Murder Notes Read online

  His phone beeps, and he pulls it from his pocket and glances at it and then me. “I need to get back to the station.” He sticks his phone in his pocket and instead of getting up, focuses on me. “You know. I haven’t been to Mom’s grave in a while. How about we have breakfast tomorrow and go by there?”

  I inhale and straighten. “You know how I feel about that.”

  “I get it. She’s in the ocean. It’s a memorial, Lilah. I need to do this. Go with me.”

  “Why does going to an empty shell with a tombstone help you cope with losing her?”

  “Why does shutting me out and never visiting her or me help you cope? You’re going.” He stands. “Breakfast at our favorite waffle stop at seven.”

  “I don’t do seven on Sundays.”

  “Tomorrow you do.”

  He leaves and I sigh. The grave. I should have known that was coming with him. Resigned to his inevitable stubbornness, I slip on my coat and gather my bags to follow him outside, eager to review the Emerson case file and watch Take Me to Church for clues about that tattoo. I exit the restaurant and walk to the side of the building, weaving through cars to get to mine, when I notice Samantha and Alexandra standing just at the corner leading to the back of the building, and they don’t look happy. In fact, they look like they’re about to have a girl fight.

  I step behind a vehicle, watching them, wishing I could hear them, and just when I think blows might come down, Eddie shows up and parts them. In a blink of an eye, they are walking to their cars and climbing inside. It’s all rather anticlimactic. I turn away and walk to my car, opening my door and setting my things inside when I look down and realize my back tire is flat. I’d curse out a reaction, but there’s a note attached. I walk to the tire and squat beside it, snatching the note and opening it to read:

  W is for Warning.

  I don’t like to be taunted.

  My lips curve. “No, you don’t, do you?” And as far as I’m concerned that’s a good thing. It’s a sign of a short fuse and a weakness I can manipulate. I just have to decide how. I’m almost certain this place, in this cozy town, won’t have a parking lot security feed, and even if it does, Junior will be covered head to toe. Interesting timing, though. Andrew, Eddie, Samantha, and Alexandra were all here when this happened and in this parking lot, and everyone but my brother is apparently quite angry. Maybe I pissed one of them off enough for them to make a mistake.

  And if I haven’t pissed Junior off enough to do so yet, I’m going to soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I stuff the note in my pocket, peel away my coat, despite what is becoming a cold October day, and get to work on my tire. Or that’s the plan. I have my spare and a jack, and I’ve just squatted down to do the job, when boots crunch next to me. My gaze travels the tan work boots and jeans to lift and find Greg standing there. “Greg?”

  “Get the hell up,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me to my feet. “I’ll do it.”

  “I don’t need you to change my tire. FBI agent, remember?”

  “And a chick. Translation. No self-respecting man would let you freeze your ass off and change your tire.” He indicates his navy puff jacket. “I’m armed and ready.”

  He’s also combed his hair and his face is clean-shaven, his all-American good looks restored. He even smells kind of Old Spice–like, which isn’t a great scent, but it’s his thing. “Why are you here?”

  “Would you believe Moser called me to work security at an event tonight? And I came for a little booty and breakfast with an old flame.”

  “Moser? Are you crazy? This has to be some sort of setup.”

  “Yeah well, I need the money and the job. Blink Security is top-notch. And who knows? Maybe this is our in to find out what the hell is really going on.”

  “I tried to call you yesterday.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I was still sleeping off the self-pity. I got nothing helpful right now. Maybe after tonight I will.”

  I hug myself against a cold gust of wind. “What about your contact?”

  “Still working it. Put your damn coat on.”

  I don’t argue. I open the door and grab my coat. “Ah, Lilah,” Greg says as I button up.

  I glance down to see him flipping open his Smith & Wesson police-issue tactical knife, which he holds to the slice in my tire, before glancing up at me. “Who’d you piss off?”

  “Who don’t I piss off?” I say.

  “That’s true,” he says, returning his knife to his belt. “And these are your people here, which means nerves and egos are bruised ten times faster. There’s a reason it’s usually someone you love who kills you.”

  Someone I love.

  Who kills me.

  Six words that mean so much.

  Of course, the restaurant had no cameras, and I’m no closer to finding Junior than I was before the tire incident. But I’m determined to find another piece of the puzzle I face before the party. I part ways with Greg by noon, and an hour later, I’m home, in sweatpants, sitting on the bed while thumbing through old case files on my computer. Take Me to Church is playing on the big screen on the left-hand wall, which is proving to be a truly horrific B movie, one Jensen obviously did before he hit it big. It’s giving me nothing to go on, and I’m coming up with nothing on my cases. Neither does the Emerson case file and autopsy report, which confirm the absence of body markings or tattoos, which has me back to reviewing my case files. This continues for an hour before I order Chinese food. I’m on egg roll number two when finally, a plot I thought really didn’t exist happens on-screen. The Church is a group of devil worshippers who silence anyone who crosses them.

  I set down my egg roll and hit Pause, considering this idea. Not the devil worshippers, per se, but the idea of a group of people who silence those who cross them. It fits a hit list and an assassin, and despite my father’s career, both political parties rank right up there with devil worshippers to me. Thus why I haven’t voted in well, ever. I’ve never voted. I figure the dead bodies I play house with are my public service.

  I sigh and decide this really isn’t getting me anywhere. Romano represents a crime organization, as does Mendez. Pocher is his own kind of nastiness. I already know this. These types of groups eliminate enemies all the time. What I need is a clue to who is involved. I hit Play again and pick up my egg roll, focusing on my case files, and start looking for people who might have clients or relatives who connect to the Mendez or Romano families, or to Pocher himself.

  I’ve just finished off my lo mein and set my takeout box aside when I glance at the TV and immediately grab the remote control, hitting freeze-frame on the image of a familiar face. “Laney Suthers,” I say, tabbing through my case files to find her file, not sure why I didn’t think of her before now. Clearly aside from being a high-end Manhattan call girl, she was an aspiring actress. Back when I was in the NYPD, we’d arrested her after several clients gave her up, but she refused to do the same to save herself. We were close to turning her. We never got the chance, though. She was killed in her home while out on bail, and we never found who did it. I inhale a sharp breath. One week after I was attacked. It seems pretty clear. I survived, so she did not.

  I pull up IMDb on my computer and type in Take Me to Church, looking for the executives on the film and the casting agents. I compare the list with the guest list for tonight’s party and, of course, I get a big whopping nothing. Another thought hits me, and I do some digging, looking for who funded the movie, with no luck. I get Tic Tac to work on it. Looking for one of three names: Mendez, Romano, or Pocher. And after hesitation over my secret, I dare to get him looking for connections to Laney. The call girl whose life was quite possibly taken instead of mine. I owe her justice.

  I don’t get answers about the movie investor before the party. Turns out the party involved is some Chinese operation with a US back door Tic Tac didn’t want to explain. He just wanted space to work. So I do what I do. Promise to give him space and then call him several more t
imes with more questions. Lucas, on his part, calls me four times, to ensure I’m dressed and on time for the party. And so I dress and I’m on time for the party.

  At exactly seven, I pull my ridiculously out-of-place rental car through the gates of the hundred-thousand-square-foot, sixty-two-acre property of billionaire Wade Montgomery, a lighted drive guiding me to a private parking area. The house itself is aglow in majestic glory, attendants directing me to a spot among a good fifty cars. And this place is exactly why people here in East Hampton never even blinked at my family owning two houses while I grew up, which we frequented, within miles from each other. We look like peasants compared to Montgomery with his bowling alley, swimming pool, tennis courts, and a full-size theater. The man even has a small power plant on the property to juice it all up.

  An attendant motions for me to pull into a spot between a Porsche and a Jaguar, and I laugh as I think of how appalled both owners of the cars will be to be parked next to the likes of me. If only I could see their faces. Killing the engine, I hear a knock on my window, and I look up to find Lucas standing there. I unlock my door and he pulls it open for me. “My lady,” he says, looking quite handsome in his tuxedo and giving me a grand bow. “May I?” He offers me his hand.

  “You’re such a dork,” I say, accepting his palm and letting him help me to my feet.

  “Does anyone still say the word dork?” he asks.

  “I’m someone,” I point out.

  “You are someone,” he agrees, lifting my black cape-style coat to give me a once-over, his eyes lighting on my Italian-made red dress. “Stunning,” he approves.

  “It is, isn’t it?” I say, not just because it was my mother’s but because it’s this incredible off-the-shoulder number with cascade sleeves and a dramatic side slit.

  “You are,” he says. “And the dress is nice, too. You remind me of your mother.”

  I don’t take compliments well, but this one is always one that makes my heart swell and peels away a layer, if just for a moment. “Thank you, Lucas,” I say. “She was special.”

  “She was. Her fans and family alike adored her.” He laces his arm with mine and sets us in motion. “Don’t you miss dressing up, Agent Love?”

  “I love the clothes,” I admit. “Not the politics of it all.”

  “Ah, well, politics makes the world go round.”

  “I thought it was chocolate?”

  “Chocolate is how we survive politics when we aren’t having sex.”

  “You’re crude,” I chide, walking the mile-high staircase.

  “And you love it.”

  “Yes,” I admit. “I do.”

  We chitchat and laugh all the way to the door, where men in fancy guardsmen uniforms open the towering, arched wooden door for us. We enter the foyer, where the floor is a work of floral art, and I check my coat but refuse to check my sparkling black purse. “We’ll need to check your purse,” a security person states.

  Lucas looks at me. “This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

  “Of course not,” I assure him as we’re guided behind a small curtain that forms a half circle, a table and a guard waiting inside.

  I offer him my purse and he unzips it, his eyes going wide as he removes a small pistol. “Holy hell,” Lucas curses. “Not a problem, eh?”

  “What is this, miss?” the guard demands.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s a gun,” I say, “though I saw a lighter that looked just like this once. Check the ID inside the purse.”

  He reaches for it and removes my phone and FBI badge. He lifts the badge. “Is this real?” he asks.

  “And it’s fake why? Because I’m a chick in a red dress? Or because . . . ?”

  “It doesn’t look real,” the man says.

  Greg steps into the small space with us, making us officially four sardines in a two-sardine can. “Problem?” he asks.

  “Why yes, my dear, sweet dapper-looking Detective Harrison,” I say, eyeing his tux. “Seems the guard doesn’t know what an FBI badge looks like. Can you confirm it’s real?”

  Greg snorts. “Dapper? The things you say, Agent Love.” He eyes the guard. “She’s the real deal. I’d give her back her shit before she arrests you.”

  The poor guy pales and quickly returns my items to my purse and offers it to me.

  “I would never arrest you,” I assure him. “Unless you killed someone. Or violated Code 111. Then I would.”

  “I would never violate Code 111,” the man says, having no idea there is no such code.

  “Relax,” I say, once again telling a joke no one but me seems to get. “There is no Code 111.”

  He just stares at me.

  “It was a joke,” I say. “You know. Ha ha. Laughter. You were supposed to relax.”

  He still looks like death warmed over, and I decide I just need to give the guy some curtain space to breathe. I step into the foyer of the house again with Greg and Lucas on my heels, the two of them acquainted and chatting it up. “That was your fault,” I chide Greg.

  “Just keeping this boring-ass party interesting,” he says, someone catching his eye in the distance before he looks at us. “I need to go. Happy schmoozefest.” He disappears into the crowd.

  “Do I have to worry about you shooting someone tonight?” Lucas asks.

  “Very unlikely,” I assure him.

  “Very unlikely,” he repeats. “I need a drink.” He motions me forward, and we cross through a hallway with an arched ceiling before entering the main room, a round ballroom with painted tiled floors, a bowl ceiling, and fancy, white-railed stairs winding left and right to the second level. Another set of stairs is a straight line up. About a hundred people are scattered here and there, all tuxedos and sparkly dresses, many of the faces famous. Almost all the faces are known to me.

  One of many waiters working the floor passes by, and Lucas grabs us two glasses of champagne, handing me one. “To Lilah Love’s return,” he salutes.

  “To Lilah Love leaving again,” I retort. “My father’s desire to be the New York governor only makes me all the more eager to get the heck out of Dodge. I did the press and the paparazzi for enough years.”

  “Think about the platform you could have as first daughter, though.”

  “Is the governor’s daughter the first daughter?”

  “Whatever you will be called. You can initiate a stop-crime-in-New-York-City platform.”

  “I’ll stop crime with a badge, thank you very much.”

  I barely get the word out when Mrs. Smith appears, promising me my mac n’ cheese and raving about my dress and how much I look like my mother. This spirals, and then it’s one person after another, each a little more famous, and they all want to talk about me looking like my mother and how much they miss her. I can’t stop the onslaught of people or the emotions I don’t like to feel, feelings that just won’t stop stabbing me in the damn heart. I’m about to make an escape to the bathroom when my father and Pocher come into view, the two men in deep conversation. My father, looking like the handsome eligible bachelor that he is in his tuxedo, suddenly stops talking to Pocher, his gaze shifting and falling on me.

  His expression tightens, a look of anger settling on his face rather than the joy a daughter hopes to see in her father’s face. But then, I wouldn’t know about that firsthand. He wanted boys. He got me. He steps away from Pocher and crosses toward us. “What the hell is wrong with him?” Lucas asks.

  “Just his way of showing love,” I say, handing him my glass and taking a few steps forward to meet my father.

  “Why are you wearing your mother’s dress?”

  I barely contain my recoil. “Nice to see you, too, Father.”

  “Let me be clear. If you are asked about the murder investigation, you will defer to your brother and downplay a problem. If you do not, I will go to your superior. Smile. Support me. Or leave.”

  Pocher joins us. “Lilah,” he greets me, inclining his regal chin at me before looking at my father. “Mon
tgomery would like to discuss policy questions with you.”

  “Of course,” my father says, eyeing me. “We’ll talk later.” He turns and leaves.

  “Good to see you supporting your father,” Pocher comments, a snide look on his face. “I hope we can count on that continuing.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “You know what they say. The company we keep.”

  “I don’t believe I follow,” I say, when, of course, he’s talking about Kane.

  “You’re an FBI agent, and if I support your father, you’re also the future New York governor’s daughter. Kane Mendez is an inappropriate choice for you, and your father.”

  “You mean the same Kane Mendez you tried to do business with and failed?”

  “I am not you or your father. Make smart decisions. It’s in everyone’s best interest. You should keep your family in mind.” With that obvious threat, he turns away.

  “Pocher,” I say, and even though softly, I gain more than a few head-turns.

  He rotates to face me, his brow arching in silent question, anger in the depth of his narrowly set eyes.

  “No,” I say.

  “No?” he inquires.

  “No,” I repeat, closing the space between us and stopping in front of him. “I will not be your little bitch, and no, I am not afraid of you. But then, the company I keep says a lot about me, as you said. About what I’m capable of and willing to do. And I have a badge to go with that attitude. Maybe you should keep that in mind.”

  I step around him and I don’t even consider leaving. I find a familiar face to approach. It’s time to chitchat. I will not cower. I will not be controlled. If Pocher, or whoever it might be, wants to send someone else after me, they’ll be reminded that I’m no easy target. And I don’t have a problem with dead bodies.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT