Murder Notes Page 20

  It’s as if I’m living one of my nightmares: The beach. The blood in the water and sand. The murder. The man in his fitted suit, who is now walking toward me. I don’t move toward him or away. I stand my ground. I make him come to me, the questions he hasn’t answered, past and present, clawing at me, demanding they be heard. Pissing me the fuck off.

  He pisses me off.

  He makes me want things, do things, be things.

  He stops in front of me, and the space between us is the exact location where that monster raped me. “Why are you here, Kane?”

  “You should have told me about the tattoo on the body.”

  “Why? So you could handle this for me? Like you handled things for me that night?”

  “Yes. So I could handle it like I did that night. You were drugged, Lilah. I was protecting you.”

  “Were you?” I demand, cold rain now beginning a steady fall, soaking my face and hair. “Because what I remember is me lying in the sand, naked and exposed, and when I pushed to my feet to look for help, you were talking to that monster. Talking, Kane. He didn’t deserve conversation.”

  “You think I wasn’t going to make him pay for what he did to you? You think I wasn’t going to kill him? I had him in a choke hold, trying to find out if he was a fool alone or for hire when you came at him.”

  He means when I saw the knife in that monster’s belt that I knew he’d intended to kill me with, and I grabbed it. And I’d shoved it in his chest, over and over and over again. Twelve times that felt so damn good it was terrifying. “I didn’t feel like waiting on you to finish your chitchat with him,” I say. “And how do I know that’s what you were doing? No matter what question I ask, you never give me a straight answer. I don’t know what is real and what is a lie with you.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Lilah.”

  “You think leaving out information isn’t a lie?” The rain explodes, an eruption of force, and I shout through it. “This is getting us nowhere. Go home, Kane!” And I don’t wait for his reply. I start running for the house, my hair and clothes drenched by the time I yank open the sliding glass door and rush inside, but when I turn to shut the door behind me, Kane shoves his way in, sealing us inside. “I said go the fuck home, Kane.”

  “Not yet,” he says, shackling my arm and walking into me as he pulls me closer, his hand releasing my arm to move to my spine, the other at the back of my head. “And in case you didn’t get that. Let me speak your language. Not fucking yet.” His mouth closes down on mine, and he is kissing me, his tongue stroking long against mine. The taste of him is familiar in a way no one else would understand. It’s dirty. It’s sexy. It’s that addictive danger that is Kane Mendez. It’s a man who I do know would have killed for me, and I wanted him to. Oh God. I wanted him to.

  I shove on his chest, tearing our lips apart. “I hate you right now.”

  “Show me,” he says, releasing me to shrug out of his wet jacket.

  I could say no. I should say no. But he is the answer to the storm inside me that hasn’t been answered in far too long. And he owes that to me. I pull my shirt over my head and toss it away. Our gazes collide, that old burn between us igniting. We undress. No words. No questions. We just strip, and I am not beyond enjoying every last inch of his hot, hard body. I deserve this. He owes me this. He does the same. He watches me. Touches me without ever touching me. Possesses me in a way no other man ever has. But only with his clothes off. I will never allow him more than that again. Yet there is no denying that the understanding between us, the freedom to be who we are, that we cannot be with anyone else, still exists, and why wouldn’t it? We’ve killed together. That’s a special kind of screwed up. Bonnie and Clyde have nothing on us.

  He reaches for me, but I’m already there, moving toward him, and when his fingers tangle in my damp hair, his tongue licking into my mouth, I let him taste how much I hate wanting him. How much I hate his secrets. How much I hate how good he feels. I’m still embracing that pissed-off feeling. I’m full of rage, and I grab his hair and pull. “I do hate you.”

  “I know,” he says, his teeth nipping my lips, and not gently, a spike of pain and arousal shooting through me, and by the time I’ve recovered, I’m on my back on the couch, with his big body on top of me. “But you know what they say about hate,” he says, one of his hands on my breast, the other cupping my ass. “It’s a fine line and I can live with that.”

  “I’m sure you can,” I say, pissed off all over again, but still arching into his touch. “Because then you get to keep your secrets.”

  “And what about your secrets, Lilah?” he challenges, shifting us to our sides, and him between my legs. “What are your secrets?”

  “I don’t have secrets,” I say, a bitter laugh that is about self-hate, not humor, escaping me. “I mean, except stabbing someone twelve times.”

  He tangles fingers in my hair, pulling my head back and forcing me to look at him. “I would have killed him for you with no guilt. I would have made him suffer. Isn’t that what you want to hear? And my willingness to do it doesn’t make me a monster any more than you wanting me to do it or doing it yourself makes you one.”

  “You’re justifying your actions and mine. That’s dangerous.”

  “You like dangerous, Lilah. That’s the real problem, isn’t it? You don’t think you should. You don’t think you should want me and us like you do.”

  “I shouldn’t. I can’t.”

  “And yet here we are,” he says, and he doesn’t give me time to process those words or even allow them to produce a reaction. He presses inside me, driving into me, and angling us together. And before I know his intentions, he’s sitting up and taking me with him. I am now on top of him, straddling him, my fingers digging into his shoulders. And I know why. His message is: this was my choice. I want this. I want him. “Bastard,” I hiss.

  His lips curve, his eyes raking over my breasts before they return to my face, and he declares, “Damn, I’ve missed you, Lilah Love.”

  I lean into him, pressing my lips to his ear. “I hate you, Kane Mendez.”

  He snags my hair again—he loves to grab my hair—and drags my head back, bringing my lips to his. “You haven’t convinced me yet.”

  Our lips collide, and wildness erupts. Kissing. Touching. Moving together. I hate every moment. I need every moment. I don’t hide either of those things. For the first time since I last was with him, I let go. Because I can with him. Because the devil doesn’t judge your sins, he rewards you with pleasure. Oh God. So much pleasure, and when it’s over, when we collapse into each other, bodies trembling, I am limp. Completely limp, both emotionally and physically. I let Kane roll us to our sides, and I willingly rest pressed again him. Neither of us speaks, as if we know that when we do, it’s over.

  I shut my eyes, but not to sleep. I force myself to finish the recall of the past I’ve already started. I picture myself over my attacker’s body, holding the bloody knife.

  Kane is by my side. “He’s dead, Lilah. Give me the knife.”

  “Are you sure? Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Yes. Very sure.”

  He’d taken the knife from me then, and my gaze had landed on that Virgin Mary tattoo bleeding from her mouth. I’d known, then, that she was important. I know, now, that she is the answer to questions I don’t even know to ask.

  “Tell me about the tattoos, Kane,” I say, breaking our silence.

  “Lilah,” he breathes out, and I know that tone leads to his ridiculous reply of “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you have no answer.” I push up and look at him. “Because you think giving me a damn orgasm will shut me up.”

  “That has nothing to do with this or tonight.”

  “I’ll say it again. Bullshit. People are dying and you know something you aren’t saying.”

  I roll away from him and off the couch, walking to the chair nearby and grabbing the blanket there. Wrapping it around me, I turn to face him, and he’s sitti
ng now. Naked, and unlike with Rich, I like him that way, which only makes me hate him and my decision to be with him tonight all the more. “Go home, Kane,” I say, saving the demands I plan to launch at him for a time when there’s more than a blanket my mother crocheted between us.

  I expect him to argue, but he doesn’t. He stands up and pulls on his pants and shirt, which he doesn’t bother to button, his tie and jacket settled on his arm. “I’m leaving but I’m not gone.”

  He starts for the door, and I let him go, watching, waiting, until he exits and the door shuts with a solid thud. They say the devil is in the details. I say the devil is guarding those details, and I’m going to find out why. And no matter how much I love to hate that man, I’m going to go after him and keep at him. I’m going to get my answers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I wake in bed with my service weapon next to me and my phone in my hand, lying on my back, sunlight beaming through the nearby window. And I’m actually wearing pajamas. I lift my phone and look at the time: 9:00 a.m. I slept seven hours for the first time in a month. Apparently my sleep number is an orgasm delivered by Kane, not a remote-control bed. My lips curve into a smile, and not because of the orgasm. I feel good. I feel like a badass again.

  My phone rings with Lucas as my caller, and I answer on the first ring. “Good morning, cousin,” I greet him.

  “What have you done with Lilah and how much will it take to get her back?” he asks.

  I crinkle my nose and sit up. “What does that mean?”

  “You are never chipper, especially before noon.”

  “Maybe you only talked to me when I was in a bad mood.”

  “You have good moods?”

  “Ha ha. You are so funny.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” he asks, and I can almost hear his bright-white smile through the phone. “You remember tonight is date night. Me looking hot in a tuxedo. You looking hot in a sexy red dress.”

  “Why red?”

  “I like red. Wear red. I’ll wear a red tie.”

  “I’ll see if I have one here at the house.”

  “You do. I remember a dress.”

  “I’ll see. Do you happen to have a guest list for the party?”

  “It would be easier to list who won’t be there. It’s a who’s who of the elite. The New York City mayor will even be there.”

  “Hmm. Okay. Well, the food had better be good or you’re buying me dinner afterward.”

  “I’ll buy you dinner whenever you like, Lilah.”

  I roll my eyes. “We are never going to date, Lucas. We’re family. But I love you.”

  “Okay. This isn’t Lilah Love, is it?”

  “I love you, you asshole.”

  “Okay, now you sound like you. Seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

  “I’ll meet you.”

  “You have to walk in with me as my plus-one to get in the door.”

  “So we meet in the parking lot.”

  “Fine. Red dress. Seven. Later, darlin’.” He hangs up before I can tell him I’m not his darlin’.

  I sit there a minute, thinking about the who’s-who event, and I find it very interesting that no one but Lucas has said a word to me. They don’t want me there. They don’t want me here. They’re afraid, and while that could be just about scandal, it could be about Woods. What I want to do is go balls to the wall, shake them all up a bit, and claim jurisdiction. But the minute I do that, my gut says that Woods ends up captured, evidence stacked against him, or worse, dead. No. I need to make sure everyone believes I’m convinced it’s Woods, something I haven’t done well. The more secure they are, the more their guard will come down. I’m about to make them feel like they are riding on rainbow-colored clouds, that things are going so wonderfully their way.

  But first, I need information. I dial Greg and once again get his voice mail. “I need you, Greg. Give me something.” I end the call and hit Tic Tac’s number. “Romano. Detective Moser. Mendez. Woods. Talk to me.”

  “Because it’s not seven a.m. on Saturday,” he says. “And I don’t have a hot chick in bed with me.” He doesn’t give me time to reply. “Moser works private security for Blink Security as a side job. After doing some checking, I found that Mason Party Planning handled three of the six events he worked in the past three months. And guess who owns Mason Party Planning? Olivia Mason, who is the niece of one of the big Romano brothers.”

  “So now we have a connection between Moser and Romano,” I say. “You officially rock, Tic Tac.”

  “As my reward, I request you do not call me for two hours.”

  “Fine. Two hours.”

  He hangs up, and I throw off the blankets, thinking about those rainbow-colored clouds I need to create. I let out a dramatic sigh despite no one being around to appreciate it and dial the NYPD. “Detective Moser,” I tell the operator, and way too fast, Moser is on the line.

  “Lilah Love. The first FBI agent with a hooker’s handle.”

  “I sound like a hooker, but from what I hear, you are one. Turning tricks for all the bad boys. Talk to me about the Emerson case.”

  “High-end trader who I suspect made the wrong trade for the wrong person. We’re working through his client list.”

  And Woods is going to be on that list. Damn it. “Save us both the pain of a meeting. Send me the case file by e-mail. LLove@FBI.gov.”

  “What is this about?”

  “I have a couple of cases we thought might be connected, but new developments seem to point in another direction.”

  “Fine. I’ll send the file.”

  “And that client list you’re working on.”

  “I’ll send it.”

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  “Make sure it is today.”

  “Right. Of course, Agent Love.”

  I roll my eyes at his emphasis on “Love” and hang up, dialing Tic Tac. “Two hours, Lilah,” he reminds me.

  “Our New York City victim.”

  “Emerson.”

  “Right. He’s a Wall Street guy. Did you pull his list of clients?”

  “Yes. No dots connected.”

  “Keep an eye on it. Woods will show up there soon.”

  “Hold on.” Keys click and seconds pass. “Still not there.”

  “Check it when your two hours are up. It starts now.” I hang up and climb out of the bed, shove my phone in my pajama-bottoms pocket, and rush out of the bedroom, planning to make my way to Purgatory, then note the horrible taste in my mouth. Good God. I need toothpaste or mouthwash. Or better yet, Cheetos. I hurry to the kitchen and grab an entire bag, but decide I need coffee, too. I stick a pod in the Keurig, and my phone rings.

  I pull it from my pocket and glance at caller ID before answering. “Director Murphy,” I greet him.

  “Agent Love. I’ve started the wheels turning on Detective Harrison, and we’ve found some interesting activity surrounding his case.”

  “Interesting how?”

  “I’ll let you know when I know more. For now, you know, it’s in process.” I open my mouth to push, but he never gives me the chance. “Moving on. Locals here are getting pressure to close these cases. And after giving your assassin theory some thought, I pulled the FBI database, with nothing impressive to show for it.”

  I grab my coffee and start adding sweetener. “So it’s someone new to us. That’s not surprising considering how clean the crime scenes are.”

  “My thoughts exactly, which reminded me of a guy I heard about while I was in the army. A sniper they called the Ghost. No one knew who he was or who he worked for. Turns out he’s not in the FBI database.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Still unknown, but over the past fifteen years there have been seven incidents, half overseas and half stateside, attributed to him. The one link to all is the way the victims are killed.”

  “A bullet between the eyes and a clean crime scene.”

  “That’s exactly right. But he doesn’t undress
them, which still rings true of a serial killer taking a trophy.”

  “It could be a client request.”

  “Which means if we want to be the ones to catch the Ghost, we need to find out who that request came from.”

  “I’m already on it, but just an FYI: the locals are continuing to push on Woods. I’m going to let them think I’m on board.” I think of Kane’s warning. “I want the real killer out in the open, not in the shadows.”

  “Good plan. Keep me informed.”

  We disconnect, and I decide against the coffee, grabbing a diet Sprite and my Cheetos, and head back to Purgatory when my gaze catches on the blanket on the floor. The one my mother made and that I’d wrapped myself in last night. I walk to the living room and set my breakfast on the coffee table, picking up the blanket and folding it, my eyes landing on the camera under the pillow.

  Great. It’s pointed right where Kane and I undressed. I’ve made a sex tape and didn’t know it. I set the blanket on the chair, thinking I don’t need a sign that says, WILL WORK FOR FOOD but rather, WILL SCREW FOR INFORMATION I DON’T GET. A sudden thought hits me, and I grab my food and hurry down the hallway toward Purgatory. Once I’m there, I grab a marker, and on the left side of the board I write:

  POCHER

  ROMANO

  On the right side I write:

  KANE

  Kane shut down Pocher. Romano is his enemy. This makes Pocher and Romano allies. Whatever it is, something went wrong in some way, and they needed to do damage control, hence hiring the assassin. Kane’s employee must have been working for them and became a liability they couldn’t afford. It’s got holes, but it’s a working theory. I circle the name Romano, and I realize, then, that I have power. I like power. I sit down at the desk and remove my phone again, this time dialing Kane.

  “Agent Love,” he greets me.

  “The Ghost,” I say. “I know who the assassin is, Kane.”

  “Then you know you don’t just contact him. It takes time.”

  “If you can’t, maybe Romano can? I’m pretty sure he’d be happy to help your ex just because I’m your ex.”

  “Lilah,” he breathes out, his tone biting.