knew Woods?”

  “We’re questioning neighbors. Looking for eyewitnesses.”

  “That’s a no on DNA or evidence against that man.”

  “The call—”

  “Nothing he said on that transcript made sense to me.”

  “Lilah. The man is crazy. He’s talking crazy.”

  “Are you a profiler now and I don’t know it? I came here for a reason and actually, why haven’t you asked me for more details about my cases?”

  “I’ve been a little busy trying to actually catch the killer.”

  “He doesn’t fit the profile.”

  “Then let’s nab the copycat killer and you can have a clear view of the rest of the case.”

  “Copycat?” I demand, as Kane steps into the helicopter, his eyes meeting mine, a brow arching to indicate he not only heard me, his reaction is about the same. “Again with this?” I demand of my brother. “I could claim jurisdiction right now. Even with Woods as a suspect.”

  “We both know you don’t want to make a public announcement about a serial killer unless you have to,” he says while Kane claims the seat next to me and buckles up. “I do not want my community scared,” he adds.

  “And if there’s another murder? How scared will they be then?”

  “Look,” he says. “Lilah. Sis. Give me seventy-two hours to try to find Woods. If we can’t do it, I will humbly ask for FBI assistance.”

  I inhale and let it out. “Fine. Yes.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Wait—”

  He hangs up and I start tapping my fingers on my leg. Kane grabs my hand to still it. “Her fury does reveal itself. Deep breaths, beautiful. I don’t want you punching me or the wall. He’s responding to the pressure of the spotlight.”

  The door slams shut, alerting me that I have about three minutes before we can’t speak without a headset and the pilot overhearing. I yank my hand from his and face him. “How dirty is my family?”

  “Your father is Pocher’s puppet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Lilah—”

  “I need answers, Kane. Do you know if my family is just reacting to political pressure to avoid bad press or are they in this deeper? Are they dirty?”

  “You know I don’t know that answer yet.”

  “I know? How do I know when we both know there’s plenty you’ve kept from me?”

  “What exactly have I kept from you?”

  “Tell me about the tattoo.”

  The engine roars to life and I reach for my headset, determined to talk in code if necessary but finish this conversation, but I never get the chance. Kane’s hand is suddenly on the back of my head, his cheek is pressed to mine, his lips to my ear. �
�My turn to ask questions. My turn to need to know. Tell me about the note on your car.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The chopper engine roars fiercely, Kane’s hand still firmly on the back of my head. I slice fingers into his hair, and for several moments, there is nothing but Kane’s hand on my head, his lips next to my ear. I don’t process his words. I don’t even think about telling him about the notes or Junior. There is just the right and wrong of him. Of me with him. Of us together. I inhale the scent of him that someone else would describe as spice and sandalwood, but to me it’s love. Hate. Passion. Friendship. He was my best friend. He was the only person who really knew me, the only one I trusted, and suddenly the one thing that has twisted me in knots for two years is front and center.

  “You knew how to hide a body,” I hiss into his ear. “You knew how to make it disappear.”

  “I made a problem go away.”

  “Really damn well,” I say. “The man I knew—”

  “Would do anything for you, and I did.”

  “I didn’t need—”

  “You would have lost your badge.”

  “I was drugged.”

  “You would have lost your badge.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “Damn it, Lilah, you know what happened.”

  “You shouldn’t have made decisions for me,” I hiss, shoving away from him and reaching for my seat belt.

  He grabs my arms, holding me in place. “We’re lifting off,” he shouts. “Stay where you are.”

  I inhale and let it out, flashes of that night ripping through my mind. The ocean crashing on the shore. The wind. The heavy body on top of mine. The sweat. The sound he made and that damn tattoo. That Virgin-fucking-Mary. I grab Kane’s arm where it holds mine. I rotate to face him and our eyes collide, igniting a new wave of anger and heat between us. I grab his tie and pull him to me again, his head lowers to mine, our cheeks colliding again, but this time it’s my lips immediately pressed to his ear. “The tattoo,” I say. “Tell me about the tattoo.”

  “It’s buried with that man.”

  I jerk back, furious now, and I turn away, reaching below the seat to grab my bag, no hesitation in my action. I remove my file, opening it and finding the photo of the tattoo on the victim from Wednesday morning. I hold it out in front of Kane. He goes completely still, stone in the shape of a man, seconds ticking by before he takes the photo from me and stares down at it. I can feel the waves of anger and shock rolling off him. And I know, then, that he knew about the victim, but he didn’t know about the tattoo. Time seems to stretch before he hands the image back to me. I take it and place it back in my bag, actually calmer now. Closer, I think, to real answers than ever before.

  Kane doesn’t look at me, though. He leans his head back and shuts his eyes. There is a coldness about him, a darkness, that I’ve seen only hints of in the past. I’ve sideswiped him and he doesn’t like it. I don’t know what that means, but I intend to find out before this encounter is over. I place my bag under the seat and then lay my head back. But I don’t shut my eyes. I don’t like what I might see when I do. Instead, I start recapping every detail of that file. The victims’ names, ages, careers. I look for something, anything, that connects them, other than me as the investigative agent.

  Neither of us moves until we’re on the ground; both of us wordlessly gather our things. Both of us clearly aware that the conversation we need to have does not belong in a place with a pilot and a now-silenced engine. The door opens and I head for it, and endure a few greetings from strangers. I can hear Kane giving directions to whoever he’s talking to.

  “No later than ten,” is all I make out of his response, which I assume is related to his departure time.

  I’ve cleared the last step, and I’m walking toward the terminal when my phone rings. I dig it from my purse to find Tic Tac calling. “Why are you awake at four in the morning LA time?” I ask, answering the call.

  “I got up to pee and saw you’d called five times.”

  “Just once,” I say.

  “Four last night and one this morning.”

  “Right,” I say. “Five times. I need you to find out why Marcus Rick is on a leave of absence, no matter what it takes to find out. And I need to know everything good, bad, and ugly about Nelson Moser.”

  “Seriously, Lilah?” Tic Tac demands, while Kane steps to my side, close but not quite touching me, as if he’s ready to grab me before I dart away. But I’m not going anywhere without answers.

  “Seriously,” I confirm.

  “You do know Rick’s data will be in sealed Human Resources files?” Tic Tac says.

  “And?”

  “It’s personnel files, Lilah. That’s a big deal.”

  “I thought I recommended you as a point man because you had a big set on you.”

  “Don’t go there. I have balls. You do not.”

  “Or maybe,” I continue, “you do, but just not the skill to do this?”

  “God how I hate it when you push my buttons, and I know you’re doing it, and yet still I let you get away with it. I’ll call you back.” He hangs up and the sliding glass doors part, allowing Kane and me to enter the airport, but he doesn’t speak, a theme he does well, but he might as well be screaming his energy is so damn intense. We walk a few feet, clearing the crowd, and I expect something from him but get nothing, and I’m not letting that fly.

  I speed up and step in front of him. “Talk to me.”

  He gives me a hooded stare, his expression hard, unreadable. “I told you,” he says. “I don’t—”

  I poke his chest. “Do not tell me you know nothing. Because the man I knew back then—”

  “Knew how to get rid of a body?”

  “You wouldn’t have stopped looking until you found out who that man was. You saw the tattoo. You wouldn’t have ignored that as a clue. Either that or you never really loved me.”

  He grabs my arm and pulls me close. “Never really loved you? Are you really even saying that to me?”

  “I’m saying I know you looked into this.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “And yet you found nothing? You don’t fail at anything.”

  “I didn’t exactly fingerprint the guy before I got rid of him, Lilah.”

  “Did he have ID?”

  “You’ve asked me this before. You know the answer.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “He didn’t.” He surprises me by changing the subject. “And I’ll save your boy Tic Tac some trouble and tell you what I know. That is what you call your tech guy, right? Tic Tac?”

  “You really are a stalker, Kane.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as informed. Back to what I know.”

  “Too much,” I say.

  He ignores that remark and moves on. “Marcus Rick, the detective you mentioned on the phone, was in a corner store when a robbery took place and tried to help. He ended up with a bullet in his gut. Nelson is known to be low-down and dirty, as in he would shoot his partner in the back and did once. And since I remember him to be unfriendly to you, I’d say it’s interesting that he ended up on this case.”

  My mind goes to Greg. “Shit.” I dig for my phone and pull it out, dialing his number only to get his voice mail. “Don’t ask about that case I told you to ask about until you talk to me.” I look at Kane. “I need to go.” I start to turn away and he grabs my arm.

  “Turning me into a monster doesn’t make your guilt go away.”

  “Pretending you’re my hero won’t make it go away either.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” he reminds me. “I just cleaned it up.”

  “You bastard,” I say.

  “You needed a reminder.”

  “I have them every night, I promise you. I can’t believe I ever—”

  “Loved me?”

  “Fucked you.” I yank my arm away and start walking.

  And I don’t look back. I can’t think about Kane or myself. All I can think about is K
ane’s words about Nelson being so low-down and dirty that he would, and has, shot a partner in the back.

  My father’s involved in this. Kane is involved in this. I have the protection of being my father’s daughter, and like it or not, Kane’s perceived woman. Greg does not, and I’m worried I’ve just put a target on my ex-partner’s back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I call Greg a half dozen times during the taxi ride to his shitty apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, and he never answers. Once I’m at his building, the same applies to the buzzer I need him to hit to allow me up to his floor, but I’m resourceful and simply follow someone else in the door. I trek up the ten narrow floors, for a good morning workout, and reach his door, hitting the buzzer a few times before I start pounding.

  Five minutes later, the door opens and some alternate version of Greg stands there. Yes, he’s still linebacker huge, both tall and wide. Yes, he’s still the good-looking, thirtysomething guy that I have absolutely no sexual chemistry with at all, which only makes me love him more. And yes, he’s wearing Greg’s standard white T-shirt, but this one has a stain on it, and his favorite faded jeans have also been replaced with plaid pajama bottoms. Not to mention this guy standing in front of me has unruly hair and all kinds of scruff on his face, when my Greg is always clean-shaven and well groomed. “Where did you put Greg?”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Lilah?”

  “Nice to see you, too, sweets. Are you sick?”

  “Sick? I’m sick all right.” He turns and walks away, leaving the door open behind him.

  “O . . . kay,” I say, entering his apartment that is one big, usually clean, room that now has pizza boxes on the kitchen table, as well as random trash, while he has now plopped on his back in the center of his unmade bed.

  Shoving my hands in my coat pockets, I move to the end of the mattress by his big-ass bare feet that I’m guessing stink right now. “I repeat,” I say. “Are you sick? Do you need soup?”

  “And you’re gonna make me soup, Lilah? Ms. Get Your Own Fucking Takeout?”

  I crinkle my nose. “I’m offended. I got you takeout often when we were partners. I just don’t like stupid people who can’t order right. So if you’re sick—”